The Story of Danny Dunn by Bryce Courtenay

serf. Danny didn’t observe these unspoken distinctions and treated everyone the same, but nevertheless they seldom mixed much beyond the confines of the pool.
    â€˜Make it a seven, mate, same for me dad. We got a fair few pubs to go yet and we been at it all afternoon.’ He laughed. ‘The old bloke can’t believe his luck; we haven’t paid for a single beer yet.’
    â€˜Fair enough, it’s your big day,’ Danny grinned, pouring two seven-ounce beers and placing them on the counter. Billy turned to where his old man was talking to the group of older blokes. ‘Dad!’ he yelled. ‘Beer, mate.’
    Billy’s dad occasionally came into the Hero but usually did his drinking at the Dry Dock Hotel down at the wharves. He walked over and picked up the seven of beer and turned to go back to his mates.
    â€˜Hey, mate, it’s on the house,’ Billy called. ‘Say thanks, will ya?’
    Sky Scraper propped, then turned slowly to face Danny, lifting his hand slightly to indicate the beer he held, then pointing at it with his free hand. ‘I’ll return the favour when I see yiz in uniform, son,’ he replied, then turned his back and went over to rejoin the group.
    Danny flushed deeply but managed somehow to keep his composure.
    â€˜Take no notice – he’s shickered. We’ve been on the piss all morning,’ Billy Scraper said. ‘Mostly I’ve been drinkin’ shandies but the silly bugger prides himself he can hold his grog.’
    â€˜Yeah, fair enough,’ Danny replied, attempting a smile, but he was gutted, his heart thumping. ‘So where to next, mate?’ he forced himself to ask.
    â€˜Canada. Training to be air crew.’
    â€˜Hey, good one! Bloody cold in the winter, though.’
    â€˜Yeah, mate, have to find meself a local bird,’ Billy grinned. ‘They say them Canadian sheilas know their way around the cot. Must be all that cold weather!’
    â€˜Could be. We had one lecture us in my first year at uni. She was supposed to be half Red Indian, come here on some sort of teaching exchange with Canada.’
    â€˜Yeah? Good sort?’
    â€˜Not bad.’
    â€˜You bang her?’ Billy asked bluntly.
    Danny laughed. ‘Christ, no! You know the rules, mate. Never piss on your own doorstep.’
    â€˜Shit. Never shit on yer own doorstep,’ Billy corrected.
    Danny attempted to hide his surprise. These things were subtle, but he wouldn’t normally have expected Billy Scraper to have the courage to correct him like that. He was obviously using the newfound authority he imagined his RAAF uniform granted him. In his mind he probably thought the tables had been turned; new rules – war was greater than sport. ‘Yeah, right,’ Danny said.
    â€˜How long you got to go?’ Billy asked.
    â€˜What, uni?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Few months.’
    â€˜Jesus! In a few months I’ll be on night bombing raids over Germany! Jerry searchlights tryin’ ta locate us. Them little puffs a’ smoke hanging in the air from ack-ack shells exploding every fuckin’ which way in the sky. Us in our Wellington shittin’ ourselves!’ Billy said excitedly.
    Normally Danny would have grinned, allowing his mate to bullshit, amused by the well-rehearsed fantasy. Plainly Billy Scraper had seen too many war movies and was revelling in his new blue uniform. But Danny wasn’t his normal self. Sky Scraper’s insult had kicked him in the emotional crutch and, anyway, he felt guilty and was already hurting.
    Billy had almost finished the seven. ‘One for the road?’ Danny offered.
    â€˜Shit no! Gotta go, mate.’ He drained his glass and slapped it down on the counter, smacking his lips ostentatiously. He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and stretched over to shake Danny’s hand. Head slightly to one side he gave Danny a sardonic grin. At