Neither Bob nor Jack said a word, their hearts seemed too full for speech; but Mackay guessed their thoughts.
"It had to be done, my laddies," said he, kindly. "I thought my fighting days were over; but it wasna to be—it wasna to be."
After that order reigned. Some of Macguire's gang sullenly went off to peg out claims beyond the Golden Promise Mine; others busied themselves erecting a huge tent into which their fallen chief was carried, groaning and cursing by turns. Then the holders of Golden Flat returned to their labours with buoyant energy, and continued excavating the golden wash as if nothing untoward had happened to mar the even tenor of their way. Bob having received the acids he had so eagerly awaited, was soon lost in the mazes of calculative experiments beside his crucibles and test-tubes. The Shadow and Jack slogged away with steady persistency at the bottom of the shaft. Mackay calmly smoked the pipe of peace at the windlass head, now and again breaking out into unmelodious song to the great discomfort of all within hearing distance. Indeed, since his desperate encounter he seemed to have become unusually cheerful; and Bob, hearing the distracting strains, laughed softly to himself and pondered deeply on this further illustration of a many-sided nature. That evening, however, he was destined to be further surprised, for Mackay, having finished his tea, went quietly to a small mysterious-looking box which he kept under his bunk, and which neither of the boys had ever seen him open before, and from a recess within the lid he extracted—a flute.
"Heavens!" feebly murmured the Shadow, who was present, glaring at the instrument with exaggerated horror.
Jack laughed outright, but checked himself suddenly when the big man began to play. Never had he heard sweeter music; the mellow notes rang out with exceeding softness as the great and somewhat battered fingers of the musician strayed over the keys. No paltry tune was this, no music-hall ditty; it was the "Miserere" from Il Trovatore he played, and with such haunting sweetness that Bob rubbed his eyes and looked at him in amazement. It was no joke, then, this strange man's professed love of music, and his thoughts went back to the evening they had spent in London. The last long-drawn-out note trembled to a finish; and Mackay's voice broke in on his reverie.
"What do you think o' that, Bob?"
"It was beautiful," said Bob, soberly.
"Ah, my ain whustle canna compare wi' the flute," sighed Mackay, dolorously, applying his mouth once more to his treasure. Then he hesitated. "I think I'll play ye that bonnie tune we heard at the Queen's Hall," said he, reflectively. "D'ye mind what it was, Jack?"
"Of course I do," responded that youth, with alacrity. "It was 'Home, Sweet Home!'"
The questioner looked grieved. "That sang doesna come into my repertoire when I'm oot in the bush," he reproved sternly.