9 Jun 2008 8:34 AM

When the swallows returned for their nightly forage, and after all the greenery was in place, Ron took the shoebox out onto the balcony and lifted the towel.  The bird was alert, quickly ruffled its flight feathers, and joined the other birds in the nightly hunt.  Ron watched his little patient as long as he could, her quick spins and spirals taking her around the corner of the unit and out of sight.
      The extra greenery added to Ron's daily routine, a task that he found most enjoyable.  Every evening he would tend the plants, watering and trimming, and generally admiring his handiwork. 

It was on one of these evenings that Ron noticed the beginnings of a mud nest high up in a corner of the balcony.  It wasn't too long before a swallow flew in to add to this construction, and Ron naturally knew, or at least accepted that it was the swallow that he had attended to a few days earlier.
      "You are welcome, madam", he offered, "Just remember, no late night parties".  The old man chuckled at his own humour.
       Placing news paper on the balcony floor to catch the droppings that he knew would abound, he and his new tenant prepared for nature to take it's course. He tried to leave the swallow pretty much to itself, except for one particular indulgence, he named the swallow Little Beth.
      The nest completed, Little Beth began attending her two eggs, well protected form the elements and any predator, and unknowingly, bringing much joy to the heart of the sometimes very lonely Ron Wilson.
      Ron's habit of emptying the water from the electric kettle into the pot plants soon drew the attention of the swallow.  Often the water was still warm from a previous cup of tea, but for some reason Ron never re-boiled water, preferring to use fresh each time.  The old man could not help but laugh at seeing Little Beth awkwardly splashing in the dish below the pot plants as the warm water seeped through.
      Ron rummaged through the pots and pans in the kitchen cupboard until he found a shallow dish which he added water from the tap.  He placed the dish in a convenient place on the balcony, satisfied that he was being the good provider for his new friend.  Little Beth flew to the dish, had a quick drink, and went to the warmer water of the pot to bathe.
      "Well I'll be!" Ron commented aloud, "You are a funny thing"
      Ron took the dish back to the kitchen and topped it up with warm water from the tap.  It was only a matter of seconds, as Little Beth watched her kindly landlord, that she flew to the dish, and finding it to her liking, splashed to her hearts content.  This was added to Ron"s daily routine, and he obtained much enjoyment as he told David and Petrina of his new found friend, and of the fact that he had named the two, newly hatched babies, David and Petrina.  Petrina's squeals of delight almost making Ron wish he hadn't.
      Against his better judgment, Ron would purchase a few mealworms from the Pet Shop as he went on his daily walks.  He knew that the bird should be encouraged to fend for herself, but the worms gave him an added purpose for his trip to the shops, and Ron was always encouraged when Little Beth would take to the sky whenever the insects were abundant.
     
The mealworms were a treat for Little Beth, and her trust in the old man increased to the extent where she would fly to his hand to twitter, and pick at the offering.
      The days passed, the young had flown to make a life of their own, but to Ron's delight Little Beth returned each evening to partake of the offered mealworms, and during the day to splash in the bath that Ron would have prepared for her.  The mud nest deteriorated through lack of maintenance, and eventually fell to the concrete floor to shatter to a thousand pieces.  This event made Ron a little uncomfortable for some reason.
      On one evening, as Ron waited, sitting in an easy chair on the balcony, he felt that Little Beth was late.  She had not come for her bath during the afternoon as far as he could tell, and he tried shrugging off the unease that he now felt.  It would soon be time for the phone call from Suzanne, and Ron was thinking about this as Little Beth flew in and landed on his lap.  Ron noticed with some alarm that the mealworms did not seem to interest Little Beth this evening.  He gently lifted her with his, still work roughened hands,  'Just a little tired from chasing bugs', he tried to assure himself and the bird. Ron found the shoebox again and placed Little Beth inside. 

