'Sinclair, too. You mind Billy Sinclair of St Andrews, Dave?'
'What! Not him? Never old Billy Sinclair?'
'That's what,' said McAuliffe, not without relish at being the imparter of startling information.
Dave wagged his head sorrowfully. 'You—don't—say! To think of old Billy hopping! Why, we've been pards ever since he could bite tobacco. Married the gal I was more than a little broken on, too. Now she's a widow with young children. Well, well, well. To think of how Billy used to walk her out Sunday evenings, while I'd hang round church door and tell the boys all gals were the same anyway. Here's old Billy gone, with her a widow, and me still a single man. I reckon that's not my fault, but gals take some suiting nowadays.'
'Haven't you anything else to tell, Dave?'
'Why, it's you that's got the talking. It makes me dizzy to take it in. Deaths and murders like a printed newspaper. Young Winton fixed, and poor Billy gone to the worms. But say, Alf, where's Peter?'
'You don't want to talk to me about him. I'm through with the dam' cowardly hypocrite. He skulked off in the bush before the fight, and if it hadn't been for the dead youngster and Lamont over there, I'd shouldn't have been telling you the truth now.'
'Peter ran off, eh?' chuckled the other. 'What have you done?'
'Fired him out by the neck,' said the Factor, with unction. Then, as a rapid change of subject, 'You've brought my brandy, Dave?'
'Dozen case of H.B. Good and black, I tell you.'