Stiffner and Jim

"Stiffner and Jim" is a compelling short story by Australian author Henry Lawson that explores the lives of two men working as timber cutters in the Australian bush. Through their interactions and adventures, Lawson captures themes of friendship, hardship, and the rugged nature of life in the outback. The narrative highlights the camaraderie between the protagonists, showcasing their resilience and humor in the face of challenges. With vivid descriptions and authentic dialogue, Lawson paints a picture of early Australian society while exploring deeper human emotions and connections.

• Short story

								
(Thirdly, Bill)

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.

This Stiffner was a hard customer. He'd been a spieler, fighting man,
bush parson, temperance preacher, and a policeman, and a commercial
traveller, and everything else that was damnable; he'd been a
journalist, and an editor; he'd been a lawyer, too. He was an ugly brute
to look at, and uglier to have a row with--about six-foot-six, wide in
proportion, and stronger than Donald Dinnie.

He was meaner than a gold-field Chinaman, and sharper than a sewer rat:
he wouldn't give his own father a feed, nor lend him a sprat--unless
some safe person backed the old man's I.O.U.

We knew that we needn't expect any mercy from Stiffner; but something
had to be done, so I said to Bill:

“Something's got to be done, Bill! What do you think of it?”

Bill was mostly a quiet young chap, from Sydney, except when he got
drunk--which was seldom--and then he was a customer, from all round. He
was cracked on the subject of spielers. He held that the population of
the world was divided into two classes--one was spielers and the other
was the mugs. He reckoned that he wasn't a mug. At first I thought he
was a spieler, and afterwards I thought that he was a mug. He used to
say that a man had to do it these times; that he was honest once and
a fool, and was robbed and starved in consequences by his friends and
relations; but now he intended to take all that he could get. He said
that you either had to have or be had; that men were driven to be
sharps, and there was no help for it.

Bill said:

“We'll have to sharpen our teeth, that's all, and chew somebody's lug.”

“How?” I asked.

There was a lot of navvies at the pub, and I knew one or two by sight,
so Bill says:

“You know one or two of these mugs. Bite one of their ears.”

So I took aside a chap that I knowed and bit his ear for ten bob, and
gave it to Bill to mind, for I thought it would be safer with him than
with me.

“Hang on to that,” I says, “and don't lose it for your natural life's
sake, or Stiffner'll stiffen us.”

We put up about nine bob's worth of drinks that night--me and Bill--and
Stiffner didn't squeal: he was too sharp. He shouted once or twice.

By-and-by I left Bill and turned in, and in the morning when I woke up
there was Bill sitting alongside of me, and looking about as lively
as the fighting kangaroo in London in fog time. He had a black eye and
eighteen pence. He'd been taking down some of the mugs.

“Well, what's to be done now?” I asked. “Stiffner can smash us both with
one hand, and if we don't pay up he'll pound our swags and cripple us.
He's just the man to do it. He loves a fight even more than he hates
being had.”

“There's only one thing to be done, Jim,” says Bill, in a tired,
disinterested tone that made me mad.

“Well, what's than” I said.

“Smoke!”

“Smoke be damned,” I snarled, losing my temper.

“You know dashed well that our swags are in the bar, and we can't smoke
without them.

“Well, then,” says Bill, “I'll toss you to see who's to face the
landlord.”

“Well, I'll be blessed!” I says. “I'll see you further first. You have
got a front. You mugged that stuff away, and you'll have to get us out
of the mess.”

It made him wild to be called a mug, and we swore and growled at each
other for a while; but we daren't speak loud enough to have a fight, so
at last I agreed to toss up for it, and I lost.

Bill started to give me some of his points, but I shut him up quick.

“You've had your turn, and made a mess of it,” I said. “For God's sake
give me a show. Now, I'll go into the bar and ask for the swags, and
carry them out on to the veranda, and then go back to settle up. You
keep him talking all the time. You dump the two swags together, and
smoke like sheol. That's all you've got to do.”

I went into the bar, got the swags front the missus, carried them out on
to the veranda, and then went back.

Stiffner came in.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning, sir,” says Stiffner.

“It'll be a nice day, I think?”

“Yes, I think so. I suppose you are going on?”

“Yes, we'll have to make a move to-day.”

Then I hooked carelessly on to the counter with one elbow, and looked
dreamy-like out across the clearing, and presently I gave a sort of sigh
and said: “Ah, well! I think I'll have a beer.”

“Right you are! Where's your mate?”

“Oh, he's round at the back. He'll be round directly; but he ain't
drinking this morning.”

Stiffner laughed that nasty empty laugh of his. He thought Bill was
whipping the cat.

“What's yours, boss?” I said.

“Thankee!... Here's luck!”

“Here's luck!”

The country was pretty open round there--the nearest timber was better
than a mile away, and I wanted to give Bill a good start across the flat
before the go-as-you-can commenced; so I talked for a while, and while
we were talking I thought I might as well go the whole hog--I might as
well die for a pound as a penny, if I had to die; and if I hadn't I'd
have the pound to the good, anyway, so to speak. Anyhow, the risk would
be about the same, or less, for I might have the spirit to run harder
the more I had to run for--the more spirits I had to run for, in fact,
as it turned out--so I says:

“I think I'll take one of them there flasks of whisky to last us on the
road.”

“Right y'are,” says Stiffner. “What'll ye have--a small one or a big
one?”

“Oh, a big one, I think--if I can get it into my pocket.”

“It'll be a tight squeeze,” he said, and he laughed.

“I'll try,” I said. “Bet you two drinks I'll get it in.”

“Done!” he says. “The top inside coat-pocket, and no tearing.”

It was a big bottle, and all my pockets were small; but I got it into
the pocket he'd betted against. It was a tight squeeze, but I got it in.

Then we both laughed, but his laugh was nastier than usual, because it
was meant to be pleasant, and he'd lost two drinks; and my laugh wasn't
easy--I was anxious as to which of us would laugh next.

Just then I noticed something, and an idea struck me--about the most
up-to-date idea that ever struck me in my life. I noticed that Stiffner
was limping on his right foot this morning, so I said to him:

“What's up with your foot?” putting my hand in my pocket. “Oh, it's a
crimson nail in my boot,” he said. “I thought I got the blanky thing out
this morning; but I didn't.”

There just happened to be an old bag of shoemaker's tools in the bar,

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