Sam Eccles had killed a brown snake in his wood-heap, and had proceeded
to play a prehistoric trick on all comers to the Murrumbidgee Bridge
Hotel. He had curled up the carcase under a bench on the verandah,
and the new chum from Paka, riding in for the station mail, had very
violently killed that snake again. But the new chum was becoming
acclimatised to bush humour; and _he_ arranged the lifeless coil in a
most lifelike manner on the snoring body of a Gol-gol boundary-rider
who was lying deathly drunk inside the bar. This a small but typical
company applauded greatly; but Sam Eccles himself leant back against
the wall and laughed only softly in his beard. There was a reminiscent
twinkle in his eye, and someone offered him something for his thoughts.
"I was thinkin'," said Sam, "of another old snake-yarn that come my
way last Christmas-time. Was any of you jokers in the township then? I
thought not; it was the slackest Christmas ever I struck."
"My troubles about Christmas!" said a drover with a blue fly-veil.
"Pitch us the yarn."
"Ah, but it's a yarn and a half! I'm not sure that I want to pitch it.
I do and I don't; it'd make you smile."
"Yes?"
"Rip it out, Sam!"
"See here, boss," said the drover, "mix yer own pison and chalk it to
me." And that settled the matter.
"Any of you know the I-talian?" began Sam, by way of preface, as he
mixed his grog.
"Pasquale?" said the new chum. "Rather! I sling him out of my store
periodically."
"He's our local thief," Sam explained, for the benefit of the drover
and his mates, who were strangers to the township. "A real bad egg, so
bad that we're proud of him. Shakes everything he can lay his dirty
nails on, and smokes a meerschum he must have shook before we knew him.
An organ-grinder in redooced circumstances, that's what's the matter
with old Squally; but he must have been out a good bit, for he speaks
as good bloomin' English as you or me. Came this way first a year or
two ago; hadn't been here a month before every decent door in the place
was slammed in the beggar's face. I've fired him out of this again and
again. The last time was last Christmas Day. He had the cheek to shove
in his ugly mug, first thing in the morning, and ask if there was any
free drinks going. Free drinks for him! He went out quicker than he
come in. But he turns up again in the afternoon, as bold as blessed
brass, and, by cripes, I didn't fire him then!
"The joker was bit by a snake. His face was as white as his teeth,
an' there was the fear o' death, yes, an' the heat of hell in his
wicked eyes. He'd chucked his hat away, after ripping out the greasy
blue linin', and that's what he'd got twisted around his right wrist.
Twisted so tight, with the stem of his pipe, that the hand looked dead
and rotten, all but a crust of blood between the knuckles. Then he
licks off the blood, and there sure enough were two little holes, just
like stabs, five-eighths of an inch apart. My blessed oath!
"'What kind?' says I, though I thought I knew.
"'A coral,' says Squally, as I expected. And you know what _that_
means, you mister; there's not one in ten as gets bit by a coral-snake
and lives to show the place."
The new chum nodded.
"Well, there was just one chance for the joker and that was all. I
filled a tumbler with whisky straight--hanged if he'd touch it! Never
see such a thing in my life! That swine who'd get dead drunk every
time he got the slant--who'd been round that very mornin', cadgin' for
a drink--the same obstinate pig wouldn't touch a drop now to save his
life. 'No, no,' says Squally, 'I have been drunken dev-ill all my days,
let me die sober, let me die sober.' So we had to take him and force
that whisky down his throat, like giving a horse a ball, and another
big nobbler on top of it to make sure. Then we stood round and looked
on. D'ye see, mister, if it made him tight we'd pull him through; if it
didn't, there was no hope for him; and there'd be one blackguard less
in Riverina. Well, for a bit he stood as straight an' as firm as them
verandah posts; but it wasn't long before I see his knees givin' an'
his chin comin' down upon his chest; an' then I knew as all was right.
In less than five minutes he was blind and speechless; we'd got him
spread out comfy in that corner; and the rest of us were quenching the
little thirst we'd raised over the business."
Here Sam Eccles suited the action to the word, and the drover with the
blue fly-veil shook his head.
"You didn't deserve them drinks," said he. "What did you want to go
and save a thing like that for? You should have let the joker die. _I_
would."
"I wished I had," replied Sam, ruefully. "That's not the end of the
yarn, d'ye see, and it's the end what's going to make you chaps smile.
There's a rabbit inspector lives in this here township, and knows
more about nat'ral history than any other two men in the back-blocks.
He happened to be at home that day, and he's at home to-day, too, if
you'd like to see the snake what bit the Italian. He has it in his
house--and this is how he come to get it. Somebody tells him what's
happened, and he looks in during the evening to see for himself. There
was old Squally drowned in whisky, sleepin' like a kid. 'So,' says Mr.
Gray--that's the rabbit-inspector--'now's my time. The other day I lost
my pen-knife; must have dropped it out of the buggy, but remembered the
place and drove back; met Squally on the way, and nat-rally never saw
my knife again. Now's my time,' says he, 'to get it back. Now's the
time,' he says, 'for all of us to get back everything we ever lost!'
