Cake in the Hat Box. Arthur W. Upfield
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“Day-ee, Jasper!” replied ’Un. “Day-ee, Silas! How’s things?”
“Fair enough,” answered the black-bearded man.
“Coming in for a snifter?”
Jasper and Silas Breen entered the hotel. ’Un said:
“That’s an order. You come, too. Save argument.”
“I dislike argument,” averred Bony, rising from the chair. “Are there any more like these Breens?”
“Plenty,” replied ’Un proudly. “There’s Ezra Breen. He’s much younger and tougher than these two. Got a temper, has Ezra.”
The yardman led the way to the bar. The Breens were breasting it, and Ted Ramsay, the licensee, was asking them to name their poison. He was large and flabby, and destined within six months to be held down until his brain exploded. The oil-lamp suspended from the match-boarded ceiling was already struggling with the waning daylight to penetrate far corners. Behind the counter, the wall shelves were stacked with gaudily labelled spirit bottles, and on the floor were crates of bottled beer, for barrelled beer would not carry this far from Perth.
“None of your pig-swill, Ted,” boomed Silas Breen. “Put up your best whisky. Damme, us Breens has bought this pub two hundred times over.”
“Four hundred times,” amended Ramsay. “You’ve bought it a hundred times since I’ve been here.”
He placed a bottle of whisky and glasses on the counter, and was adding a jug of water when the elder Breen called in a voice which must have carried through the building:
“What’ll you have, Mister?”
“Beer for me, please,” replied Bony.
“Same here,” piped ’Un. “What’s wrong with you, Jasper? You ain’t looking so good.”
“No. Fell off me horse. Got shook up, that’s all. Luck!”
The Breens appeared to occupy half the small bar. Beside them, Bony was a stripling and ’Un a mere straw. They were tremendous, these brothers Breen. From them radiated physical power hinting at no limitations, like that of water spuming through the needle valve of a dam. The thick glasses they held in their sun-blackened, hairy hands were somehow reduced to fragile crystal in the paws of gorillas.
Jasper Breen stood beyond his brother. He leaned more heavily against the bar counter, and the attitude was maintained. Silas stood with his weight squarely on his feet, and now and then he glanced at Jasper, concern in his eyes although his face was unruffled. Jasper’s right arm was held against his side with a leather belt.
“Fell off his horse,” muttered ’Un. “More likely the horse fell on him.”
“Doc in town?” asked Silas of the licensee.
“Yes, but he’s inky-poo. Be out to it till morning. You hurt much, Jasper?”
“No. Bit of a strain and a bruise or two. Nuthin’ broke.”
“Doc Morley ud better be sober be mornin’,” Silas threatened with unnecessary vocal strength. “I’ve a mind to pound him sober right now. You feelin’ all right, Jasper, me lad?”
“I’ll do,” boasted his black-bearded brother. “Come on, Ted. Fill ’em up.”
Bony put a pound note on the counter, intending to call for drinks, and ’Un whisked it away and surreptitiously gave it back, whispering:
“I oughter told you. No one ain’t allowed to shout when the Breens come to town. The pub’s theirs till they leave.”
“Fill ’em up, Ted,” roared Silas. “What’s the matter with you? Tend to business. Gents is perishing.”
A man entered the bar. His nose was long and red, and his non-descript hair draggled in wisps across the partially bald head. His shirt and trousers were not those of a bushman.
“Seen you come in, Silas,” he said, and coughed. “Day, Jasper! I put your mail and parcels under the seat of your truck. Sign for the registers, please.”
Silas squinted at the receipt book, and with slow deliberation wrote his signature, the postmaster at his side looking like the skeleton at the feast.
“What’s yours these days, Dave?” asked Jasper, and the postmaster called for rum.
“What’s up with you, Jasper?” And again Jasper explained.
“Good luck!” Dave saluted his drink and sighed when the glass hit the counter. “Pity Doctor Morley’s on the tank. How’s Ezra and Kimberley?”
“Pretty good. On the hoof with cattle for Wyndham. Got away a week late.”
“Good beasts?”
“Fairish. Usual four hundred. Policeman in town?”
“No. Down south on patrol.” Dave chuckled, and Ramsay said:
“Just as well. Too much haze when everyone’s in town at the same time.”
Silas scowled. Ted Ramsay hastily turned to his bottles. The long grey moustache sweeping away from the mouth of this elder Breen seemed to quiver. He hitched his trousers although his great waist was belted. To the belt was attached small pouches containing matches, tobacco plug, clasp-knife, and an empty revolver holster, for it is unlawful to bring small arms into the settlements of the North-West.
“Bleedin’ corkers, ain’t they?” murmured ’Un admiringly. “Me old mate, Paddy the Bastard, was as big as Silas Breen. Fight! That time Paddy and Silas fought for a week, they started in this bar on a Toosdee night, went all round town and ended up again in the bar on the following Mondee morning. And me and Ezra Breen caperin’ after them with tucker and whisky to keep ’em going.”
“Where was the policeman?” asked the curious Bony, his bright blue eyes filled with laughter.
“The john! Feller be the name of Gartside. What could he do, d’you reckon, with two Irishmen like Silas? Just let ’em alone and go on with his job. Only time he got a bit anxious was when Silas and Paddy was looking like fighting all the way through the police station from the front to the back. Me and Ezra had a hell of a job to steer ’em clear!”
“Who won?”
“Neither. Silas began to laugh on the Mondee morning, and that finished Paddy. You oughta have seen ’em then. Butcher’s shops they was.”
Two men entered, and ’Un broke off to greet them. They shouted to the Breens and Jasper roared at the licensee. There was a pile of treasury notes between the brothers. Voices became louder, and Ramsay placed bottles of beer on the counter instead of refilling glasses. The emaciated postmaster gripped a bottle of rum in his left hand and seldom put down the glass held in his right, and whenever Bony took a sip from his glass ’Un hospitably filled it. More men joined the company, and Bony eased on the beer.
Then Silas Breen was yelling for a chair and demanding to know what the hell the place was coming to with no chair for a gent to sit on. ’Un was dispatched for the veranda chair, and great was the struggle to pass it from the door through the crush to where Jasper stood. Silas placed the chair for his brother, and on Jasper’s face was anguish as he relaxed into it. That a Breen should be so weak!
Silas handed him his glass, and he raised it high and shouted the usual “Good luck, gents!” The company shouted response. Bony edged nearer to him, and Ted Ramsay sat back on a crate of beer and went to sleep. Someone started to sing, and at once the company roared a ditty detailing the adventures of a lass having long brown hair. And then there arose a yell for ’Un.
’Un clambered to the counter-top, slid round on its liquor-drenched surface and proceeded to serve. Thenceforth, his work was to slip bottles from straw sheaths and set them up, and now and then remove the notes, pushed forward by Silas. He gave no change.
When