        "You will be all right in the morning, girl", he whispered as he placed her behind the lounge chair in the unit.
      Ron checked the bird twice as he tried to eat supper, a meal that he could not enjoy, and he pushed it aside to again check on Little Beth.
      The phone rang, it startled the old man, who was now dealing with the grief of finding Little Beth lifeless in the box on the last look, her short swallow's life had ended.
      "How are you daddy?" Suzanne spoke.
      "Little Beth is gone".  Ron's voice sounded very old and very tired.
      "Are you all right daddy?" Suzanne was concerned.panic starting ti rise in her.
      "Little Beth is dead", Ron whispered into the phone.
      "I'm coming over dad, wait for me, I won't be long".
      Ron replaced the receiver and flopped into a lounge chair.  When Suzanne let Phillip and herself into the apartment this is where she found her father, Little Beth in his lap, nestled into his open hand, resting, just as her human friend was now, also resting.
      Suzanne checked her father, but she knew that he was no longer with her, he looked at peace with himself now that he had completed life's journey.  She turned to Phillip, seeing the tears on his cheek, and they held each other in silence.
     

Later, when Suzanne could bring herself to gather her parents things together, things that were exclusively her parents possessions, and so much a part of her life as well, she felt sorrow for all the things that had never been said to her father, how she could have told him how much she loved him, more often, Just as she had felt when her mother had passed on.  She held the bedside photo of her smiling mother, and let the tears flow down her cheeks.  As she turned the photo frame in her hands she noticed the had written words that lifted her, gave her great comfort in her grieving, and filled he with a renewed love for her darling father.




Wait for me Elizabeth,
I'll come to you once more.
I send my love on swallow's wings,
For they are swift and sure.

'Tis soon we'll sit hand in hand
Or walk beside the streams.
'Til then, my love, I have your smile
And your company in my dreams.
      ooooOOOoooo             

