Michael McGrath, Postmaster Part 3

But in a moment the old man opened his eyes and said faintly:

"Niver a bit av it, G.o.d save----"

His eyes closed again and he became unconscious. They gave him brandy and he began to revive. Then McFarquhar rose and looked round for the German. His hair was fairly bristling round his head; his breath came in short gasps and his little eyes were blood-shot with fury.

"You have smitten an old man and helpless," he panted, "and you ought to be destroyed from the face of the earth; but I will not smite you as I would a man, but as I would a wasp."

He swung his long arm like a flail and, with his open hand, smote the German on the side of the head. It was a terrific blow; under it the German fell to the earth with a thud. McFarquhar waited a few moments while the German rose, slowly spitting out broken teeth and blood.

"Will you now behave yourself," said McFarquhar, moving toward him.

"Yes, yes, it is enough," said his antagonist hurriedly and went into the saloon.

We carried Ould Michael to his cabin and laid him on his bed. He was suffering dreadfully from some inward wound, but he uttered not a word of complaint. After he had lain still for some time he looked at McFarquhar.

"What is it, lad?" asked McFarquhar.

"The flag," whispered poor Ould Michael.

"The flag? Do you want the flag?"

He shook his head slowly, still looking beseechingly at his friend. All at once it came to me.

"You want the flag hauled up, Michael?" I said.

He smiled and eagerly looked towards me.

"I'll run it up at once," I said.

He moved his hand. I came to him and bending over him caught the words "G.o.d save----"

"All right," I answered, "I shall give it all honor."

He smiled again, closed his eyes and a look of great peace came upon his face. His quarrel with his Queen and country was made up and all the bitterness was gone from his heart. After an examination as full as I could make, I came to the conclusion that there were three ribs broken and an injury, more or less serious, to the lungs; but how serious, I could not tell. McFarquhar established himself in Ould Michael's cabin and nursed him day and night. He was very anxious that the minister should see Ould Michael and, when the day came for Mr. Macleod's service in Grand Bend, I brought him to Ould Michael's cabin, giving him the whole story on the way. His highland loyalty was stirred.

"n.o.ble fellow," he said, warmly, "it is a pity he is a Romanist; a sore pity."

His visit to Ould Michael was not a success. Even McFarquhar had to confess that somehow his expounding of the way of salvation to Ould Michael and his prayers, fervent though they were, did not appeal to the old soldier; the matter confused and worried him. But however much he failed with Ould Michael there was no manner of doubt that he was succeeding with McFarquhar. Long and earnest were their talks and, after every "season," McFarquhar came forth more deeply impressed with the grand powers of the minister. He Had already established the "family altar" in his home and was making some slow progress in instructing his wife and children in "the doctrine of grace," but as Ould Michael began to grow stronger, McFarquhar's anxiety about _his state_ grew deeper.

Again and again he had the minister in to him, but Ould Michael remained unmoved; indeed, he could hardly see what the minister would be at.

One evening as we three were sitting in Ould Michael's main room, McFarquhar ventured to express his surprise at Ould Michael's continued "darkness" as he said:

"My friend," said the minister, solemnly, "it has been given me that you are the man to lead him into the light."

"G.o.d pity me!" exclaimed McFarquhar. "That I could lead any man!"

"And more," said the minister, in deepening tones, "it is borne in upon me that his blood will be upon you."

McFarquhar's look of horror and fear was pitiable and his voice rose in an agony of appeal.

"G.o.d be merciful to me! you will not be saying such a word as that."

"Fear not," replied the minister, "he will be given to you for a jewel in your crown."

McFarquhar was deeply impressed.

"How can this thing be?" he inquired in despair.

"You are his friend!" The minister's voice rose and fell in solemn rhythm. "You are strong; he is weak. You will need to put away from you all that causeth your brother to offend, and so you will lead him into the light."

The minister's face was that of a man seeing visions and McFarquhar, deeply moved, bowed his head and listened in silence. After a time he said, hesitatingly:

"And Ould Michael has his weakness and he will be drinking Paddy Dougan's bad whisky; but if he would only keep to the Company's good whisky----"

"Man," interrupted the minister, simply, "don't you know it is the good whisky that kills, for it is the good whisky that makes men love it."

McFarquhar gazed at him in amazement.

"The good whisky!"

"Ay," said the minister, firmly, "and indeed there is no good whisky for drinking."

McFarquhar rose and from a small cupboard brought back a bottle of the Hudson Bay Company's brand. "There," he said, pouring out a gla.s.s, "you will not be saying there is no good whisky."

The minister lifted the gla.s.s and smelled it.

"Try it," said McFarquhar in triumph.

The minister put it to his lips.

"Ay," he said, "I know it well! It is the best, but it is also the worst. For this men have lost their souls. There is no good whisky for _drinking_, I'm saying."

"And what for, then?" asked McFarquhar faintly.

"Oh, it has its place as a medicine or a lotion."

"A lotion," gasped McFarquhar.

"Yes, in case of sprains--a sprained ankle, for instance."

"A lotion!" gasped McFarquhar; "and would you be using the good whisky to wash your feet with?"

The minister smiled; but becoming immediately grave, he answered: "Mr.

McFarquhar, how long have you been in the habit of taking whisky?"

"Fifty years," said McFarquhar promptly.

"And how many times have you given the bottle to your friend?"