1915 Read Online Free Page A

next week for sheep.”
    â€œNovember at the latest, eh?” Walter thrust out a hand. They shook. It seemed the thing to do, now they were men.
    Â 
    Parkes was Billy’s town, but he liked going to Forbes. When he reached the Eugowra road and entered the big river gums of the Lachlan he knew he was on foreign soil. Forbes hung together, it was solid, with its numerous hotels saluting each other across corners. Billy’s place by contrast was barely a town at all, more a collection of small settlements with shops and hotels grown up somewhere in the middle. Away from home Billy was a complete stranger, anonymous as a stray dog, and like a stray dog on the lookout for pleasure.
    He left his horse at the stockyards, and with Yabbieat his heels walked the rest of the way into town. He carried a change of clothes and a razor rolled in a swag. Ambling along he broke a switch from a peppercorn tree and flicked it from side to side. “Nineteen’s enough,” he had said on his birthday a few days before. “It’ll do me.” He walked on, whistling, with Yabbie dashing left and right.
    When he saw the Albion he paused to admire its size — three stories of brick and iron veranda, with blunt but royal-looking flagpoles surmounting a row of towers. He noticed a girl standing on the upper veranda. She was dressed for hotel work but not so plainly as to be mistaken for a maid, for she wore red beads and a short-sleeved blouse with a lace collar. Her face was hidden, turned half-in to the building. Black hair dropped in a long pigtail.
    The day ended as Billy entered the hotel, a brown and shining darkness swallowing everything. Yabbie slithered on the polished linoleum of the hall while Billy scrutinized a row of hunting prints, disbelieving the horses’ long necks. Out the back a yardman showed him a corner for Yabbie. Near the back door he found a lavatory, and there he sat with the door of his booth wide open, thinking of the girl, wondering what her face was like, imagining himself reaching from behind and making her squeal with surprise.
    â€œHere long?” A man joined Billy at the handbasin. He spoke indistinctly, as if talking to himself. “Henry Kroner,” he said, extending a hand. His eyes were the milky red of diced carrots in rabbit poison.
    â€œYou must have a drink, no?” Now he stood blocking the way.
    â€œI s’pose so. When I’ve seen about my room.”
    â€œAt the bar,” said the old foreigner, “you can do it there.”
    The private bar was empty except for the barman and two stock agents from Weaver & Co who sat at a table at the far end. One raised a finger to his red nose in recognition of Billy.
    â€œThe young gentleman wants a room, Mr Reilly. And I want another beer.”
    Reilly extended a hairy hand: “Heinrich will tell you I can throw an eighteen gallon keg farther than you can spit.”
    Billy said: “I’m not troublesome.”
    The hotelkeeper reached behind the bar and rang a small handbell which dribbled its sound away into the depths of the building. “You’ll have your room in a flash. What’s your poison?”
    â€œBeer.”
    Reilly hesitated for a second before reaching for a pint mug. “It’s on the house.”
    Billy drank it down in half a dozen thumping gulps.
    â€œYou’re a big drinker.”
    â€œThirsty.”
    â€œYou’re not from round here, are you?”
    Reilly stood with folded arms, his black hair dusted with silver. Dark circles under his eyes gave him a wise look.
    â€œMy dad is Hugh Mackenzie.”
    The hotelkeeper lifted the empty mug and slapped a piece of damp towelling along the bar. “The Hugh Mackenzie I know isn’t a drinking man.”
    â€œNo,” said Billy. “Dad ain’t.” And they both laughed.
    Henry Kroner had shifted to the near corner of the bar where he sat half-smiling with two fingers just touching