“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 Morleyud better be sober bemornin ’,” Silas threatened with unnecessary vocal strength. “I’ve a mind to pound him sober right now. Youfeelin ’ all right, Jasper, me lad?”

“I’ll do,” boasted his black-bearded brother. “Come on, Ted. Fill ’emup.”

Bony put a pound note on the counter, intending to call for drinks, and ’Un whisked it away and surreptitiously gave it back, whispering:

“Ioughter told you. No oneain’t allowed to shout when theBreens come to town. The pub’s theirs till they leave.”

“Fill ’emup, 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 nondescript 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.”