Kitabı oku: «The Tale of Timber Town», sayfa 4

“Well, so-long,” said the digger. “See you later.” And, shouldering his swag, he held out his horny hand.

“I reckon,” said the goldsmith. “Eight o’clock this evening. So-long.” And the digger went out.

Tresco stood on his doorstep, and with half-shut eyes watched the prospector to the door of The Lucky Digger.

“Can’t locate it,” he mused, “and I know where all the gold, sold in this town, comes from. Nor I can’t locate him. But he’s struck it, and struck it rich.”

There were birch twigs caught in the straps of the digger’s “swag,” and he had a bit of rata flower stuck in the band of his hat. “That’s where he’s come from!” Tresco pointed in the direction of the great range of mountains which could be seen distinctly through the window of his workshop.

“What’s it worth?” asked Jake, who stood beside his master.

“The gold? Not a penny less than £3/17/-an ounce, my son.”

“An’ you give £3/15/-. Good business, boss.”

“I drew him a cheque for three hundred pounds, and I haven’t credit at the bank for three hundred shillings. So I must go and sell this gold before he has time to present my cheque. Pretty close sailing, Jake.

“But mark me, young shaver. There’s better times to come. If the discovery of this galoot don’t mean a gold boom in Timber Town, you may send the crier round and call me a flathead. Things is goin’ to hum.”

CHAPTER VI

The Father of Timber Town

“I never heard the like of it!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “You say, eighty-two ounces of gold? You say it came from within fifty miles of Timber Town? Why, sir, the matter must be looked into.” The old gentleman’s voice rose to a shrill treble. “Yes, indeed, it must.”

They were sitting in the Timber Town Club: the ancient Mr. Crewe, Scarlett, and Cathro, a little man who rejoiced in the company of the rich octogenarian.

“I’m new at this sort of thing,” said Scarlett: “I’ve just come off the sea. But when the digger took a big bit of gold from his pocket, I looked at it, open-eyed – I can tell you that. I called the landlord, and ordered drinks – I thought that the right thing to do. And, by George! it was. The ruffianly-looking digger drank his beer, insisted on calling for more, and then locked the door.”

Mr. Crewe was watching the speaker closely, and hung on every word he uttered. Glancing at the lean and wizened Cathro, he said, “You hear that, Cathro? He locked the door, sir. Did you ever hear the like?”

“From inside his shirt,” Scarlett continued, “he drew a fat bundle of bank notes, which he placed upon the table. Taking a crisp one-pound note from the pile, he folded it into a paper-light, and said, ‘I could light my pipe with this an’ never feel it.’

"‘Don’t think of such a thing,’ I said, and placed a sovereign on the table, ‘I’ll toss you for it.’

“‘Right!’ said my hairy friend. ‘Sudden death?’

“‘Sudden death,’ I said.

“‘Heads,’ said he.”

“Think of that, now!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “The true digger, Cathro, the true digger, I know the genus– there’s no mistaking it. Most interesting. Go on, sir.”

“The coin came down tails, and I pocketed the bank-note.

“‘Lookyer here, mate,’ said my affluent friend. ‘That don’t matter. We’ll see if I can’t get it back,’ and he put another note on the table. I won that, too. He doubled the stakes, and still I won.

“‘You had luck on the gold-fields,’ I said, ‘but when you come to town things go dead against you.’

“‘Luck!’ he cried. ‘Now watch me. If I lost the whole of thisyer bloomin’ pile, I could start off to-morrer mornin’ an, before nightfall, I’d be on ground where a week’s work would give me back all I’d lost. An’ never a soul in this blank, blank town knows where the claim is.’”

“Well, well,” gasped old Mr. Crewe; his body bent forward, and his eyes peering into Scarlett’s face. “I’ve lived here since the settlement was founded. I got here when the people lived in nothing better than Maori whares and tents, when the ground on which this very club stands was a flax-swamp. I have seen this town grow, sir, from a camp to the principal town of a province. I know every man and boy living in it, do I not, Cathro? I know every hill and creek within fifty miles of it; I’ve explored every part of the bush, and I tell you I never saw payable gold in any stream nearer than Maori Gully, to reach which you must go by sea.”

“What about the man’s mates?” asked Cathro.

“I asked him about them,” replied Scarlett. “I said, ‘You have partners in this thing, I suppose.’ ‘You mean pals,’ he said. ‘No, sir. I’m a hatter – no one knows the place but me. I’m sole possessor of hundreds of thousands of ounces of gold. There’s my Miner’s Right.’ He threw a dirty parchment document on the table, drawn out in the name of William Wurcott.”

