Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [30]
Then again they leaped to their places with overheaped plates, their spoons scooping in a whipped blur as they slopped, slurped and swallowed and jumped up neck and neck to go back for more. This time the Dog Boy stacked up their plates with a mountainous heap, never believing they could finish it and getting a vicious thrill out of the Heat he imagined they were bringing down upon themselves from the Free Man.
But they polished off that serving in less than sixty seconds and returned once again. And then we knew. For the first time in over three years, Curly’s title was being seriously challenged.
The whole drama was acted out in silent pantomime. We couldn’t cheer, shout or make bets. But we expressed our glee and our befuddlement with our eyes, our nods, fingers and smiles.
Reluctantly we finished up our own pitifully small portions. One by one we got up and stepped outside to wash off our spoons under the faucet, to take off our shoes and empty our pockets to allow the Floorwalker to shake us down. Inside the Messhall, a few brave ones were still dawdling, risking the wrath of the Free M‘an in order to witness at first hand this incredible contest.
Four plates and then five. The Dog Boy’s remarks became louder and more cutting. Being a trustee he had the right to speak aloud in the Messhall. And being a Judas whose job was to train the bloodhounds and to chase escaping convicts, and being a natural son of a bitch besides, he tried his very best to put the Heat on the gulping, swelling duet.
Damn. Ain’t never seen such gluttons. Keep on and the State’s liable to go broke feedin‘ ’em. Here boy! Soooooeeeee! You want some more slops? Soooeeeee!
But the Free Man simply observed the proceedings from his chair in the corner, clutching his ulcered stomach with his fingers. Then he growled out impatiently.
Them two are the best Rollers in Camp. Boss Godfrey says Luke’s able to do more work than any man in the Bull Gang. A man sure as hell cain’t work if he don’t eat right. Ah only wish ah could eat like that. Ah’d give anything.
And that shut up the Dog Boy who had come dangerously close to putting the Finger on himself.
After six plates of stewed potatoes each, the pot was empty. With a sigh of regret, Curly started to rise. But then Jabo the Cook came out with two aluminum bowls of stewed prunes that were left over from the guards’ table at breakfast. He offered them to Curly and Luke and then sat down on the bench opposite them, holding his chin in his hand and watching. Babalugats was the last Gunman left in the Messhall. But then he could tarry no longer and came out to break the news to the rest of us who were clinging to the bars and wire of the windows, waiting for some word.
They both spit out the last pit at the same time to set the metal bowls ringing in an affirmative major chord. Sardonically the Cook offered to get them still another bowl but Curly was too cunning. He realized that if they ran the thing into the ground there was a serious risk of getting into trouble. They had had their fun. But they didn’t want to become Wise Guys.
They left the Messhall, waddling with short, stifflegged steps, their bellies swollen painfully. Then Curly stopped and twisted his big torso on his hips, letting go with a truly magnificent fart. Luke grinned, raised his right leg and answered the call, trumpeting far over the distant groves dim with the shadows of dusk.
It was a draw.
But to have eaten Curly to a draw was such an outstanding accomplishment that Luke’s fame was immediately established. Shortly afterwards, Curly was made a trustee. No longer working under the gun, his appetite fell off considerably and although he had retired undefeated, Luke became the new Intestinal Champion.
And then one night while playing poker he managed to bluff his way into stealing a pot of a dollar and sixty-five