And down he goes on his knees beside Squally, and starts feeling in his
pockets.
"'Here it is!' he says directly; and yet he never gets up from his
knees.
"'Struck anything else, Mr. Gray?' says I at last.
"'Yes, Sam, I have,' says he, turning round and fixing me with his blue
goggles. 'What sort of a snake was it our friend here said had bitten
him?'
"'A coral,' says I.
"'Not it,' says he.
"'What then?' says I.
"'A new variety altogether,' says Mr. Gray, grinning through his beard.
"'Give it a name, sir,' says I.
"'Certainly,' says he, getting up. 'If we call it the knife-snake we
shan't be far out.' And blowed if he didn't show me the little blade of
his own knife blooded at the point; blowed if he didn't fit the blessed
point into Squally's blessed bites!"
Sam covered his face for shame, but joined next moment in the laugh
against himself. Not so he of the blue fly-veil. The drover's hairy
visage was a strong study in perfectly candid contempt.
"You run a bush pub, and you were had by that old dodge. It hasn't got
a tooth in its head--it's as old as the blooming sandhills--yet you
were had. My stars!"
The new chum from Paka diverted the laugh by innocently inquiring what
that dodge might be.
"A free drunk," said the drover. "And you ought to stand _us_ free
drinks, mister, for not knowing. You're only a shade better than our
friend the boss. To swallow that old chestnut at this time o' day!"
Sam Eccles lost his temper.
"You've said about enough. The man I mean was a born actor. Either shut
your blessed head or take off that coat and come outside."
"Right," replied the drover, divesting himself on his way to the door.
Sam followed him with equal alacrity, but came to a sudden halt upon
the threshold.
"Wait a bit!" he cried. "Jiggered if here ain't the very man I've been
telling you about; running on one leg too, as if he was up to the same
old dodge again. He _can't_ be. It's too steep!"
Even as he spoke there was the bound of a bare foot in the verandah,
and a hulking Neapolitan hopped into the bar with his other foot in
his hand and apparent terror in his eyes. But his face was not white
at all; it was flushed with running; and the actor seemed dazed, or
disconcerted by the presence of an unknown audience.
"Bitten again?" inquired Sam Eccles, genially.
"Bitten by a coral. Bitten in my foot! Look, look at the marks. Per
Dio! I am dead man. A drink--a drink!"
"Hark at that!" said Sam Eccles, nudging the man whom he had been
about to fight. "You're in luck; I never thought, when I was pitching
you that yarn, that you'd see the same thing over again with your own
eyes. Who'd have believed he'd try the same game twice? But don't he
do it well?" And as Sam said this, he wrested the whisky-bottle from
Pasquale's hands, and put that worthy down on his back.
"No, you don't. Not this time, Squally. Not much!"
The Neapolitan was up again in an instant, foaming at the mouth, and
cursing volubly, but ready hands held him back.
"You ought to have been an actor, old man," said one.
"He ought so," laughed the drover. "He's a treat. I wouldn't have
missed him for a lot."
Pasquale spat in his face.
"No, no, you don't see him at his best," said Sam Eccles,
apologetically. "He's over-doing it. He was three times as good last
trip."
The actor turned and reviled him, struggling with his captors, kicking
them harmlessly with his bare feet--gesticulating--pointing to the twin
blood-spots on his left instep--and weeping prayers and curses in the
same breath. But if none had heeded him at first, much less would they
do so now; for he had fallen incontinently upon his native tongue.
"A damned good performance," said the drover, wiping his face. "But I
guess I'll burst him when he's finished."
"I wouldn't," said the tolerant Eccles. "I let him off light last time.
It's something to have an actor like him in the back-blocks. Look at
that!"
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."
"I'll see him when he's sober," said the drover grimly. "But he can
act!"
"My oath! Sober _or_ drunk. Hullo, here _is_ a joke; blowed if that new
chum hasn't fetched Mr. Gray to have a look at old Squally, just like
he did before!"
And the two men paused to watch the rabbit-inspector, who had entered
without looking their way, kneel down beside the prostrate Pasquale,
and bend over him with blue spectacles intent. He examined the
punctures on the left instep; he stooped and sucked them with his lips.
His next act was to raise one eyelid after another; his last, to lay a
weather-beaten hand upon the Italian's heart; and all this was done in
a dead silence which had fallen upon the place with the entry of Mr.
Gray.
"Long life to 'im again," murmured the drover, emptying his glass; but
Sam Eccles neither heard nor answered him. At length the inspector
arose, and turned towards them with his expressionless glasses.
"There was no nonsense about it this time, Sam. It was a snake right
enough, and a coral-snake into the bargain."
Sam gave a gasping cry.
"But if he's drunk----"
"He isn't; he's dead."
* * * * *
In his own corner the Gol-gol boundary-rider lay snoring through it
all, a dead snake still curled upon his breast.