“Wurcott? Wurcott?” repeated Mr. Crewe, contemplatively. “I don’t know the name. The man doesn’t belong to Timber Town.”

“You speak as though you thought no one but a Timber Town man should get these good things.” Cathro smiled as he spoke.

“No, sir,” retorted the old gentleman, testily. “I said no such thing, sir. I simply said he did not belong to this town. But you must agree with me, it’s a precious strange thing that we men of this place have for years been searching the country round here for gold, and, by Jupiter! a stranger, an outsider, a mere interloper, a miserable ‘hatter’ from God knows where, discovers gold two days’ journey from the town, and brings in over eighty ounces?” The old man’s voice ran up to a falsetto, he stroked his nose with his forefinger and thumb, he broke into the shrill laugh of an octogenarian. “And the rascal boasts he can get a hundred ounces more in a week or two! We must look into the matter – we must see what it means.”

The three men smoked silently and solemnly.

“Scarlett, here, owns the man’s personal acquaintance,” said Cathro. “The game is to go mates with him – Scarlett, the ‘hatter,’ and myself.”

All three of them sat silent, and thought hard.

“But what if your ‘hatter’ won’t fraternize?” asked Mr. Crewe. “You young men are naturally sanguine, but I know these diggers. They may be communicative enough over a glass, but next day the rack and thumbscrews wouldn’t extract a syllable from them.”

“All the more reason why we should go, and see the digger what time Scarlett deems him to be happy in his cups.” This was Cathro’s suggestion, and he added, “If he won’t take us as mates, we may at least learn the locality of his discovery. With your knowledge of the country, Mr. Crewe, the rest should be easy.”

“It all sounds very simple,” replied the venerable gentleman, “but experience has taught me that big stakes are not won quite so easily. However, we shall see. When our friend, Scarlett, is ready, we are ready; and when I say I take up a matter of this kind, you know I mean to go through with it, even if I have to visit the spot myself and prospect on my own account. For believe me, gentlemen, this may be the biggest event in the history of Timber Town.” Mr. Crewe had risen to his feet, and was walking to and fro in front of the younger men. “If payable gold were found in these hills, this town would double its population in three months, business would flourish, and everybody would have his pockets lined with gold. I don’t talk apocryphally. I have seen such things repeatedly, upon the Coast. I have seen small townships literally flooded with gold, and yet a pair of boots, a tweed coat, and the commonest necessaries of life, could not be procured there for love or money.”

CHAPTER VII

Cut-throat Euchre

“Give the stranger time to sort his cards,” said the thin American, with the close-cropped head.

“Why, certainly, certainly,” replied the big and bloated Englishman, who sat opposite. “Well, my noble, what will you do?”

The Prospector, who was the third player, looked up from his “hand” and drummed the table with the ends of his dirty fingers.

“What do I make it? Why, I turn it down.”

“Pass again,” said the American.

“Ditto,” said the Englishman.

“Then this time I make it ‘Spades,’” said the digger, bearded to the eyes; his tangled thatch of black hair hiding his forehead, and his clothes such as would have hardly tempted a rag-picker.

“You make it ‘next,’ eh?” It was the Englishman who spoke.

“We’ll put you through, siree,” said the American, who was a small man, without an atom of superfluous flesh on his bones. His hair stood upright on his head, his dough-coloured face wore a perpetual smile, and he was the happy possessor of a gold eye-tooth with which he constantly bit his moustache. The player who had come to aid him in plucking the pigeon was a big man with a florid complexion and heavy, sensuous features, which, however, wore a good-natured expression.

The game was cut-throat euchre; one pound points. So that each of the three players contributed five pounds to the pool, which lay, gold, silver and bank-notes, in a tempting pile in the middle of the table.

“Left Bower, gen’lemen,” said the digger, placing the Knave of Clubs on the table.

“The deuce!” exclaimed the florid man.

“Can’t help you, partner,” said the man with the gold tooth, playing a low card.

“One trick,” said the digger, and he put down the Knave of Spades. “There’s his mate.”

“Right Bower, egad!” exclaimed the big man, who was evidently minus trumps.

The pasty-faced American played the Ace of Spades without saying a word.

“A blanky march!” cried the digger. “Look-a-here. How’s that for high?” and he placed on the table his three remaining cards – the King, Queen, and ten of trumps.

The other players showed their hands, which were full of red cards.

“Up, and one to spare,” exclaimed the digger, and took the pool.

About fifty pounds, divided into three unequal piles, lay on the table, and beside each player’s money stood a glass.

The florid man was shuffling the pack, and the other two were arranging their marking cards, when the door opened slowly, and the Father of Timber Town, followed by Cathro and Scarlett, entered the room.

