While the Billy Boils | Page 8

have to get us out of the
mess."
It made him wild to be called a mug, and we swore and growled at each
other for a while; but we daren't speak loud enough to have a fight, so
at last I agreed to toss up for it, and I lost.
Bill started to give me some of his points, but I shut him up quick.
"You've had your turn, and made a mess of it," I said. "For God's sake
give me a show. Now, I'll go into the bar and ask for the swags, and
carry them out on to the veranda, and then go back to settle up. You
keep him talking all the time. You dump the two swags together, and
smoke like sheol. That's all you've got to do."
I went into the bar, got the swags front the missus, carried them out on
to the veranda, and then went back.
Stiffner came in.
"Good morning!"
"Good morning, sir," says 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