“How’s your chest?” I asked, putting on my professional air.
“Come, drop it, Doctor, drop it!” he answered, showing a row of white teeth as he resumed his seat upon the side of the bed. “It wasn’t anxiety after my precious health that brought you along here; that story won’t wash at all. You came to have a look at Wolf Tone Maloney, forger, murderer, Sydney-slider, ranger, and Government peach. That’s about my figure, ain’t it? There it is, plain and straight; there’s nothing mean about me.”
He paused as if he expected me to say something; but as I remained silent, he repeated once or twice, “There’s nothing mean about me.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” he suddenly yelled, his eyes gleaming and his whole satanic nature reasserting itself. “We were bound to swing, one and all, and they were none the worse if I saved myself by turning against them. Every man for himself, say I, and the devil take the luckiest. You haven’t a plug of tobacco, Doctor, have you?”
He tore at the piece of “Barrett’s” which I handed him, as ravenously as a wild beast. It seemed to have the effect of soothing his nerves, for he settled himself down in the bed and reassumed his former deprecating manner.
“You wouldn’t like it yourself, you know, Doctor,” he said; “it’s enough to make any man a little queer in his temper. I’m in for six months this time for assault, and very sorry I shall be to go out again, I can tell you. My mind’s at ease in here; but when I’m outside, what with the Government and what with Tattooed Tom of Hawkesbury, there’s no chance of a quiet life.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“He’s the brother of John Grimthorpe, the same that was condemned on my evidence; and an infernal scamp he was, too! Spawn of the devil, both of them! This tattooed one is a murderous ruffian, and he swore to have my blood after that trial. It’s seven year ago, and he’s following me yet; I know he is, though he lies low and keeps dark. He came up to me in Ballarat in ’75; you can see on the back of my hand here where the bullet clipped me. He tried again in ’76, at Port Philip, but I got the drop on him and wounded him badly. He knifed me in ’79, though, in a bar at Adelaide, and that made our account about level. He’s loafing round again now, and he’ll let daylight into me—unless—unless by some extraordinary chance someone does as much for him.” And Maloney gave a very ugly smile.
“I don’t complain of him so much,” he continued. “Looking at it in his way, no doubt it is a sort of family matter that can hardly be neglected. It’s the Government that fetches me. When I think of what I’ve done for this country, and then of what this country has done for me, it makes me fairly wild—clean drives me off my head. There’s no gratitude nor common decency left, Doctor!”
He brooded over his wrongs for a few minutes, and then proceeded to lay them before me in detail.