I got the bag and pretended to fix the nail; but I didn’t.
“There’s a couple of nails gone from the sole,” I said. “I’ll put ’em in if I can find any hobnails, and it’ll save the sole,” and I rooted in the bag and found a good long nail, and shoved it right through the sole on the sly. He’d been a bit of a sprinter in his time, and I thought it might be better for me in the near future if the spikes of his running-shoes were inside.
“There, you’ll find that better, I fancy,” I said, standing the boot on the bar counter, but keeping my hand on it in an absent-minded kind of way. Presently I yawned and stretched myself, and said in a careless way:
“Ah, well! How’s the slate?” He scratched the back of his head and pretended to think.
“Oh, well, we’ll call it thirty bob.”
Perhaps he thought I’d slap down two quid.
“Well,” I says, “and what will you do supposing we don’t pay you?”
He looked blank for a moment. Then he fired up and gasped and choked once or twice; and then he cooled down suddenly and laughed his nastiest laugh—he was one of those men who always laugh when they’re wild—and said in a nasty, quiet tone:
“You thundering, jumped-up crawlers! If you don’t (something) well part up I’ll take your swags and (something) well kick your gory pants so you won’t be able to sit down for a month—or stand up either!”
“Well, the sooner you begin the better,” I said; and I chucked the boot into a corner and bolted.