INTO THE BUSH
Sleepy eyed and frowzy haired, with shirt unbuttoned and breeches and boots unlaced, Tim emerged from his iron-walled cell into the cool-shadowed main room, blinked at McKay and Knowlton lounging over their morning coffee and cigarettes, stretched his hairy arms, and advanced sluggishly to the table.
"Yow-oo-hum!" he yawned. "Ain't they cute! All dressed and shaved like they was goin' to visit the C. O. And here's pore Timmy Ryan lookin' like a 'drunk and dirty' jest throwed into the guardhouse, and feelin' worse. Top o' the mornin' to ye, gents!"
"Same to you, Tim," McKay nodded.
"Who hit you?" asked Knowlton, squinting at bumps and scratches on Tim's forehead.
"Nobody. Couple fellers tried to, but they was out o' luck. Oh, I see what ye mean! I done that meself while I was gittin' to bed."
"Waves must have been running high on the ocean last night. Better drink some coffee. Thomaz, another cup—big and black."
"Thanks, Looey. 'Twas kind of an active night, at that."
"I heard you come in," vouchsafed McKay. "Were you trying some high diving in your room?"
"Faith, I done some divin' without tryin', but 'twas ragged work—I pulled a belly smacker every time. I got to tame that hammick o' mine. It throwed me four times hand-running and the only way I could hold it down was to unhook it and lay it on the floor."