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Updated: May 13, 2025
He followed it over a level tract of country miles in extent, and found it at last in a ditch, nose down, tail in air, like a duck hunting bugs in the mud. This story loses nine tenths of its interest for want of Mac's pungent method of telling it. One of the bona-fide godchildren of Chance was Millard.
It was an every-day affair for Beauregard, Van Dorn, and Price to be matched against Lee, Johnston, and Polk. I remember losing a small wager on Magruder against Breckinridge. I should have won if Breck had not torn the feathers from Mac's neck, and injured his right wing by a foul blow. I never backed Magruder after that.
Most of the wounded suffered from dysentery in a more or less acute form, and frequently seriously wounded men had to struggle out of bed to attend to the wants of those incapable of moving. Some exceptions there were, but the casual neglect in Mac's ward made him fume with anger. But the sister and the padre were splendid people.
We passed some trying hours together. Then George left to take Mac's baggage off to the steamer. He engaged two stalwart porters; they stand on every corner busily engaged in plaiting straw for hats while waiting for a job.
"So I've noticed," he shouted as, improving on Mac's ogle, he singled him out from the company, then dropping his voice to an insinuating drawl he challenged him to have a deal. Instantly the Sanguine Scot became a Canny Scot, for Mac prided himself on a horse-deal. And as no one had yet got the better of the Fizzer the company gathered round to enjoy itself.
It made us, in the true sense of the word, cosmopolitan, made us broad in culture and stimulated that deep human sympathy and understanding which lay at the root of that impatience with which we awaited the story of our neighbour. I was typing a letter about three o'clock when I heard Mac's quick step on the stairs and the opening of the door.
I was trying to enter into Mac's festive humor, but I had not reacted yet from the horrors of the past few months. "Happiness!" I said scornfully. "Do you call this happiness?" He put up the blacking, and, coming to me, stood eyeing me in the mirror as I arranged my necktie. "Don't be bitter," he said. "Happiness was my word. The Good Man was good to you when he made you.
Mac's twelve-year-old son, taking the cue from his father, proceeded to deliver a vicious kick at a slowly-moving, blanketed form, and the very next instant was screaming for help, flat on his back among a swarm of Indian boys. All in a second the little savage had flashed out of his blanket like lightning from a black cloud, and, grappling, had hurled McPhail junior to earth.
There's Mac's an' O's in ivry capital iv Europe atin' off silver plates whin their relations is staggerin' under th' creels iv turf in th' Connaught bogs. "Wirra, 'tis hard. Ye'd sa-ay off hand, 'Why don't they do as much for their own counthry? Light-spoken are thim that suggests th' like iv that. 'Tis asier said than done.
Then, with the air of a showman introducing some rare exhibit, added: "This is the missus, Jack." Jack touched his hat and moved uneasily in his saddle, answering Mac's questions in monosyllables. Then the Maluka came up, and Mac, taking pity on the embarrassed bushman, suggested "getting along," and we left him sitting rigidly on his horse, trying to collect his scattered senses.
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