“Well, well. Hard at it, eh, Garsett?” said the genial old gentleman, addressing himself to the Englishman. “Cut-throat euchre, by Jupiter! A ruinous game, Mr. Lichfield,” – to the man with the gold tooth – “but your opponent” – pointing with his stick to the digger – “seems to have all the luck. Look at his pile, Cathro. Your digger friend, eh, Scarlett? Look at his pile – the man’s winning.”

Scarlett nodded.

“He’s in luck again,” said Mr. Crewe; “in luck again, by all that’s mighty.”

The pool was made up, the cards were dealt, and the game continued. The nine of Hearts was the “turn-up” card.

“Pass,” said Lichfield.

“Then I order you up,” said the digger.

The burly Garsett drew a card from his “hand,” placed it under the pack, and said, “Go ahead. Hearts are trumps.”

The gentleman with the gold tooth played the King of Hearts, the digger a small trump, and Garsett his turn-up card.

“Ace of Spades,” said Lichfield, playing that card.

“Trump,” said the digger, as he put down the Queen of Hearts.

“Ace of trumps!” exclaimed Garsett, and took the trick.

“’Strewth!” cried the man from the “bush.” “But let’s see your next.”

“You haven’t a hope,” said the big gambler. “Two to one in notes we euchre you.”

“Done,” replied the digger, and he took a dirty one-pound bank-note from his heap of money.

“Most exciting,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “Quite spirited. The trumps must all be out, Cathro. Let us see what all this betting means.”

“Right Bower,” said the Englishman.

“Ho-ho! stranger,” the American cried. “I guess that pound belongs to Mr. Garsett.”

The digger put the Knave of Diamonds on the table, and handed the money to his florid antagonist.

“Your friend is set back two points, Scarlett.” It was Mr. Crewe that spoke. “England and America divide the pool.”

The digger looked up at the Father of Timber Town.

“If you gen’l’men wish to bet on the game, well and good,” he said, somewhat heatedly. “But if you’re not game to back your opinion, then keep your blanky mouths shut!”

Old Mr. Crewe was as nettled at this unlooked-for attack as if a battery of artillery had suddenly opened upon him.

“Heh! What?” he exclaimed. “You hear that, Cathro? Scarlett, you hear what your friend says? He wants to bet on the game, and that after being euchred and losing his pound to Mr. Garsett. Why, certainly, sir. I’ll back my opinion with the greatest pleasure. I’ll stake a five-pound note on it. You’ll lose this game, sir.”

“Done,” said the digger, and he counted out five sovereigns and placed them in a little heap by themselves.

Mr. Crewe had not come prepared for a “night out with the boys.” He found some silver in his pocket and two pounds in his sovereign-case.

“Hah! no matter,” he said. “Cathro, call the landlord. I take your bet, sir” – to the digger – “most certainly I take it, but one minute, give me one minute.”

“If there’s any difficulty in raising the cash,” said the digger, fingering his pile of money, “I won’t press the matter. I don’t want your blanky coin. I can easy do without it.”

The portly, rubicund landlord of the Lucky Digger entered the room.

“Ah, Townson,” said old Mr. Crewe, “good evening. We have a little bet on, Townson, a little bet between this gentleman from away back and myself, and I find I’m without the necessary cash. I want five pounds. I’ll give you my IOU.”

“Not at all,” replied the landlord, in a small high voice, totally surprising as issuing from such a portly person, “no IOU. I’ll gladly let you have twenty.”

“Five is all I want, Townson; and I expect to double it immediately, and then I shall be quite in funds.”

The landlord disappeared and came back with a small tray, on which was a bundle of bank-notes, some dirty, some clean and crisp. The Father of Timber Town counted the money. “Twenty pounds, Townson. Very well. You shall have it in the morning. Remind me, Cathro, that I owe Mr. Townson twenty pounds.”

The digger looked with surprise at the man who could conjure money from a publican.

“Who in Hades are you?” he asked, as Mr. Crewe placed his £5 beside the digger’s. “D’you own the blanky pub?”

“No, he owns the town,” interposed Garsett.

The digger was upon his feet in a moment.

“Proud to meet you, mister,” he cried. “Glad to have this bet with you. I like to bet with a gen’l’man. Make it ten, sir, and I shall be happier still.”

“No, no,” replied the ancient Mr. Crewe. “You said five, and five it shall be. That’s quite enough for you to lose on one game.”

“You think so? That’s your blanky opinion? See that?” The digger pointed to his heap of money. “Where that come from there’s enough to buy your tin-pot town three times over.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Crewe. “I’m glad to hear it. Bring your money, and you shall have the town.”

