“They brought some tools in to sharpen, and they went drinking, and the end was a flourish of the tomahawk, Voucher was sharpening. Voucher hit the other chap on the head with the edge and rubbed it in with the flat.
“I made for the tomahawk and collared it after a scuffle, but not before the other chap had pulled out a knife. That was the signal for Voucher’s bowie knife, and the other fellow got a nasty wound. I came off for a doctor, and I’ve sent him along to Ruffey’s, and now I shall go and turn in.”
One used to get callous to that sort of thing at Eungella. But it was “copy” for me. I prepared for a move to the scene of the fight.
“Who is the man, who has been stabbed?” I asked.
“The chap that was after that girl you saw married the other day—Sister Nan. He is not a friend of yours, is he? If he is, I am sorry for you. But you needn’t be uneasy. He’ll get over his scratch right enough. They all do, worse luck.”
“No, he is not a friend of mine,” I answered. And I did not wait for another word. An idea had taken possession of me. It seemed to me a call of fate. I took up my hat and rushed to Ruffey’s.
The bar had a curiously quiet look. The men who were in it seemed awed, I thought.
There was a policeman hanging about, and policemen were not common at Eungella, and generally kept out of the way when there was a row.
I pushed my way into the inner parlour. A crowd of people were collected there, and I saw the doctor bending over a stretcher covered with a red blanket, on which lay the wounded man. The man was Rummles.
I asked the doctor what he thought of the case. “It’s a bad business,” he answered. “They have sent for the Police Magistrate. He says he wants to make a deposition, and he had better make haste.”