“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.