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8 Jun 2008 9:04 PM

ON SWALLOW'S WINGS

      The circumstances that had caused Ron Wilson to contemplate his seventy-seven years were the saddest of those years.  Ron's wife, Elizabeth, had passed away a few days after their fifty-second wedding anniversary.  The shock at the loss of his life-long friend, partner and loved companion shook Ron to the depth of his being.  The past two years, since that tragic time, were made a little easier to bear by the love of his daughter and her family, and from the help of his many friends who's understanding - that came from their own advanced years - had continued to be his support and encouragement.  These friendships had developed for both Elizabeth and Ron when they had left the farm, and settled into retirement in the coastal township near where the old couple's daughter, husband and two children lived.
      Ron Wilson had time to reflect on his life now that those around him had slowly, but surely withdrawn the concentrated attention, to run their own lives.  Ron understood, he often felt that the kind mindfulness of his friends was a little too much sometimes anyway, and although he did not want to lose contact with the people that had supported him, he felt better able to cope as the days passed.
      An old-school gentleman, honest, hardworking, sometimes a little intolerant of those that he considered fools, but always ready to offer good, sound advice if asked.  Ron felt that he may have been able to do some things a bit better if he had had his time over again, but he knew that wasn't possible, so he settled his conscience with the fact that he had done his best, no matter how things turned out.
      The Wilson's were of basic country stock.  Suzanne, the daughter and only child, was the pride and joy of her parents.  She was not spoilt; there was no time to indulge a child on the Wilson farm.  The healthy food, the comfortable cottage, an education that took Suzanne on to University to study medicine, and of course, the love from her parents, had made Suzanne feel the she was special, and very lucky in most ways.
      There were medical reasons why the Wilson's had only one child, but this was never discussed. Both Suzanne's parents did not want her feeling any guilt at being the reason that she had no brothers or sisters.  If ever the subject came up, Ron would tell the story of his father and the rabbit.  Ron's mother would sometimes suggest that they would have baked rabbit for dinner.  Ron, as a young boy, loved to go with his father wherever he went. 
      "You can carry the bullet, lad", his father would say.
      "One bullet?"  Ron was always amazed.
      "Well your mother only wants one rabbit" his father would answer.
      And then came the part that would explain Suzanne.
      "If ever you do something in life", his father had said. "Give it your best shot, and make it count".
      "And that is what we did with Suzanne...You can't improve on perfection".
      Ron's thoughts travelled to the days of working for his father on the farm that had become his inheritance and life's work.  The lack of time to pursue much social life, never really bothered him, he admitted to himself.  Ron always felt that fate would look after his destiny as he plugged away, keeping the family fed and housed in more than reasonable comfort. 
His toil paid dividends beyond the ability of most of the struggling community in which they lived.  It was not luck; it was simply hard work, sensible savings, good investment and a keen interest and knowledge in his work.
      The circumstances that had brought he and his wife together had seemed to be the natural course of things to Ron Wilson.  The fact that both he and she had been brought into the world by the same mid-wife, although three years apart, and the schooling days together at the valley class-rooms, the growing friendship, the dances on the odd occasion, and the often unspoken love that had brought them to the union of marriage would not have been otherwise, as far as Ron was concerned.
      Ron not only inherited the farm, he also inherited his father's frugality,
"Fulfill our needs, the wants can take second place".  Elizabeth often told her friends that this phrase was Ron's scripture.  Ron was provident, but he was, in no way, mean.  The Wilson's always had money for a good holiday each year, and it was on one of those holidays that he and Elizabeth had selected their place of retirement.  The very place that Ron now sat as he considered his life.
       An iron-framed, brass and porcelain double bed that Suzanne's husband had helped restore to original condition for his in-laws, adorned the bedroom, and on a table there stood a framed photo of Elizabeth, a photo taken in happy times with that happiness reflected on the face that Ron never failed to speak to as he retired each night. 
"Wait for me Elizabeth", he would say as he turned off the bedside lamp, and Elizabeth would smile back at him and he knew she would.
      Ron would spend most of Sundays with Suzanne and her husband Phillip.  The two grandchildren - their energy a curiosity had never failed to astound the old man. David, the oldest, and his precious granddaughter, Petrina, loved the visits as much as Ron.
Their love for their grandparents had made it very difficult to come to terms with Elizabeth's death, that Nana would not be with Pa when he rang the doorbell on Sundays, or to cook luscious sponge cakes, or to talk to, or just be there to cuddle when the need arose.
      Phillip, who was into 'electronics' as Ron would say when asked, was accepting of the Sunday visits, he liked the old man, felt his loss, and had never given thought to denying these visits.  This was very fortunate for Phillip as he would not have been able to deal with the fury of Suzanne if he had thought otherwise.
      Suzanne had reached her goal to become a Medical Practitioner, although she did put her career on hold to be a mother and wife for a time.  Now the children had grown, and Phillip had taken to working from home in his Electronics Consultancy business, Suzanne had established herself as a local MD.  Her main clientele being the elderly folk like her mother and father that had come to live out the latter part of their lives.
        Elizabeth had seemed so full of spirit at the anniversary celebrations, Suzanne had detected no illness in her mother's last check-up, and in fact, Elizabeth was deceased and at the hospital before Suzanne had gathered her wits about her.  Ron felt within himself that this was a good thing for Suzanne, but it took some time for his daughter to absolve herself of any blame for not detecting the onset of the heart attack even though the hospital doctors had told her that no one could have foreseen the event.
      Tired from the attention of the children, and waiting for Phillip to drive him home, Ron would breath in the love from his family to see him through the next week.  His daily activities would be centered on the evening phone call from Suzanne. 
Six-O'clock sharp the phone would ring, and Ron would be there waiting.  "Were you standing at the phone, Daddy?" Suzanne would tease. 
"No love, I just happen to be passing when you rang".  Suzanne knew how much her father cherished these calls, so she didn't tease him too much.
      The rest of the days he would rise early- a creature of habit - have a good, solid breakfast, and walk the mile and a half to the Newsagent for the daily papers.  The mandatory chats with the many retirees along the way would have him arrive home by late morning, just in time to fix himself a light lunch.  The days never varied, and Ron felt comfortable with the routine, he felt that the change that losing Elizabeth had brought him was about as much change that he could cope with at his time of life.
      As usual, on the balmy spring days, Ron would sit at the dinning room table, the curtains on the double sliding doors open, relaxing in the warmth of the sun, and reading every word in the papers of the day. 
The thump against the glass of the doors caused Ron to utter, "What on earth was that?".
      For the past several days the Welcome Swallows had been swirling, darting and diving, attacking insects in the evening sky.  It was one of these small birds that, in haste to catch her supper, had crashed into the reflective glass of the balcony door.
      "Poor thing", Ron said as he picked the stunned bird from the pot plant where she had fallen after the crash with the door.
"It looks like you have only knocked the wind out of your sails". He told the bird.
      Ron took the bird into the unit, and finding a shoebox he placed the bird inside, covered the box with a tea towel and placed the lot in a darkened section of the living room. 
"You will be all right, little bird", he said soothingly, "Just rest for a bit, and you will be as good as new". 
Well, at least that was what Ron had hoped, but his words were also based on a very sound knowledge of the feathered, and non-feathered stock of his farming days.  His knowledge, and a good examination for more serious injury, gave him the confidence to treat the hurt bird in the most appropriate manner for a quick recovery.
      The old man walked out onto the balcony and studied the glass of the sliding doors.  The reflection of the evening sky gave the appearance that the doors were a continuation of that same expanse.  The reflection of birds flying in this fourth dimension added to the confusion that the injured swallow would have encountered.
      The next day Ron spent considerable time, and more money than would be normal for him, on decorative hanging plants, and some standing pots for the lower section of the glass completed the camouflage.  Ron had also brought something else for the bird.
      "Here you are girl, some nice meal worms".  Ron lifted the tea towel and placed a few worms near the swallow, and later on a second look noticed with satisfaction that the worms had been consumed.

