Free The Double Hook by Sheila Watson Page A

business, and a man doesn’t see much of that.
    James went in. There were a couple of men inside the store already. They weren’t doing business. Just sitting on boxes in the shadow cast by chaps and saddles hung against the window for display.
    I might as well pick up a few things I need now I’m here, James said. A wallet, he said, for instance.
    One of the men laughed. Imagine a man wanting a wallet, he said.
    James was looking at the billfolds which Pockett had tossed out onto the counter. He bent his elbows on the rough surface and raised his shoulders.
    I’ll take that one, he said, laying his finger on a yellow-grained folder. It’s proper gear for a man filthy rich, leastwise by some men’s reckoning.
    I suppose you want it put down, Pockett said.
    I’ll pay for it, James said, since you seem so anxious on cash business. Besides, when a thing’s paid for in money, you’ve got ownership rights on it and can smash it up if you so choose. I’m beginning to see that a man’s always best to deal in cash.
    Pockett made a note on the back of a bag. He edged his face across the counter to James.
    Anything else you need? he said.
    So happens I do, James said. You can hand me down a couple of pairs of socks and one of those green and blue plaid shirts. And one of the small canvas bags with a bar-lock.
    Getting out of these parts? asked one of the men.
    Pockett looked up. James was standing now with one elbow doubled on the counter, his hand clasping his wrist.
    Shut up, Pockett said to the men. Business is business. A joke’s a joke. A place for everything and everything in its place.
    Behind him on the shelves crowded tinned meat and pain killer, scent and rat poison, rivets and cords and nails.
    This is not your time for being down, Pockett said to James. I was talking to Bill when he was in on the mail. Everything is running smooth up above, I hope.
    He reached for the shirt and socks.
    Is it all right if I just put them in the sack? he asked without waiting for an answer to his first question.
    Better give the boy a new set of drawers too, one of the men called out. Nothing less sporting than a rip in y’r long johns.
    If you can’t settle for being civil, Pockett said, you’d best decide on moving off those boxes.
    I might as well tell him the truth, James thought. Or as much of the truth as will stop him guessing.
    He hunched his shoulders round away from the men.
    We’ve had our troubles since William came down, he said, answering Pockett’s first question.
    I thought it would be something brought you down now, Pockett said.
    Ma, James said.
    Sick and brought to hospital? Pockett asked.
    No, James said.
    Not gone? Pockett asked.
    James nodded. Pockett looked across at the men.
    There’s some people, he said, who’s got respect for nothing. Man. Nor beast. Nor God Almighty either. Now a man like me, he said, has got sense enough to know when something’s wrong. When I first clapped my eyes on you in the street I said to myself: James Potter and the beef sale not on. There must be trouble above. I said to myself: He looks like a man in trouble. There’s trouble writ in the hang of hisjeans and the drape of his shirt. Yet there’s jokers here who see nothing.
    He’d raised his voice. The men on the boxes shifted round and peered out between the legs of the chaps into the dust of the street.
    Mrs. Potter, Pockett said, must have been on in years. One of the queer things, he said, leaning across the counter again, is I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother all this time. I guess she never needed anything bad enough to come down.
    He was adding up figures on the back of the bag.
    That’ll be three dollars and four dollars and a dollar and a half and –
    He took a catalogue out of the drawer and searched through it.
    That size of bag comes at a buck-fifty bar-lock and all. He put down the figure. Which makes ten even.
    James unbuttoned the flap of his shirt and pulled out a bill. It was the five