Macquarie’s Mate
by
The chaps in the bar of Stiffner’s shanty were talking about Macquarie, an absent shearer–who seemed, from their conversation, to be better known than liked by them.
“I ain’t seen Macquarie for ever so long,” remarked Box-o’-Tricks, after a pause. “Wonder where he could ‘a’ got to?”
“Jail, p’r’aps–or hell,” growled Barcoo. “He ain’t much loss, any road.”
“My oath, yer right, Barcoo!” interposed “Sally” Thompson. “But, now I come to think of it, Old Awful Example there was a mate of his one time. Bless’d if the old soaker ain’t comin’ to life again!”
A shaky, rag-and-dirt-covered framework of a big man rose uncertainly from a corner of the room, and, staggering forward, brushed the staring thatch back from his forehead with one hand, reached blindly for the edge of the bar with the other, and drooped heavily.
“Well, Awful Example,” demanded the shanty-keeper. “What’s up with you now?”
The drunkard lifted his head and glared wildly round with bloodshot eyes.
“Don’t you–don’t you talk about him! Drop it, I say! DROP it!”
“What the devil’s the matter with you now, anyway?” growled the barman. “Got ’em again? Hey?”
“Don’t you–don’t you talk about Macquarie! He’s a mate of mine! Here! Gimme a drink!”
“Well, what if he is a mate of yours?” sneered Barcoo. “It don’t reflec’ much credit on you–nor him neither.”
The logic contained in the last three words was unanswerable, and Awful Example was still fairly reasonable, even when rum oozed out of him at every pore. He gripped the edge of the bar with both hands, let his ruined head fall forward until it was on a level with his temporarily rigid arms, and stared blindly at the dirty floor; then he straightened himself up, still keeping his hold on the bar.
“Some of you chaps,” he said huskily; “one of you chaps, in this bar to-day, called Macquarie a scoundrel, and a loafer, and a blackguard, and–and a sneak and a liar.”
“Well, what if we did?” said Barcoo, defiantly. “He’s all that, and a cheat into the bargain. And now, what are you going to do about it?”
The old man swung sideways to the bar, rested his elbow on it, and his head on his hand.
“Macquarie wasn’t a sneak and he wasn’t a liar,” he said, in a quiet, tired tone; “and Macquarie wasn’t a cheat!”
“Well, old man, you needn’t get your rag out about it,” said Sally Thompson, soothingly. “P’r’aps we was a bit too hard on him; and it isn’t altogether right, chaps, considerin’ he’s not here. But, then, you know, Awful, he might have acted straight to you that was his mate. The meanest blank–if he is a man at all–will do that.”
“Oh, to blazes with the old sot!” shouted Barcoo. “I gave my opinion about Macquarie, and, what’s more, I’ll stand to it.”
“I’ve got–I’ve got a point for the defence,” the old man went on, without heeding the interruptions. “I’ve got a point or two for the defence.”
“Well, let’s have it,” said Stiffner.
“In the first place–in the first place, Macquarie never talked about no man behind his back.”
There was an uneasy movement, and a painful silence. Barcoo reached for his drink and drank slowly; he needed time to think–Box-o’-Tricks studied his boots–Sally Thompson looked out at the weather–the shanty-keeper wiped the top of the bar very hard–and the rest shifted round and “s’posed they’d try a game er cards.”
Barcoo set his glass down very softly, pocketed his hands deeply and defiantly, and said:
“Well, what of that? Macquarie was as strong as a bull, and the greatest bully on the river into the bargain. He could call a man a liar to his face–and smash his face afterwards. And he did it often, too, and with smaller men than himself.”
There was a breath of relief in the bar.
“Do you want to make out that I’m talking about a man behind his back?” continued Barcoo, threateningly, to Awful Example. “You’d best take care, old man.”