She was,
indeed, the missus of no other than old Mac, the teamster of hypnotic
fame, and late opposition to Harry Chatswood. Hence, perhaps, part of
Harry's hesitation to pull up, farther back, and his generosity to Old
Jack.
Mrs or Mother Mac sold refreshments, from a rough bush dinner at
eighteenpence a head to passengers, to a fly-blown bottle of
ginger-ale or lemonade, hot in hot weather from a sunny fly-specked
window. In between there was cold corned beef, bread and butter, and
tea, and (best of all if they only knew it) a good bush billy of
coffee on the coals before the fire on cold wet nights. And outside
of it all, there was cold tea, which, when confidence was established,
or they knew one of the party, she served hushedly in cups without
saucers; for which she sometimes apologized, and which she took into
her murderous bedroom to fill, and replenish, in its darkest and most
felonious corner from homicidal-looking pots, by candle-light. You'd
think you were in a cheap place, where you shouldn't be, in the city.
Harry and his passengers got down and stretched their legs, and while
Old Jack was guardedly answering a hurriedly whispered inquiry of
the traveller, Harry took the opportunity to nudge Mrs Mac, and
whisper in her ear:
"Look out, Mrs Mac!--Exciseman!"
"The devil he is!" whispered she.
"Ye-e-es!" whispered Harry.
"All right, Harry!" she whispered. "Never a word! I'll take care
of him, bless his soul.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85