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8 Jun 2008 1:29 PM

George may not have known what Martha meant, but the men noticed the enlarging of Martha's eyes when she looked down at George's attributes, and they burst out laughing, making Martha even more aware of what George might have to offer her.
When George had arrived at the hospital the ambulance officers took him to the bathroom, and leaving him on the stretcher, and with the assistance of a hospital orderly, they removed his clothes and scrubbed his body of years of grime.  They did take some care around his many lacerations and bruising, but in general, concentrated on removing any chance of infection, both to other hospital inmates and staff, and to George himself.
With the continued groans of pain coming from George, and the doctor being satisfied that there was a clean spot on his body, and injection was given to sedate George for the remainder of the bathing ordeal.
The hospital gardener was called in, and with pitchfork in hand, collected George's clothing and carried them at arms length to the incinerator.
George spent three weeks in the care of the Blackall hospital.  He developed an enormous appetite, and the kitchen staff often complained to the doctor about George's continued demand for food.
The doctor, being kindly, suggested that as George would be out of the hospital as quickly, and as medically expedient as possible, that he should be fed to speed up the healing process.  This gave the kitchen staff the encouragement to supply George with a continued supply of healthy, wholesome food.
There was one curiosity that the doctor could not fathom.  The purple streaks on George's face and neck, where the orderly had not shaved him, caused the doctor to enquire of George if he could explain the marks.
George could not, but he did try as his nature to expand on the truth had returned in earnest.
"The blokes that bashed me rubbed some stuff in me' face to knock me out...I had 'em almost beat...fought like a wild animal, I did, but when they rubbed that stuff in me' face, I knew I was done for".
The doctor didn't believe George, and as he had determined that the stains would not impede the healing process, he soon forgot about the matter.
George's brother had taken the liberty of arranging a tractor to knock down George's old shack with the intention of building something much more comfortable for him.  It was during this process that the ammunition box of coins was found.
  Bob Cooper had turned the sack of money over to Jack Wormwood, or Woodward as he called himself.  Jack had no concern about using this money to better his brother's life style, and there would be plenty left for George afterwards.
The tractor driver gave jack the ammunition box full of coins, such was the general honesty of these outback people.
"I wonder if George has any other hidden cash lying around?"
"I dunno', mate," said the tractor driver, "But if I find any I'll hand it over".
Three weeks after his admittance to the hospital, George was released.  He still suffered pain in the area of his broken ribs, and the scars of the lacerations were still well pronounced, but he was clean, dressed in clothes brought over by his brother, and had put on a considerable amount of weight.
The hospital orderly had even taken to scrubbing George's teeth.  It was an easy exercise when George was unconscious, but became a harder chore as the patient got better.  However with strong persistence, and the threat of no food until he cleaned his teeth, George's general hygiene improved to that of an average human being.
All in all, George was a vastly different man than he was before his stay in Blackall.
By the Thursday morning after the bashing and associated events, and well before any arrival in New South Wales of stolen Riverview Station stock would be expected, Bob Cooper, using the unique interrogation methods practised by outback police officers, and not to be found in any police training manual, had a full, signed confession from both Mick Jackson and his cohort, Bill Williams.
The police officer had enough evidence to recommend the apprehending of Bull McGinnis, who was subsequently arrested and held in the Brisbane Watch House pending further investigation by Stock Squad detectives.
The wallet had been found, which conclusively implicated the prisoners in a planned stock theft, and with this information, and a little persuasion, Bob Cooper was able to sow the case up before the Stock Squad detectives arrived to escort the two back to Brisbane to await, in custody, their trial.
George arrived back in Targaroo amongst much cheering and hooting from the gathered locals.
"Good on ya', mate" they shouted.
"Caught the buggers red handed, ya' did," they also shouted, referring the capture of the stock thieves.

