"Hark at that!" said Sam Eccles, nudging the man whom he had been about to fight. "You're in luck; I never thought, when I was pitching you that yarn, that you'd see the same thing over again with your own eyes. Who'd have believed he'd try the same game twice? But don't he do it well?" And as Sam said this, he wrested the whisky-bottle from Pasquale's hands, and put that worthy down on his back.
"No, you don't. Not this time, Squally. Not much!"
The Neapolitan was up again in an instant, foaming at the mouth, and cursing volubly, but ready hands held him back.
"You ought to have been an actor, old man," said one.
"He ought so," laughed the drover. "He's a treat. I wouldn't have missed him for a lot."
Pasquale spat in his face.
"No, no, you don't see him at his best," said Sam Eccles, apologetically. "He's over-doing it. He was three times as good last trip."
The actor turned and reviled him, struggling with his captors, kicking them harmlessly with his bare feet—gesticulating—pointing to the twin blood-spots on his left instep—and weeping prayers and curses in the same breath. But if none had heeded him at first, much less would they do so now; for he had fallen incontinently upon his native tongue.
"A damned good performance," said the drover, wiping his face. "But I guess I'll burst him when he's finished."
"I wouldn't," said the tolerant Eccles. "I let him off light last time. It's something to have an actor like him in the back-blocks. Look at that!"