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We waited for about an hour, and then who should happen to ride along but Peter M'Laughlan, and one or two of the elder men asked him to hold service. He was on his way to see a sick friend at a sheep station over the ridges, but he said that he could spare an hour or two.
I was young yet, but felt old at times, and there were times, in the hot, rough, greasy shearing-shed on blazing days, or in the bare "men's hut" by the flicker of the stinking slush-lamp at night, or the wretched wayside shanty with its drink-madness and blasphemy, or tramping along the dusty, endless track there were times when I wished I could fall back with all the experience I'd got, and sit once more in the little slab-and-bark "chapel" on Ross's Creek and hear Peter M'Laughlan and the poor, struggling selectors sing "Shall We Gather at the River?" and then go out and start life afresh.
But, Joe, if he comes back wrong it will kill me; it will break my heart. I want you to promise that if anything happens you will ride or wire for Peter M'Laughlan. I hear he's wool-sorting this year at Beenaway Station. Promise me that if anything happens you will ride for Peter M'Laughlan and tell him, no matter what Jack says." "I promise," I said.
I'll go for Peter as soon as I can stand!" and repeating Clara Barnes's words, "Ride for Peter if anything happens. Ride for Peter M'Laughlan."
I thought as he sat there that his eyes were like a woman's for sympathy and like a dog's for faithfulness. I was very shaky. Presently Thomas looked in. "Is there anything I can do for you, M'Laughlan?" he asked in as civil a tone as he could get to. "Yes," said Peter, "bring me a flask of your best whisky your own, mind and a glass.
"What's the trouble, M'Laughlan?" asked Gentleman Once, turning to Peter. "No trouble at all, Gentleman Once," said Peter; "thank you all the same. I've managed worse men than our friend Thomas. Now, Thomas, don't you think it would pay you best to hand over the key of the harness-room and have done with this nonsense?
Towards the end of his life if he went into a "rough" shed or shanty west of the Darling River and some of them were rough there would be a rest in the language and drinking, even a fight would be interrupted, and there would be more than one who would lift their hats to Peter M'Laughlan.
He snatched a thick glass bottle from the counter and held it by the neck in his right hand. "Stand back, Thomas!" he shouted. "Lay a hand lay a finger on Peter M'Laughlan, and I'll smash your head, as sure as there's a God above us and I'm a ruined man!" Peter took "Awful" gently by the shoulders and sat him down. "You keep quiet, old man," he said; "nothing is going to happen."
And when I thought how I had nearly made a fool of myself, and been a cowardly brute, and a rotten mate to my mate, I rode ten miles to find Jack and get him home. He straightened up again after a bit and went out and got another shed, and they say that Peter M'Laughlan got hold of him there.
And, on top of it all, the dreadful cattle plague, pleuro-pneumonia, had somehow been introduced into the district. One big farmer had lost fifty milkers in a week. Peter M'Laughlan didn't preach much of hope in this world; how could he?
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