"Well, blue handed, " someone muttered.
There was no amount of offers to buy George a drink, all his 'mates', of course.  However, Tiny stepped and took George under his protection.  Jack, his brother, had not passed any money on to George after picking him up at the hospital and driving him back home, but many tried to plead a case of need of financial help that George had no trouble ignoring.
The hangers-on should have realised that a man that was too mean to feed himself out of his dole money would not be throwing it around on some bloke that George had never been spoken to by in the past.
Jack had sorted out the problem with the dole cheque, and although the one sent had been cancelled for payment, a second cheque was sent.
The second cheque gave the Post Master heartburn for a month.  The bile rose in his chest every time he thought about the money that George had secreted all these years, and at the thought that his tax money was going to continue to find its way into some hidden flour sack in the future.
Eventually, Jack gave George both cheques, and he told him about the dud one, but George put it in the pocket of his new trousers anyway.
George cashed the good cheque at the post office as usual, but not before the Post Master had rang Toowoomba to verify which cheque was the good one, in the forlorn hope that there had been a mistake and both cheques were no good.
George was to go to Brisbane to the court hearings of the criminals, much to the discomfort of Bob Cooper who soon realised that George was back to his expansion of matters truthful.  But George was the key witness in the case, and it had to be done.
Bob Cooper would drive George down to the city, something that he would never had done if George had not been cleaned up, and it would be around two weeks before they would return.  Cooper's replacement would soon fit in with the town's way of life, or he would rue the day if he didn't.
George had been staying in the spare room at the side of the cafe, a room that had originally built for truck drivers to rest for a few hours before carrying on in their, often long and tiresome journeys.
Martha had fussed over him to the point where George was becoming uneasy about the attention.
The worst moment was when the overly fat Martha tried to get a little too close to George, and only succeeded in leaning on his still painful ribs.
The scream of agony that escaped from George shook the rafters of the diner, and brought gales of laughter from the patrons inside.
Martha would have to wait to have George attend to her soft spot.
Jack had given George several good talks about becoming respectable, about keeping himself showered and in decent clothes, and even about trying to find a job.
Given the last suggestion, George felt that if he complied with the other advice that it would be enough to satisfy his brother, so George would be seen heading into the shower every third night, and exiting with the change of clothes that Jack had purchased from George's flour sack.
Martha would wash and iron the dirty clothes for George, and have them ready for three nights hence.
The publican had retained the bets on George.  Not one punter had picked the date that close to the start of betting, and as George had been cleaned up legitimately, although unforeseen, the bets still stood.
The hotel host did show some sympathy for the losers, and put a small percentage of his winnings on the bar for all to drink out.  This event was announced, and George was invited as the guest of honour.
As it turned out the party happened on the night before George and Bob Cooper were due to travel to Brisbane, but both George and Bob joined in the festivities.
George had become the centre of attention, as was expected.  He drank freely, and freely, until he became overcome with gratitude.
"Listen everyone," the well lubricated George opened, "I wanna say thanks to all me' mates that helped me..."
A cheer rose from the crowded bar. Men drank up and shouted, "We'll drink to that".
George continued, "I want to shout you all a drink...all me' good mates," which included everyone in the pub.
"Settle down, Notty...You don't have to do that," the publican said.
"No, I wanna...fill 'em up".
When the long task of filling every empty glass in the bar was complete George dug into his trouser pocket and withdrew the dud cheque that he had carried since Jack gave it to him, and handed it to the publican.
Without a flinch, George said, "Here, take it out of this," and handed the publican the worthless scrap of paper.
The hotel owner looked at the cheque for a minute or two, his suspicious mind making him wary, but as he had not heard about the two dole cheques, he said "Yeah! sure, if you can't trust the government, who can you trust". He put the cheque in the till, and gave George the change.
"Good on ya' Notty, you're a good bloke," they yelled.

