Fast Fiction: Old-Timers
Old-timers can take decisive measures, as Richard Mallinson's story indicates.
The old-timers were over by the forest, keeping out of the gales.
Grott went to them and fired his pistol in the air. 'If there's any more slacking,' he yelled, 'I'll shoot the lot of you.'
Old Rab must have said something because Grott grabbed him by the throat. The others watched.
Old Rab's face went dark red. The others rushed Grott, forced him to the ground and kicked him.
'Where's his pistol?' somebody asked.
'I've got it,' said old Rab, firing twice into Grott's head.
Instead of going back to town by road they tried a short cut through the forest. It was dark inside. There were chasms and lethal swamps.
Of those who went in, only three emerged. They could hear cries for help. 'We can't do anything for them now,' said old Rab.
Soon they were in the Golden Cock, drinking whisky. Grott's wife came in.
'Where is he?' she cried.
'Don't ask me,' said old Rab. 'Have a drink.'
Friends and relations came in. 'The others are in the forest,' said old Rab. 'Don't worry ... all drinks on me.'
Later Mrs Grott agreed to sit on old Rab's knee. 'My husband has one of those,' she said, feeling the bulge in his pocket.
