He rose from his chair and paced the narrow floor. 'That's where young Winton used to sit, sucking his pipe stem; Billy over there, on the York factory box; while Peter would be snivelling in yon corner.' His face lit up suddenly into a smile. 'Peter got a fortnight. 'Twas an extra bad case, the magistrate said. He'd have to leave the fort soon as they let him out of the cooler. That magistrate's a sharp lad. He could see through Peter's virtues clean enough.'
After another turn, he bent to rub his legs. 'Well, well, I almost reckon I'll lie down for sleep. I'm sort of tired, and this dirty rheumatism is jumping around in my legs again. Nothing like bed on a frosty night when you're not feeling good.'
A sudden thought perplexed his mind. He stood wagging his great head slowly. 'There's no real harm in it. Not in moderation. All the best men say that. Besides, it's hard to go without it, terrible hard. I do hope Justin didn't think I was talking seriously.'
To ease his mind, he again called out loudly to the half-breed. A muffled grunt came back from the direction of the kitchen.
'Done what I told you, boy?'
A decided reply in the negative was speedily returned.
The Factor rubbed his hands together cheerfully. 'Don't do it, Justin,' he called out. 'That crazy sort of fit's over. Say, boy, mix me a good stiff glass. Take one yourself to keep the frost out.'
After which command he paced the floor again, muttering, 'Darn it, whisky mayn't be a necessity, still a fellow can't pull along without it.'
Presently a curious sound came from within, and arrested his attention. After listening, he dived into the passage, there to discover the cause of disturbance. Justin was pouring some hot water from a kettle into glasses half full of a dark brown compound. But, besides this, he was indulging in an unheard of performance.
He was laughing to himself, with occasional chuckles, as the water splashed into the glasses, and a mist of steam rose round his head.