TheBreens 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, usBreens 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? Youain’t looking so good.”

“No. Fell off me horse. Got shook up, that’s all. Luck!”

TheBreens 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 waterspuming 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.”