Jun started and stared about him. It was so unusual for one man to suggest to another what he ought to do, or that there was anything like bad faith in his dealings with his mates, that his blood rose.
"Why not let Rum-Enough mind a few of the good stones?" George repeated, mildly eyeing him over the bowl of his pipe.
"Yes," Watty butted in, "Rummy ought to hold a few of the good stones, Jun. Y' see, you might be run into by rats ... or get knocked out—and have them shook off you, like Oily did down in Sydney—and it'd be hard on Rummy, that—"
"When I want your advice about how me and my mate's going to work things, I'll ask you," Jun snarled.
"We don't mind giving it before we're asked, Jun," Watty explained amiably.
Archie Cross leaned across the table. "How about giving Paul a couple of those bits of decent pattern—if you stick to the big stone?" he said.
"What's the game?" Jun demanded, sitting up angrily. His hand went over his stones.
"Wait on, Jun!" Michael said. "We're not thieves here. You don't have to grab y'r stones."
Jun looked about him. He saw that men of the Ridge, in the bar, were all standing round the table. Only Peter Newton was left beside the bar, although Charley Heathfield, on the outer edge of the crowd, regarded him with a smile of faint sympathy and cynicism. Paul leaned over the table before him, and looked from Jun to the men who had fallen in round the table, a dazed expression broadening on his face.
"What the hell's the matter?" Jun cried, starting to his feet. "What are you chaps after? Can't I manage me own affairs and me mate's?"