lked for a while, and while
we were talking I thought I might as well go the whole hog--I might as
well die for a pound as a penny, if I had to die; and if I hadn't I'd
have the pound to the good, anyway, so to speak. Anyhow, the risk would
be about the same, or less, for I might have the spirit to run harder
the more I had to run for--the more spirits I had to run for, in fact,
as it turned out--so I says:

"I think I'll take one of them there flasks of whisky to last us on the
road."

"Right y'are," says Stiffner. "What'll ye have--a small one or a big
one?"

"Oh, a big one, I think--if I can get it into my pocket."

"It'll be a tight squeeze," he said, and he laughed.

"I'll try," I said. "Bet you two drinks I'll get it in."

"Done!" he says. "The top inside coat-pocket, and no tearing."

It was a big bottle, and all my pockets were small; but I got it into
the pocket he'd betted against. It was a tight squeeze, but I got it in.

Then we both laughed, but his laugh was nastier than usual, because it
was meant to be pleasant, and he'd lost two drinks; and my laugh wasn't
easy--I was anxious as to which of us would laugh next.

Just then I noticed something, and an idea struck me--about the most
up-to-date idea that ever struck me in my life. I noticed that Stiffner
was limping on his right foot this morning, so I said to him:

"What's up with your foot?" putting my hand in my pocket. "Oh, it's a
crimson nail in my boot," he said. "I thought I got the blanky thing out
this morning; but I didn't."

There just happened to be an old bag of shoemaker's tools in the bar,
belonging to an old cobbler who was lying dead drunk on the veranda. So
I said, taking my hand out of my pocket again:

"Lend us the boot, and I'll fix it in a minute. That's my old trade."

"Oh, so you're a shoemaker," he said. "I'd never have thought it."

He laughs one of his useless laughs that wasn't wanted, and slips off
the boot--he hadn't laced it up--and hands it across the bar to me.
It was an ugly brute--a great thick, iron-bound, boiler-plated navvy's
boot. It made me feel sore when I looked at it.

I got the bag and pretended to fix the nail; but I didn't.

"There's a couple of nails gone from the sole," I said. "I'll put 'em
in if I can find any hobnails, and it'll save the sole," and I rooted in
the bag and found a good long nail, and shoved it right through the sole
on the sly. He'd been a bit of a sprinter in his time, and