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7 Jun 2008 6:44 PM

Rising earlier than usual, George hurried down to his pre-planned vantage point in the centre of the town.
If George needed concealment at any time, he had many places that he could wriggle into, keeping out of sight of casual observers.
He picked the most convenient of his 'hides', an unused doorway to a deserted store.  This doorway had empty boxes stacked up in the set back entrance, and afforded George a good vantage point to see the entire main street of Targaroo.
For three hours, George continued his vigil, not once revealing himself to few early risers that passed through the town.  His determination was fired by his expectations of the fruits of his efforts.
A strange, to the town, utility drove slowly down past where George was hiding.  He noticed a large, redheaded man at the wheel.  Taking particular effort to commit to memory the number plate, and the general description of the vehicle, George waited for the ute to park.
Bull McGinnis drove the length of the main street twice, checking to see if anyone, or anything should give him concern.  Satisfied that the coast was clear he left the vehicle, walked onto the footpath, and waited for his henchmen to acknowledge his presence.
George had noticed the arrival of Mick Jackson and Bill Williams just ten minutes before Bull McGinnis, and watched as they looked about before giving their boss a signal.
McGinnis took a wallet form his pocket, showed it hastily to the distant stock thieves, and dropped it into a garbage bin at the side of the kerb.  Turning quickly, he entered his vehicle and drove off carefully; normally, not too slow or too quick to avoid attracting attention.
The two men made their way down the footpath and retrieved the wallet from the bin, and looked around to see if they had been sighted, not knowing that George had taken in every detail of the activities.
For some unexplained reason the two men went back to their transport, tossed the wallet casually through the open passenger side window to land on the seat, and headed for the Railway Hotel.
George could not believe his luck.  Trembling with excitement he left his hiding place and scurried towards the vehicle. 
One pass, and George had seen the wallet, and on the second pass his arm darted in and out of the cabin with lightening speed.  The wallet was now snug in George's trouser pocket.
One matter that George had not accounted for, and one that only happened by chance was that Mick Jackson had looked back just before stepping into the pub.
Mick had noticed George walking past the vehicle, but was not observant enough to see the well-practised slight of hand from George. However, he wondered at the dirty old bloke's presence.
George headed for his shack, excitement, fantasies, and dreams of all kind running through his head.
Shaking from the anticipation, he opened the wallet to find papers for the transport of cattle across the Queensland, New South Wales border.  There were also instructions on times and directions of travel that would bring the truck load of stolen, Riverview Station bullocks to a property just seven miles into the southern state.
Although the evidence in the wallet was conclusive proof for a conviction for stock theft, George felt a little disappointed with his find.
A wallet was supposed to hold money, but there was none, just these papers.

