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Updated: June 16, 2025
But, later on, over tea at the homestead, he said that he felt sure that that "unfortunate man," Peter M'Laughlan, was not in his right mind; that his wandering, irregular life, or the heat, must have affected him. I well remember the day when I first heard Peter M'Laughlan preach. I was about seventeen then.
I was fearfully shaky, and swimming about the head, but I put my head over a tub under the pump and got the girl to pump for a while, and then I drank a pint of tea and managed to keep it down, and felt better. All through the last half of the night I'd kept saying, in a sort of drink nightmare, "I'll go for Peter M'Laughlan in the morning.
He had wavy dark hair, and a close, curly beard. I once heard a woman say that he had a beard like you see in some Bible pictures of Christ. Peter M'Laughlan seldom smiled; there was something in his big dark brown eyes that was scarcely misery, nor yet sadness a sort of haunted sympathy.
Swags were rolled up, saddle-bags packed, horses had been rounded up and driven in, the shearers' cook and his mate had had their fight, and about a hundred men shearers, rouseabouts, and wool-washers were waiting round the little iron office to get their cheques. We were about half through when one bushman said to another: "Stop your damned swearin', Jim. Here's Peter M'Laughlan!"
"I think it's got something to do with me," said Gentleman Once. "Now, look here, Thomas; you can do pretty well what you like with us poor devils, and you know it, but we draw the line at Peter M'Laughlan. If you really itch for the thrashing, you deserve you must tempt someone else to give it to you." "What the are you talking about?" snorted Thomas. "You're drunk or ratty!"
He knew that Jack had a girl-wife who was many times too good for him; that Jack had been wild, and had nearly broken her heart, and he had guessed at once that Jack had broken out again, and that Peter M'Laughlan was shepherding him home.
Peter M'Laughlan was out on the run helping the station-hands to pull out cattle that had got bogged in the muddy waterholes and were too weak to drag themselves out, when, about dusk, a gentlemanly "piano-fingered" parson, who had come to the station from the next town, drove out in his buggy to see the men. He spoke to Peter M'Laughlan.
Peter M'Laughlan, bush missionary, Joe Wilson and his mate, Jack Barnes, shearers for the present, and a casual swagman named Jack Mitchell, were camped at Cox's Crossing in a bend of Eurunderee Creek. It was a grassy little flat with gum-trees standing clear and clean like a park.
I knew he'd keep promising and humbugging me till there was a row, so at last I got him aside and said: "Look here, Jack, I'm going for Peter M'Laughlan " "Go to hell!" said Jack. I put the other horses back in the yard, the saddles in the skillion, got on my horse and rode off. Thomas and the others asked me no questions, they took no notice.
Ross straightened up and let his hands fall loosely on his knees. "Some from Europe your foreign fathers some from across the Rhine in Germany." We looked at old Kurtz. He seemed affected. Then Peter paused for a moment and blinked thoughtfully at Ross, then he took a drink of water. I can see now that the whole thing was a battle between Peter M'Laughlan and Robert Ross Scot met Scot.
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