failure in life of which we have been speaking, but a good type of
the intelligence which here surrounded me. Physically he was a
small Scotsman, standing a little back as though he were already
carrying the elements of a corporation, and his looks somewhat
marred by the smallness of his eyes. Mentally, he was endowed
above the average. There were but few subjects on which he could
not converse with understanding and a dash of wit; delivering
himself slowly and with gusto like a man who enjoyed his own
sententiousness. He was a dry, quick, pertinent debater, speaking
with a small voice, and swinging on his heels to launch and
emphasise an argument. When he began a discussion, he could not
bear to leave it off, but would pick the subject to the bone,
without once relinquishing a point. An engineer by trade, Mackay
believed in the unlimited perfectibility of all machines except the
human machine. The latter he gave up with ridicule for a compound
of carrion and perverse gases. He had an appetite for disconnected
facts which I can only compare to the savage taste for beads. What
is called information was indeed a passion with the man, and he not
only delighted to receive it, but could pay you back in kind.

With all these capabilities, here was Mackay, already no longer
young, on his way to a new country, with no prospects, no money,
and but little hope. He was almost tedious in the cynical
disclosures of his despair. 'The ship may go down for me,' he
would say, 'now or to-morrow. I have nothing to lose and nothing
to hope.' And again: 'I am sick of the whole damned performance.'
He was, like the kind little man, already quoted, another so-called
victim of the bottle. But Mackay was miles from publishing his
weakness to the world; laid the blame of his failure on corrupt
masters and a corrupt State policy; and after he had been one night