Free Wake In Fright by Kenneth Cook

Hynes, his face brightening, called: ‘Come in, men, come in!’
    Two huge men, about thirty, in open-necked shirts, loomed in the doorway.
    ‘G’day, Tim,’ they said, and ‘G’day, John,’ when they were introduced to Grant.
    Hynes went hurrying out to get more glasses, and Grant knew a few moments’ awful anticipation until one of the men at last said: ‘New to The Yabba, John?’
    But Hynes came back before he had to go through it all again.
    Hynes and his two friends fell to simultaneous speaking, exchanging the clumsy insults that pass for repartee in the west.Apart from a few minor variations in feature, the newcomers appeared almost identical, even to the patches of thick curly hair that appeared between their throats and their shirts.
    One day, thought Grant, he would make a fortune by manufacturing those for sale, like dickies.
    The two men were apparently miners who worked with Hynes. One was named Dick and the other Joe; and despite all appearances it seemed they were not brothers, nor even remotely related.
    Whenever Grant had thought of miners at all he had thought of them as grimy people, who emerged from the ground like moles, except that they would blink and shake their heads, and who probably spoke with Welsh accents. These two were very well-scrubbed specimens, who spoke with the nasal twang developed by people unable to open their mouths too wide because of dust.
    Grant found himself allowing his glass to be refilled, and then, surprised to find it empty, filled once more. Hynes seemed to have forgotten him and was engrossed in a conversation, largely incomprehensible to Grant, revolving around a pack of greyhounds the two miners owned jointly.
    ‘Do you race the dogs?’ Grant ventured once.
    Dick looked at him as though surprised that he was still there.
    ‘What else?’ he said, and turned back to Hynes.
    Grant gave his attention to his cigarette again, wondering, blearily now, how best to make his escape—and then where to escape to. But there was no real answer, so he just sat.
    After a while he let his eyes close, and the voices became a constant unbroken drone. A warm drone, like bees, very big bees, on a hot, very hot, day.
    Sinking, sinking, gently sinking, just enough awareness to know that it was pleasant to go down, down, blurry warmth, heavy heavy limbs at rest, the sense of flowing out, draining out, sinking slowly down without fear.
    ‘You’ll spill that beer if you don’t sit up straight.’
    Janette was sitting on a stool near his chair.
    Grant shook his head and worked his jaw muscles, struggling to dissipate the fog that gripped his mind and body. It went slowly, reluctantly, painfully.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘fell asleep.’
    Hynes and his friends were still talking earnestly about dogs, and didn’t seem to have noticed.
    Janette offered no help. She just sat there, impassive, unexpectant.
    Grant took a huge swallow of beer from his glass and attempted a smile. It didn’t work because his face wasn’t responding properly.
    But damn it all, there was a limit to the humiliation he could stand.
    He pushed himself to his feet and said, a little too loudly: ‘I’ll be moving off,Tim, thanks for your hospitality.’
    The three men broke off their conversation and looked at him. The young men’s faces were blank, but Hynes’s was perplexed, he didn’t quite know what to do about Grant. Obviously he was tempted to let him go and forget about him. For a moment Grant thought he was going to do just that, and he began to wish he had not suggested it…back to the streets of Bundanyabba.
    ‘Where would you be going, man?’
    The question was not answerable and Grant floundered, muttering inarticulately, knowing and glad that Hynes was going to insist that he stay.
    Hynes advanced on him with a bottle of beer.
    ‘You just hang around for a while,’ he said, filling Grant’s glass, ‘we’ve got to see about fixing you up with a job.’
    Grant was sure by now that