Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 7

The loss could only be very trifling. A man could make much more out of anything else. Poor Ould Michael bore it as long as he could and then, rising to his feet, cried out:
"Howly mither av Moses! an' have ye no hea-art inside av ye at all, at all? 'Tis not the money; the money is dirt!"
Here McFarquhar strongly dissented. Ould Michael heeded him not, but poured out his bitterness and grief. "For twinty years and more did I folly the flag in all lands and in all climates, wid wounds all over me body, an' medals an' good conduct sthripes an'--an' all that; an' now, wid niver a word av complaint or explanashun, to be turned aff like a dog an' worse."
Then the matter-of-fact McFarquhar, unable to understand these sentimental considerations, but secretly delighted that he had got Ould Michael to unbosom himself, began to draw him.
"Not twenty years, Michael."
"Twenty-foive years it is, an' more, I'm tellin' ye," replied Ould Michael, "an' niver wance did the inimy see the back av me coat or the dust av me heels; an' to think----"
"How long was it, then, you were with Sir Colin?" continued McFarquhar, cunningly.
"Wid Sir Colin? Shure an' didn't I stay wid him all the way from Calcutta to Lucknow an' back? An' didn't I give thim faithful sarvice here for twelve years--the first man that iver handled the mail in the valley? An' here I am, like--like--any common man."
These were the sore spots in his heart. He was shamed before the people of the valleys in whose presence he had stood forth as the representative of a grateful sovereign. His Queen and his country--his glory and pride for all these years--had forgotten him and his years of service and had cast him aside as worthless; and now he was degraded to the ranks of a mere private citizen! No wonder he had hauled down his flag and then, having no interest in life, nothing was left him but Paddy Dougan and the relief of his bad whisky.--Against Jacob Wragge, too, who had supplanted him, his rage burned. He would have his heart's blood yet.
McFarquhar, as he listened, began to realize how deep was the wound his old friend had suffered; but all he could say was, "You will come out with me Michael, and a few weeks out with the dogs will put you right," but Ould Michael was immovable and McFarquhar, bidding me care for him and promising to return next week, rode off much depressed. Before the week was over, however, he was back again with great news and in a state of exaltation.
"The minister is coming," he announced.
"Minister?"
"Ay, he has been with me. The Rev. John Macleod" (or as he made it, "Magleod") "from Inverness--and he is the grand man! He has the gift."
I remembered that he was a highlander and knew well what he meant.
"Yes, yes," he continued with his strongest accent, "he has been with me, and very faithfully has he dealt with me. Oh! he is the man of God, and I hev not heard the likes of him for forty years and more."
I listened with wonder, as McFarquhar described the visit of the Rev. John Macleod to his home. I could easily imagine the close dealing between the minister and McFarquhar, who would give him all reverence and submission, but when I imagined the highland minister dealing faithfully with the Indian wife and mother and her boys I failed utterly.
"He could not make much of her," meaning his wife, "and the lads," said McFarquhar sadly, "but there it was that he came very close to myself; and indeed--indeed--my sins have found me out."
"What did is say to you? What sins of yours did he discover?" I asked, for McFarquhar was the most respectable man in all the valley.
"Oh did he not ask me about my family altar and my duties to my wife and children?"
There was no manner of doubt but Mr. Macleod had done some searching in McFarquhar's heart and had brought him under "deep conviction," as he said himself. And McFarquhar had great faith that the minister would do the same for Ould Michael and was indignant when I expressed my doubts.
"Man aliou" (alive), he cried, "he will make his fery bones to quake."
"I don't know that that will help him much," I replied. But McFarquhar only looked at me and shook his head pityingly.
On Saturday, sure enough, McFarquhar arrived with the minister, and a service for the day following was duly announced. We took care that Ould Michael should be in fit condition to be profited by the Rev. John Macleod's discourse. The service was held in the blacksmith's shop, the largest building available. The minister was a big, dark man with a massive head and a