While the Billy Boils | Page 8

Stiffner.
"It'll be a nice day, I think?"
"Yes, I think so. I suppose you are going on?"
"Yes, we'll have to make a move to-day."
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