Part 14 (2/2)
Steelman knew his men.
But at last Brown reckoned that he could stand it no longer. The thought of it made him so wild that he couldn't work. He took a day off to get thoroughly worked up in, came home that night full to the chin of indignation and Dunedin beer, and tried to kick Steelman out. And Steelman gave him a hiding.
Next morning Steelman was sitting beside Brown's bed with a saucer of vinegar, some brown paper, a raw beef-steak, and a bottle of soda.
”Well, what have you got to say for yourself now, Brown?” he said, sternly. ”Ain't you jolly well ashamed of yourself to come home in the beastly state you did last night, and insult a guest in your house, to say nothing of an old friend--and perhaps the best friend you ever had, if you only knew it? Anybody else would have given you in charge and got you three months for the a.s.sault. You ought to have some consideration for your wife and children, and your own character--even if you haven't any for your old mate's feelings. Here, drink this, and let me fix you up a bit; the missus has got the breakfast waiting.”
DRIFTED BACK
The stranger walked into the corner grocery with the air of one who had come back after many years to see someone who would be glad to see him.
He shed his swag and stood it by the wall with great deliberation; then he rested his elbow on the counter, stroked his beard, and grinned quizzically at the shopman, who smiled back presently in a puzzled way.
”Good afternoon,” said the grocer.
”Good afternoon.”
Pause.
”Nice day,” said the grocer.
Pause.
”Anything I can do for you?”
”Yes; tell the old man there's a chap wants to speak to him for a minute.”
”Old man? What old man?”
”Hake, of course--old Ben Hake! Ain't he in?”
The grocer smiled.
”Hake ain't here now. I'm here.”
”How's that?”
”Why, he sold out to me ten years ago.”
”Well, I suppose I'll find him somewhere about town?”
”I don't think you will. He left Australia when he sold out. He's--he's dead now.”
”Dead! Old Ben Hake?”
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