"What will you bet?"
William didn't answer. The transport-rider knocked over the lime-juice
and placed his gin in front of the boy.
"Drink that."
"No, I won't."
"Yer won't?"
"No."
"I'll give you three chances and no more."
With that Rogers drew a heavy revolver from his coat pocket.
"Drink! One!"
"No."
"Drink! Two!"
"No."
"Drink! Three!"
"No, I won't drink it."
Rogers stared at the boy for a moment and then put the revolver back in
his pocket again.
"I like you. You've got grit. Drink rot-gut if you like, it ain't any
business of mine. Here, take these."
"These" were a bundle of Standard Bank notes tied up with a piece of
string. William edged close to the wall.
"Here, you take 'em; they're fivers. Got paid for a job to-day, but I
like you, so you've got to have 'em."
"I don't want your money."
"Neither do I. Take 'em."
"No."
"What? You don't drink and you won't take good money?"
"No."
"I'll give you three chances, and this time I'll shoot."
"Take 'em! One!"
"No."
"Take 'em! Two!"
"No."
"Take 'em before I say three!"
"No."
"Well then, no one shall have 'em." And with that Rogers flung the
bundle out of the door into the darkness. Then he bent his head upon
his crossed arms and sobbed.
Jimmy seemed to be watching, for he lifted a flap in the bar counter,
went outside the door, and returned almost immediately, stuffing the
bundle into his pocket.
"Don't mind him, William."