We’ve got to drink or die;
So tap another barrel o’ beer,
For the well’s gone dry.
“That’s it,” laughed Steve Knight. “Tap us another barrel, boss. We’re out to irrigate to-night, as Darby says.”
A boundary rider from the back paddocks was the first to show the bite of the drink. He was a slip of a lad with the face of a schoolgirl, and he stood swaying uncertainly on his legs and called for silence.
“Silence,” yelled Whip Thompson. “Silence f’r a speech from Dolly Grey.”
“Fren’s, Romans, hic—Countrishmen,” “Dolly Grey” began solemnly, “an’ townsmen,” he added as an afterthought. “Thish meet’n oughtave a chair—mushave a chair—hic. I beg t’move—I wantsh move....”
“Come on then,” said Darby the Bull; “move if y’ want. We ’aven’t a chair for ye, but ye can sit on the floor,” and he hauled Dolly Grey, protesting feebly, into a corner, and compelled him to sit down by the simple method of leaning all his weight on his shoulders.
“Here, let’s move down to the other hotel,” suggested Steve Knight. “Distribute trade; encourage home industries; advance Australia.”
There was a chorus of approval, and the men poured out and marched up the street to the other hotel.