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7 Jun 2008 2:13 PM

The plan was to get some indelible pencil shavings from the office and have someone rub it into George's hair. 
If he showered there would be purple stains down his face.
The group thought it would be simple ruse, and one that would create an interest in the town.
The pub host went to the office and came back with enough pencil lead shavings to do the trick, and Tiny was elected to, somehow, get it into George's hair.
George gravitated towards Tiny's end of the bar as if fate was guiding him into the trick.
"G'Day, mate, Ow'ya'goin' ," he said to Tiny.
"What are you up to, Notty" Tiny asked cordially.
This question frightened George.  Had Tiny watched him stealing money from the bar? Or was there something else that George should be feeling guilty about?
There was no doubt that there were many things that George could be guilty of, but he decided to bluff it out.
"Nuffin, mate, I ain't been doing nuffin' "
"Not our Notty, he wouldn't do nothing wrong, would you Notty?" Tiny said, and in what George thought was a great show of affection, rubbed the pencil shavings into George's greasy hair.
The joy that coursed through George at this show of mateship almost over came him.  He could not think of anything to say, instead he rubbed his own head, which only ground the shavings in further.
One thing that George was always prepared to say was, "Buy us a beer, mate".
The publican, enjoying the beginning of what was to become a lucrative bookmaking exercise, placed a pot of beer on the bar for the now completely flabbergasted George.
"Here you go, Notty, have one on the house".
George picked up the brimming glass as though it was a precious, and delicate present, and immediately the side of the glass, that had the froth overflowing and running down the side, turned to a purple handprint.
"What's wrong with the beer?" George became suspicious.
"Aw! Nothing, Notty, must be a bit of chemical that I put in the drip trays,I'll toss it out if you want,"  the publican was a quick thinker.
"Is that all. No need to waste it," George said and quaffed the liquid in a couple of gulps.
George put the glass back down on the bar, shifting it a couple of times in the direction of the publican in the forlorn hope that it would be filled again, but that didn't happen, and eventually, with everyone now ignoring him, he moved back to his pocket money collecting.
Most of the colour had been wiped off his hands, down the sides of his trousers, but there remained a residue that would not be moved until it grew out.  This little proof of the experiment met with the approval of the publican and the locals.
By the end of the week there would be hundreds of pounds bet on a distant date for George's guessed showering.
One rule that Tiny insisted on was that if George never showed signs of washing, or streaks of purple on his face that the bets would be called off.
A shut off date was announced, and no more bets would be taken after the following Sunday.
Because of the uncertainty of the bet the publican gave odds of two to one on the exact date with even money for two days either way in the event of the exact date not being picked, and as a place bet.
One astute punter asked what would happen if George got caught in rain.  This was covered; if rain came all bets would be called off if George showed streaks of purple.  This was a safe condition for two reasons.  George would not intentionally get wet, and at this time of the year there was little of chance of rain anyway.
Not one punter bet on a date inside of two weeks, and many chose the last day before the shut off date.  That is how much the locals recognised George's personal hygiene activities.
Monday and Tuesday seemed to drag on forever as far as George was concerned.  He waited anxiously for the Wednesday morning when he could become a 'Sherlock Holmes', a hero to the district of Targaroo, someone that all the townsfolk would look up to and praise for his part in the arrest of the stock thieves.
George had grand dreams of Martha falling at his feet when she realised how clever he had been.  He fell into a reverie of walking down the street with Martha on his arm, or of her lovingly hugging him to her huge breasts, and her being slave to his lascivious sexual fantasies.
The results of Wednesday's activities were all that George could focus on.  He was sure that he could solve the thefts, somehow.  He gave no thought to failure; he had too much riding on success.
Sleep was not available to George on the Tuesday night in spite of him having a good session of free drinks at the pub, drinks that seemed to be coming from men that usually never had anything to do with him.
There was a great interest in George, and some of the drinkers seemed to think that if they befriended him that lady luck would smile favourably in their direction with the shower bet.
There were others that would keep a close eye on George, and as the day that they had nominated neared, they would try and encourage George to have a shower.
Whatever the reason, George fared very well in the free drink department, but not enough to put him to sleep on the fateful eve of his 'investigations'.

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