Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [29]
Yeah.
All right.
Collect it there, Drag.
Gleefully Dragline collected the coins that Koko and Jackson put in his hand. And then it was all over. Down the road we could see the cage truck coming and we all dummied up and went back to work.
At noon time, Dragline, Koko and Jackson ate their beans under the shade of a live oak tree. And from then on they always worked together. For the Newcock had been fully accepted by the Bull Gang. Except that his name had been changed to Luke.
But as time went on Luke gained a reputation of being not only one of the best poker players in Camp but also one of the biggest eaters. He could put away an incredible pile of beans and corn bread. And when Rabbit took up a Store Order Luke would buy all sorts of Free World groceries with his poker winnings—apples, bananas and cookies, raw carrots and sardines. Every day he bought a quart of milk. He’d spread his jacket out on the ground, lay down on his back, open the container and drink the whole quart at once, gulping it down in one long, bubbling draught.
He was a natural. But in addition to his native aptitude he was given valuable lessons in technique from Curly. Recognizing Luke as a talented challenger to his position as the camp’s biggest eater, Curly taught him all sorts of esoteric tricks of the trade. It was Curly who gave him the extra-large tablespoon that he carried, digging it out of his locker where he had it stashed away as a spare, giving it to Luke with a big grin.
Here, Luke. Use this. That little toy you got there ain’t big enough to keep a man alive.
Curly could eat. But he could work too. This is what kept him out of the Box in the old days when he would eat so much supper that the count was held up when the men checked into the Building for the night. Carr and the Wicker Man stood outside on the porch. The guards sat on the gun platforms. The captain was rocking and spitting in front of his Office. The cooks and trustees stood by in the kitchen. The Walking Boss sat in the Messhall, standing guard over Curly who sat there all alone—eating.
That was how he won the unique distinction of having the legal right to get in at the head of the chow line, this privilege granted by personal orders of the Captain himself.
It was inevitable that the day should come. It was hot and the Bull Gang had spent all day in a drainage ditch in water up to their waists, cutting out the dense undergrowth of briars and willows and palmettos with bush axes. Luke had worked like a fiend, slashing away at twice the speed of anyone else, lopping off the fronds and branches with forehand and backhand strokes of ferocity. But because of the temperature and because we weren’t very far from Camp, the Bull Gang was the first squad to check in from the road.
Luke was the first man to reach the Messhall door, limping and staggering, his pants and shoes soaking wet with mud and slime. Everyone waited for the other squads to come in. Finally the Patch Squad arrived and then Curly came up, stepping right in front of Luke with a grin.
Everybody made jokes and wisecracks. The two double-gut giants stood by the screen door, grinding their teeth and stomping their feet, their spoons held in their hands at the ready, glittering in the sunset.
Boss Higgins was the Walking Boss in charge of the Messhall that night. He went inside. Taking his position by the kitchen door, he gave the signal.
Curly and Luke each grabbed a plate and leaped to the line of pots where one trustee was serving the scrap of fat back and another the catheads. On this particular night the Dog Boy ladled up the main dish, a concoction of stewed potatoes. It was a soft, overcooked mess but not really bad at all. But for the big eaters it was a pure blessing. Ordinarily they always chewed a mouthful of food just twice and then swallowed. But on this night they didn’t have to chew at all.
Before the sixth man had filed inside Curly and Luke were