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“Bet I’ll get a quart,” said Smith, brightening up, “and some tucker for it to wash down.”

“If you don’t,” said Steelman, “I’ll stoush you. Never mind the bottle; fling it away. It doesn’t look well for a traveller to go into a pub. with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looks much better to come out with a couple of full ones. That’s what you’ve got to do. Now, come along.”

Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road again, and waited for Smith. He hadn’t long to wait.

Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked–repeating his “lines” to himself, so as to be sure of remembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and adding, with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own, which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman’s advice and warning. “I’ll tell him (this)–I’ll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, I’ll say you’re pretty right and I quite agree with you as far as that’s concerned, but,” etc. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he could muster, eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt considered the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, and hearty:

“Good-day, boss!”

But it wasn’t a “boss”. It was about the hardest-faced old woman that Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands.

“I–I beg your pardon, missus,” stammered poor Smith.

It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn’t come to time. He and Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laid their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she–and one like this–to deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had no time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without the assistance of his mate’s knowledge of human nature.

“I–I beg your pardon, missus,” he stammered.

Painful pause. She sized him up.

“Well, what do you want?”

“Well, missus–I–the fact is–will you give me a bottle of beer for fourpence?”

“Wha–what?”

“I mean—-. The fact is, we’ve only got fourpence left, and–I’ve got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, for that. I mean–anyway, you might let us have a pint. I’m very sorry to bother you, missus.”

But she couldn’t do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinks were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family to keep. It wouldn’t pay out there–it wasn’t worth her while. It wouldn’t pay the cost of carting the liquor out, etc., etc.

“Well, missus,” poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, “give me what you can in a bottle for this. I’ve–I’ve got a mate outside.” And he put the four coppers on the bar.

“Have you got a bottle?”

“No–but—-“

“If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can’t expect me to give you a bottle as well as a drink.”

“Yes, mum; I’ll bring it back directly.”

She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, which she handed to Smith without a cork.

Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that he should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; he already heard him, in imagination, saying: “You’re a mug, Smith–Smith, you ARE a mug.”