They handed him more whisky from the publican's own bottle. Hushed
and cautious inquiries for the Professor (with a big P now) elicited
the hushed and cautious fact that he had gone to bed. But old Mac
caught the awesome name and glared round, so they hurriedly filled out
another for him, from the boss's bottle. Then there was a slight
commotion. The housemaid hurried scaredly in to the bar behind and
whispered to the boss. She had been startled nearly out of her wits
by the Professor suddenly appearing at his bedroom door and calling
upon her to have a stiff nobbler of whisky hot sent up to his room.
The jackaroo yard-boy, aforesaid, volunteered to take it up, and while
he was gone there were hints of hysterics from the kitchen, and the
boss whispered in his turn to the crowd over the bar. The jackaroo
just handed the tray and glass in through the partly opened door, had
a glimpse of pyjamas, and, after what seemed an interminable wait, he
came tiptoeing into the bar amongst its awe-struck haunters with an
air of great mystery, and no news whatever.
They fixed old Mac on a shake-down in the Commercial Room, where he'd
have light and some overflow guests on the sofas for company. With a
last whisky in the bar, and a stiff whisky by his side on the floor,
he was understood to chuckle to the effect that he knew he was all
right when he'd won "the keystone o' the brig." Though how a wooden
bridge with a level plank floor could have a keystone I don't
know--and they were too much impressed by the event of the evening to
inquire.
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