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“Macquarie wasn’t a coward,” remonstrated the drunkard, softly, but in an injured tone.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” yelled the publican. “What yer growling at? D’ye want a row? Get out if yer can’t be agreeable!”

The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows, and looked vacantly out of the door.

“I’ve got–another point for the defence,” he muttered. “It’s always best–it’s always best to keep the last point to–the last.”

“Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! Out with it!”

“Macquarie’s dead! That–that’s what it is!”

Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to the bar, crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip at the sole and heel of his elastic-side–the barman rinsed the glasses vigorously–Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and some of the others gathered round him and got interested–Barcoo thought he heard his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed by Box-o’-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one of their horses.

Someone–a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square features and haggard grey eyes–had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to the back of the shanty and dismounted by the window.

When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evident that Sally Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to the general rescue as follows:

“There’s a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this world– a lot of damned old-woman nonsense. There’s more sympathy wasted over dead and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest- livin’ chaps. I don’t b’lieve in this gory sentiment about the dead at the expense of the living. I b’lieve in justice for the livin’–and the dead too, for that matter–but justice for the livin’. Macquarie was a bad egg, and it don’t alter the case if he was dead a thousand times.”

There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebody said: “Yer tight, Sally!”

“Good for you, Sally, old man!” cried Box-o’-Tricks, taking it up. “An’, besides, I don’t b’lieve Macquarie is dead at all. He’s always dyin’, or being reported dead, and then turnin’ up again. Where did you hear about it, Awful?”

The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of his hand.

“There’s–there’s a lot in what you say, Sally Thompson,” he admitted slowly, totally ignoring Box-o’-Tricks. “But–but—‘

“Oh, we’ve had enough of the old fool,” yelled Barcoo. “Macquarie was a spieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain’t much better.”

“Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole hass!” said the man behind the bar, pushing a bottle and glass towards the drunkard. “D’ye want a row?”

The old man took the bottle and glass in his shaking bands and painfully poured out a drink.

“There’s a lot in what Sally Thompson says,” he went on, obstinately, “but–but,” he added in a strained tone, “there’s another point that I near forgot, and none of you seemed to think of it–not even Sally Thompson nor–nor Box-o’-Tricks there.”

Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently.

“Yes,” drivelled the drunkard, “I’ve got another point for–for the defence–of my mate, Macquarie–“

“Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for God’s sake, or you’ll bust!” roared Stiffner. “What the blazes is it?”

“HIS MATE’S ALIVE!” yelled the old man. “Macquarie’s mate’s alive! That’s what it is!”

He reeled back from the bar, dashed his glass and hat to the boards, gave his pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off his feet, and tore at his shirt-sleeves.

“Make a ring, boys,” he shouted. “His mate’s alive! Put up your hands, Barcoo! By God, his mate’s alive!”

Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing by the back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in.

“Keep the old fool off, or he’ll get hurt,” snarled Barcoo.

Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words of remonstrance, then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequent upon an attempt to chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner and Box-o’-Tricks were down, two others were holding Barcoo back, and someone had pinned Awful Example by the shoulders from behind.