Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 6

things had gone badly ever since.
"The truth is, an' I'll not desave you," said Paddy, adopting a confidential undertone, "he's drinkin' too much and he is."
"And where is he? And where's his flag?"
"His flag is it?" Paddy shook his head as if to say, "Now you have touched the sore spot. Shure, an' didn't he haul down the flag the day they took the affice frum him."
"And has he never put it up again?"
"Niver a bit av it, Man dear," and Paddy walked out with me in great excitement.
"Do you know he niver heard a word till the stage druv be his dure with the mail-bag an' the tap av it an' left the ould man standin' there alone. Man, do you know, you wud ha' cried, so you wud, at the look av him; and then he walked over to the flag and hauled it down an' flung it inside the affice, an' there it's yit; an' niver a joke out av him since."
"And what is McFarquhar doing all the time?"
"Shure he's off on his spring hunt this three months; an' he thried to get Ould Michael to go along wid him, but niver a bit wud he; but I heard he'll be in to-day and, bedad, there he is!"
Sure enough there was McFarquhar, riding toward us. He gave me a warm welcome back and then fell into talking of Ould Michael. He had only seen him once after the loss of his position, but he feared things were going badly with him. I told him all that Paddy had given me as we searched the saloons. Ould Michael was not to be seen.
"He will be at home very likely," said McFarquhar. "We will jist put a stop to this kind of work."
McFarquhar was torn between grief over his friend's trouble and indignation at his weakness and folly. We rode up to Ould Michael's cabin. The "office" door was locked and the windows boarded up. In the garden all was a wild tangle of flowers and weeds. Nature was bravely doing her best, but she missed the friendly hand that in the past had directed her energies. The climbing rose covered with opening buds was here and there torn from the bare logs.
"Man, man!" cried McFarquhar, "this is a terrible change whatever."
We knocked at the side door and waited, but there was no answer. I pushed the door open and there, in the midst of disorder and dirt, sat Ould Michael. I could hardly believe it possible that in so short a time so great a change could come to a man. His hair hung in long grey locks about his ears, his face was unshaven, his dress dirty and slovenly and his whole appearance and attitude suggested ruin and despair. But the outward wreck was evidently only an index to the wreck of soul, that had gone on. Out of the dark-blue eyes there shone no inner light. The bright, brave, cheery old soldier was gone, and in his place the figure of disorder and despair. He looked up at our entering, then turned from us, shrinking, and put his hands to his face, swaying to and fro and groaning deeply.
McFarquhar had come prepared to adopt strong measures, but the sight of Ould Michael, besotted and broken, was more than he could stand.
"Michael, man!" he cried, amazement and grief in his voice. "Aw, Michael, man! What's this? What's this?"
He went to him and laid his big bony hand on Ould Michael's shoulder. At his words and touch the old man broke into sobbing, terrible to see.
"Whisht, man," said McFarquhar, as he might to a child, "whist, whist, lad! It will be well with you yet."
But Ould Michael could not be comforted, but sobbed on and on. A man's weeping has something terrible in it, but an old man's tears are hardest of all to bear. McFarquhar stood helpless for some moments; then, taking Ould Michael by the arm, he said:
"Come out of this, anyway! Come out!"
But it was long before Ould Michael would talk. He sat in silence while his friend discoursed to him about the folly of allowing Paddy to deceive him with bad whisky. Surely any man could tell the bad from the good.
"It is deplorable stuff altogether, and it will not be good for Paddy when I see him."
"Och!" burst out Ould Michael at last, "it is not the whisky at all, at all."
"Ay, that is a great part of it, whatever."
"Och! me hea-art is broke, me hea-art is broke," groaned Ould Michael.
"Hoots, man! is it for the p'stoffice? That was not much worth to any man."
But Ould Michael only shook his head. It was hopeless to try to make such a man appreciate his feelings. McFarquhar rambled on, making light of the whole affair.