The Last Days of Dogtown

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The L A S T D AY S of D O G TOW N

drink so much as a glass of hard cider. But he was feeling sorry for himself and he knew that taking a drink or two was exactly the thing that men did when they needed cheering up. Then he remembered that Peg put out free crackers for her customers, which was reason enough.

The tavern was a long room with a low ceiling, filled with empty chairs and tables. At midafternoon, there were only two other patrons, who glanced up as he entered. One was an ancient fellow with a marked tremor in his hands and dark clothes that gave no clue to his occupation or status.

The other was a sailor whose odd scarf identified him as a foreigner; his leg was propped on a chair beside him, splinted and bandaged from ankle to knee.

After four hard crackers and half a tankard of strong beer, Oliver’s mood had lifted. His talk with the foreman down at the wharf seemed a good omen: with a steady job in town he could marry Polly. They would move out of Dogtown and live in town, like other people of their age.

With a drink in his hand, he surveyed the room and felt like a grown man who belonged there. Oliver drained the mug with three gulps and got to his feet—with barely a wobble—fortified to face the empty house and the cold bed.

Just then, the injured sailor called, “Young men.”

Oliver looked toward the door for the incoming crowd.

“You,” he pointed to Oliver. “I vould speak vit’ you.”

He was one of the largest men Oliver had ever seen, tall and broad, with a dark red beard and a gingery fringe of hair around a shining bald dome.

“I am Ladimir,” he announced. “I am only Russian you meet, yes?” he said, with a great rolling of his R’s.

“I am Oliver Younger.” He reached out to shake hands.

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“You are sailor, Oliwer. Yes?”

“No,” he said. “I am . . .” What was he? He herded cows for Tammy and hired out at planting and harvest time. “I’m a farmer, I suppose.”

“My father, too. He gots hundred hectare with barley and wheat. Many geese. You got so much land, also, Oliwer?”

“No,” said Oliver. He had nothing. No property, no livestock, no tools. Calling himself a farmer was a lie; he was still nothing but a Dogtown pussy. A joke among men.

A failure before he started.

“No land?” Ladimir boomed. “Too bad for you. But I still buy you fleep, yes?” and called for Peg to bring them the drink.

Oliver had never tasted flip, which smelled of rum, lemon, and spice. “Bottom up,” said Ladimir, clinking his glass against Oliver’s, who swallowed the sweet stuff like it was lemonade. When the arrack and brandy hit Oliver’s throat, he was seized by a coughing fit that lifted him out of his seat.

“Farmer Oliwer don’t know how to dreenk the fleep!”

said Ladimir, delighted. He ordered another round and launched into the long story of his travels.

Halfway through his second glass of flip, Oliver began to chuckle. “You were on a ‘woyage’?”

“In big wessel,” said Ladimir.

Oliver covered his mouth.

“There was wery big willage,” said the Russian.