While the Billy Boils. Henry Lawson

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      Then I hooked carelessly on to the counter with one elbow, and looked dreamy-like out across the clearing, and presently I gave a sort of sigh and said: “Ah, well! I think I'll have a beer.”

      “Right you are! Where's your mate?”

      “Oh, he's round at the back. He'll be round directly; but he ain't drinking this morning.”

      Stiffner laughed that nasty empty laugh of his. He thought Bill was whipping the cat.

      “What's yours, boss?” I said.

      “Thankee! … Here's luck!”

      “Here's luck!”

      The country was pretty open round there—the nearest timber was better than a mile away, and I wanted to give Bill a good start across the flat before the go-as-you-can commenced; so I talked for a while, and while we were talking I thought I might as well go the whole hog—I might as well die for a pound as a penny, if I had to die; and if I hadn't I'd have the pound to the good, anyway, so to speak. Anyhow, the risk would be about the same, or less, for I might have the spirit to run harder the more I had to run for—the more spirits I had to run for, in fact, as it turned out—so I says:

      “I think I'll take one of them there flasks of whisky to last us on the road.”

      “Right y'are,” says Stiffner. “What'll ye have—a small one or a big one?”

      “Oh, a big one, I think—if I can get it into my pocket.”

      “It'll be a tight squeeze,” he said, and he laughed.

      “I'll try,” I said. “Bet you two drinks I'll get it in.”

      “Done!” he says. “The top inside coat-pocket, and no tearing.”

      It was a big bottle, and all my pockets were small; but I got it into the pocket he'd betted against. It was a tight squeeze, but I got it in.

      Then we both laughed, but his laugh was nastier than usual, because it was meant to be pleasant, and he'd lost two drinks; and my laugh wasn't easy—I was anxious as to which of us would laugh next.

      Just then I noticed something, and an idea struck me—about the most up-to-date idea that ever struck me in my life. I noticed that Stiffner was limping on his right foot this morning, so I said to him:

      “What's up with your foot?” putting my hand in my pocket. “Oh, it's a crimson nail in my boot,” he said. “I thought I got the blanky thing out this morning; but I didn't.”

      There just happened to be an old bag of shoemaker's tools in the bar, belonging to an old cobbler who was lying dead drunk on the veranda. So I said, taking my hand out of my pocket again:

      “Lend us the boot, and I'll fix it in a minute. That's my old trade.”

      “Oh, so you're a shoemaker,” he said. “I'd never have thought it.”

      He laughs one of his useless laughs that wasn't wanted, and slips off the boot—he hadn't laced it up—and hands it across the bar to me. It was an ugly brute—a great thick, iron-bound, boiler-plated navvy's boot. It made me feel sore when I looked at it.

      I got the bag and pretended to fix the nail; but I didn't.

      “There's a couple of nails gone from the sole,” I said. “I'll put 'em in if I can find any hobnails, and it'll save the sole,” and I rooted in the bag and found a good long nail, and shoved it right through the sole on the sly. He'd been a bit of a sprinter in his time, and I thought it might be better for me in the near future if the spikes of his running-shoes were inside.

      “There, you'll find that better, I fancy,” I said, standing the boot on the bar counter, but keeping my hand on it in an absent-minded kind of way. Presently I yawned and stretched myself, and said in a careless way:

      “Ah, well! How's the slate?” He scratched the back of his head and pretended to think.

      “Oh, well, we'll call it thirty bob.”

      Perhaps he thought I'd slap down two quid.

      “Well,” I says, “and what will you do supposing we don't pay you?”

      He looked blank for a moment. Then he fired up and gasped and choked once or twice; and then he cooled down suddenly and laughed his nastiest laugh—he was one of those men who always laugh when they're wild—and said in a nasty, quiet tone:

      “You thundering, jumped-up crawlers! If you don't (something) well part up I'll take your swags and (something) well kick your gory pants so you won't be able to sit down for a month—or stand up either!”

      “Well, the sooner you begin the better,” I said; and I chucked the boot into a corner and bolted.

      He jumped the bar counter, got his boot, and came after me. He paused to slip the boot on—but he only made one step, and then gave a howl and slung the boot off and rushed back. When I looked round again he'd got a slipper on, and was coming—and gaining on me, too. I shifted scenery pretty quick the next five minutes. But I was soon pumped. My heart began to beat against the ceiling of my head, and my lungs all choked up in my throat. When I guessed he was getting within kicking distance I glanced round so's to dodge the kick. He let out; but I shied just in time. He missed fire, and the slipper went about twenty feet up in the air and fell in a waterhole.

      He was done then, for the ground was stubbly and stony. I seen Bill on ahead pegging out for the horizon, and I took after him and reached for the timber for all I was worth, for I'd seen Stiffner's missus coming with a shovel—to bury the remains, I suppose; and those two were a good match—Stiffner and his missus, I mean.

      Bill looked round once, and melted into the bush pretty soon after that. When I caught up he was about done; but I grabbed my swag and we pushed on, for I told Bill that I'd seen Stiffner making for the stables when I'd last looked round; and Bill thought that we'd better get lost in the bush as soon as ever we could, and stay lost, too, for Stiffner was a man that couldn't stand being had.

      The first thing that Bill said when we got safe into camp was: “I told you that we'd pull through all right. You need never be frightened when you're travelling with me. Just take my advice and leave things to me, and we'll hang out all right. Now-.”

      But I shut him up. He made me mad.

      “Why, you—! What the sheol did you do?”

      “Do?” he says. “I got away with the swags, didn't I? Where'd they be now if it wasn't for me?”

      Then I sat on him pretty hard for his pretensions, and paid him out for all the patronage he'd worked off on me, and called him a mug straight, and walked round him, so to speak, and blowed, and told him never to pretend to me again that he was a battler.

      Then, when I thought I'd licked him into form, I cooled down and soaped him up a bit; but I never thought that he had three climaxes and a crisis in store for me.

      He took it all pretty cool; he let me have my fling, and gave me time to get breath; then he leaned languidly over on his right side, shoved his left hand down into his СКАЧАТЬ