We were tramping down in Canterbury, Maoriland, at the time, swagging it -- me and Bill -- looking for work on the new railway line. Well, one afternoon, after a long, hot tramp, we comes to Stiffner's Hotel -- between Christchurch and that other place -- I forget the name of it -- with throats on us like sunstruck bones, and not the price of a stick of tobacco.
We had to have a drink, anyway, so we chanced it. We walked right into the bar, handed over our swags, put up four drinks, and tried to look as if we'd just drawn our cheques and didn't care a curse for any man. We looked solvent enough, as far as swagmen go. We were dirty and haggard and ragged and tired-looking, and that was all the more reason why we might have our cheques all right.
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
