The Neapolitan lay bunched and knotted on the ground in a singularly convincing collapse.
"I don't believe it's acting at all!" cried the youth from Paka, in a whinny of high excitement.
"You're a new chum," retorted Sam Eccles. "What do you know about it? You wasn't even here last time."
"I know a sham when I see one. There's not much sham about this!"
And without more words the new chum fled the bar, a shout of laughter following him out into the heat.
"These young chaps from home, they know so much," said Sam Eccles. "I tell you what, our friend was drunk this trip before he come in. That's what made him pile it on so. He's as paralytic now as he was last time after them two tumblers of whisky. Let's stick him in the same old corner, and drink his bloomin' health."
The company did so while Sam refilled the glasses.
"Here's to old Squally the I-talian. Otherwise Lion Comique of the Riverina district of Noo South Wales. Long life an' 'ealth to 'em—hip, hip, hurray!"
Sam made the speech and led the cheers. His late antagonist and he clinked glasses and shook hands; then Sam pointed to the heap of moleskin and Crimean shirting, in the far corner of the bar, and lowered his voice.
"You've not seen him at his best," he insisted. "The beggar was too blooming drunk to start with."