'Whisky,' said Slivers, curtly, leaning his chin on his stick, and
following her movements with his one eye. 'I say!'
'Well?' asked Miss Twexby, coming from behind the bar with a glass
and a bottle of whisky, 'what do you say?'
'How's that good-looking Frenchman?' asked Slivers, pouring himself
out some liquor, and winking at her in a rakish manner with his one
eye.
'How should I know?' snapped Martha, angrily, 'he comes here to see
that friend of his, and then clears out without as much as a good
day; a nice sort of friend, indeed,' wrathfully, 'stopping here
nearly two weeks and drunk all the time; he'll be having delirious
trimmings before he's done.'
'Who will ?' said Slivers, taking a sip of his whisky and water.
'Why, that other Frenchman!' retorted Martha, going to her place
behind the bar, 'Peter something; a low, black wretch, all beard,
with no tongue, and a thirst like a lime-kiln.'
'Oh, the dumb man.'
Miss Twexby nodded.
'That's him,' she said, triumphantly, 'he's been here for the last
two weeks.'
'Drunk, I think you said,' remarked Slivers, politely.
Martha laughed scornfully, and took out some sewing.
'I should just think so,' she retorted, tossing her head, 'he does
nothing but drink all day, and run after people with that knife.'
'Very dangerous,' observed Slivers, gravely shaking his head; 'why
don't you get rid of him?'
'So we are,' said Miss Twexby, biting off a bit of cotton, as if she
wished it were Pierre's head; 'he is going down to Melbourne the day
after to-morrow.
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