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Updated: May 10, 2025
Then he took up the bottle and, holding it up to the light, he said with great deliberation: "There will be no more of you whatever!" From that time forth McFarquhar labored with Ould Michael with a patience and a tact that amazed me.
"It is bad whisky," McFarquhar exclaimed. McFarquhar himself was never known to get drunk, for he knew his limit on good whisky, and he avoided bad.
"Ay," said the minister, firmly, "and indeed there is no good whisky for drinking." McFarquhar rose and from a small cupboard brought back a bottle of the Hudson Bay Company's brand. "There," he said, pouring out a glass, "you will not be saying there is no good whisky." The minister lifted the glass and smelled it. "Try it," said McFarquhar in triumph. The minister put it to his lips.
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.
McFarquhar waited a few moments while the German rose, slowly spitting out broken teeth and blood. "Will you now behave yourself," said McFarquhar, moving toward him. "Yes, yes, it is enough," said his antagonist hurriedly and went into the saloon. We carried Ould Michael to his cabin and laid him on his bed.
I frankly acknowledged the same fear and tried to make him see that for men like Ould Michael, and the rest, preaching of that kind could do little good. With this position McFarquhar warmly disagreed, but as the week went by he had to confess that on Ould Michael the minister had no effect at all, for he kept out of his way and demoted himself to Paddy Dougan as far as we would allow him.
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.
"Ay," he said, "I know it well! It is the best, but it is also the worst. For this men have lost their souls. There is no good whisky for drinking, I'm saying." "And what for, then?" asked McFarquhar faintly. "Oh, it has its place as a medicine or a lotion." "A lotion," gasped McFarquhar. "Yes, in case of sprains a sprained ankle, for instance."
He was suffering dreadfully from some inward wound, but he uttered not a word of complaint. After he had lain still for some time he looked at McFarquhar. "What is it, lad?" asked McFarquhar. "The flag," whispered poor Ould Michael. "The flag? Do you want the flag?" He shook his head slowly, still looking beseechingly at his friend. All at once it came to me.
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.
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