Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 5

the face of Ould Michael, with the look that it bore after reading his home-letter, and I thought how different would his Sabbath day have been had his sister and his little one been near to stand between him and the dreariness and loneliness of his life.
True to his promise, McFarquhar carried off Ould Michael to his ranch up Grizzly Creek. Before the sun was high McFarquhar had his own and Michael's pony ready at the door and, however unwilling Ould Michael might be, there was nothing for it but march. As they rode off Ould Michael took off his hat under the flag and called out:
"God save Her Majesty!"
"God bless her!" I echoed heartily.
At once the old soldier clambered down and, tearing open his coat, pulled out a flask.
"Mr. McFarquhar," he said, solemnly, "it would be unbecoming in us to separate from our friend without duly honoring Her Gracious Majesty's name." Then, raising high the flask, he called out with great ceremony, and dropping his brogue entirely: "Gentlemen, I give you the Queen, God bless her!" He raised the flask to his lips and took a long pull and passed it to me. After we had duly honored the toast, Ould Michael once more struck an impressive attitude and called out: "Gentlemen, Her Majesty's loyal forces----" when McFarquhar reached for him and, taking the flask out of his hand, said, gravely:
"It is a very good toast, but we will postpone the rest till a more suitable occasion."
Ould Michael, however, was resolute.
"It would ill become a British soldier to permit this toast to go unhonored."
"Will you come after this one is drunk?" asked McFarquhar.
"I will that."
"Very well," said McFarquhar, "I drink to the very good health of Her Majesty's army," and, taking a short pull, he put the flask into his pocket.
Ould Michael gazed at him in amazed surprise and, after the full meaning of the joke had dawned upon him, burst out into laughter.
"Bedad, McFarquhar, it's the first joke ye iver made, but the less fraquent they are the better I loike them." So saying, he mounted his pony and, once more saluting me and then the flag, made off with his friend. Every now and then, however, I could see him sway in his saddle under the gusts of laughter at the excellence of McFarquhar's joke.
That was the last I saw of Ould Michael for more than six months, but often through that winter, as I worked my way to the Coast, I wondered what the monthly mails were doing for the old man and whether to him and to his friends of those secluded valleys any better relief from the monotony of life had come than that offered by Paddy Dougan's back room.
In early May I found myself once more with my canvas and photographic apparatus approaching Grand Bend, but this time from the West. As I reached the curve in the river where the trail leads to the first view of the town I eagerly searched for Ould Michael's flag. There stood the mast, sure enough, but there was no flag in sight. What had happened to Ould Michael? While he lived his flag would fly. Had he left Grand Bend, or had Paddy Dougan's stuff been too much for him? I was rather surprised to find in my heart a keen anxiety for the old soldier. As I hurried on I saw that Grand Bend had heard the sound of approaching civilization and was waking up. Two or three saloons, a blacksmith's shop, some tents and a new general store proclaimed a boom. As I approached the store I saw a sign in big letters across the front, "Jacob Wragge, General Store," and immediately over the door, in smaller letters, "Postoffice." More puzzled than ever I flung my reins over the hitching-post and went in. A number of men stood leaning against the counter and piled-up boxes, none of whom I knew.
"Is Ould Michael in?" I asked, forgetting for the moment his proper name.
"In where?" asked the man behind the counter.
"The postoffice," I replied. "Doesn't he keep the postoffice?"
"Not much," he answered, with an insolent laugh; "it's not much he could keep, unless it's whisky."
"Perhaps you can tell me where he is?" I asked, keeping my temper down, for I longed to reach for his throat.
"You'll find him boozing in one of the saloons, like enough, the old sot."
I walked out without further word, for the longing for his throat grew almost more than I could bear, and went across to Paddy Dougan's. Paddy expressed great delight at seeing me again and, on my asking for Ould Michael, became the picture of woe.
Four months ago the postoffice had been taken from Ould Michael and set up in Jacob Wragge's store, and with the old soldier