Constable Gibley was lounging in a shop doorway when he gained the street and sauntered on. He could see Mr. Luton grimly on duty. Crossing the road, he put down his parcels on the seat, and asked:
“Who is the most talkative barber in this town?”
“That one,” replied Mr. Luton, pointing. “Self-winding, like them new-fashioned clocks.”
Bony nodded and found the barber without a customer. The man had a talker’s chin. Also a high-pitched voice. During the first fifteen seconds he had greeted Bony, discussed the weather, tried out the races of the previous Saturday, and was branching into fishing. By this time Bony was tied with a sheet and at his mercy. He managed to get in:
“Ben Wickham wasn’t wrong in his drought forecast, was he?”
“Luck, sir. Justflamin ’ luck. And the mugs take him for true. Greatest disaster that ever happened to Orstralia, that fortune-telling, star-gazing crook. The low-down on the weather! He says that next year the drought isgonna move up into Queensland again. And what’ll happen? All the fool cockies won’t fallow and sow, won’t take on hands, won’t buy nothing. Okay! Okay! Good luck to the cockies. But no matter what, there’s no guarantee there’ll be a drought. Therains’ll come as usual and the cockies won’t have no fallow, no sowing done, no crops. And millions of people starving over in Asia. Thousands starving here in Orstralia. Depression. That’s what it means. Why, even my business has gone downmore’n fifty per cent this year. Good job old Wickham did dieorf. We don’t want his sort in Orstralia. No good for business.”
“Many people come down here for the fishing?” Bony edged in.
“Usetabe a number of regulars. This year hardly any. No money. They say trade is terrible bad in Adelaide. People…”
“The policeman ought to have a quiet time.”
“Nothin’ much for him to do. Blokes haven’t got the dough to get blind and kick up rusty. Gibley! Time he got moved on. Nose is too long. Thank you, sir. That’ll be three and six.”
Bony left the chair and surveyed his hair-cut which he found passable. He said, while searching for small money:
“Many strangers in town?”
“Strangers! Look, I don’t think there’smore’n three, thetown’s that dead. I can count ’emon one hand. One, a la-de-dawhat’s beenstayin ’ with the manager over at the Commonwealth. Two what’s living in a caravan and doing somefishin ’. Don’t like them. Foreigners of some sort. Don’t know what. Then there’s a feller what rented a holiday shack for a month as from last week. Cripes! We’relookin ’ up, sir. You make number five stranger. Where you staying, if I might ask?”
“With Mr. Luton, out of town on the river.”
“Oh, Luton! Fine old-timer, he is. Not many of hissort left. Good old battler. Sooner call a spade a bloody shovel than a trowel. See you again.”
Bony crossed the street and joined Mr. Luton, and the old man said, importantly:
“You’d been in the bank five minutes when Gibley arrived in a hurry and stopped outside like he’d suddenly remembered he had nothing to do and no place to go. A minute after you came out, the bank office-boy went over to the Post Office with two telegrams. Either that or one message took two pages to write on.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing except that Gibley’s been following you around. He’s eyeing us now from inside the paper shop.”
Bony was delighted and looked it. He said:
“How often have you baited for bream and caught a king-fish? Let us have a drink.”