“Order, gentlemen, order,” cried the dough-faced man. “I guess we’re here to play cards, and cards we’re going to play. If you three gentlemen cann’t watch the game peaceably, it’ll be my disagreeable duty to fire you out – and that right smart.”

And just at this interesting moment entered Gentle Annie. She walked with little steps; propelling her plenitude silently but for the rustle of her silk skirt. In her hand she held a scented handkerchief, like any lady in a drawing-room; her hair, black at the roots and auburn at the ends, was wreathed, coil on coil, upon the top of her head; her face, which gave away all her secrets, was saucy, expressive of self-satisfaction, petulance, and vanity. And yet it was a handsome face; but it lacked mobility, the chin was too strong, the grey eyes wanted expression, though they were ever on the watch for an admiring glance.

“The angel has come to pour oil upon the troubled waters,” said the flabby, florid man, looking up from his cards at the splendid bar-maid.

Gentle Annie regarded the speaker boldly, smiled, and coloured with pleasure.

“To pour whisky down your throats,” she said, laughing – “that would be nearer the mark.”

“And produce a more pleasing effect,” said Garsett.

“Attend to the game,” said the American. “Spades are trumps.”

“Pass,” said the digger.

“Then down she goes,” said the Englishman.

“Pass again,” said the American.

“I make it Diamonds, and cross the blanky suit,” said the digger.

Gentle Annie turned to the Father of Timber Town.

“There’s a gentleman wants to see you, Mr. Crewe,” she said.

“Very good, very good; bring him in – he has as much right here as I.”

“He said he’d wait for you in the bar-parlour.”

“But, my girl, I must watch the game: I have a five-pound note on it. Yes, a five-pound note!”

“Think of that, now,” said Gentle Annie, running her bejewelled hand over her face. “You’ll be bankrupt before morning. But never mind, old gentleman,” – she deftly corrected the set of Mr. Crewe’s coat, and fastened its top button – “you’ll always find a friend and protector in me.”

“My good girl, what a future! The tender mercies of bar-maids are cruel. ‘The daughter of the horse-leech’ – he! he! – where did you get all those rings from? – I don’t often quote Scripture, but I find it knows all about women. Cathro, you must watch the game for me: I have to see a party in the bar. Watch the game, Cathro, watch the game.”

The old gentleman, leaning heavily upon his stick, walked slowly to the door, and Gentle Annie, humming a tune, walked briskly before, in all the glory of exuberant health and youth.

When Mr. Crewe entered the bar-parlour he was confronted by the bulky figure of Benjamin Tresco, who was enjoying a glass of beer and the last issue of The Pioneer Bushman. Between the goldsmith’s lips was the amber mouthpiece of a straight-stemmed briar pipe, a smile of contentment played over the breadth of his ruddy countenance, and his ejaculations were made under some deep and pleasurable excitement.

“By the living hokey! What times, eh?” He slapped his thigh with his heavy hand. “The town won’t know itself! We’ll all be bloomin’ millionaires. Ah! good evening, Mr. Crewe. Auspicious occasion. Happy to meet you, sir.” Benjamin had risen, and was motioning the Father of Timber Town to a seat upon the couch, where he himself had been sitting. “You will perceive that I am enjoying a light refresher. Have something yourself at my expense, I beg.”

Mr. Crewe’s manner was very stiff. He knew Tresco well. It was not so much that he resented the goldsmith’s familiar manner, as that, with the instinct of his genus, he suspected the unfolding of some money-making scheme for which he was to find the capital. Therefore he fairly bristled with caution.

“Thank you, nothing.” He spoke with great dignity. “You sent for me. What do you wish to say, sir?”

Benjamin looked at the rich man through his spectacles, without which he found it impossible to read the masterpieces of the editor of The Pioneer Bushman; pursed his lips, to indicate that he hardly relished the old gentleman’s manner; scrutinised the columns of the newspaper for a desired paragraph, on which, when found, he placed a substantial forefinger; and then, glancing at Mr. Crewe, he said abruptly, “Read that, boss,” and puffed furiously at his pipe, while he watched the old man’s face through a thick cloud of tobacco smoke.

Mr. Crewe read the paragraph; folded up the paper, and placed it on the couch beside him; looked at the ceiling; glanced round the room; turned his keen eyes on Tresco, and said: —

“Well, what of that? I saw that an hour ago. It’s very fine, if true; very fine, indeed.”

“True, mister? I bought the gold myself! I gave the information to the ‘buster’! Now, here is my plan. I know this gold is new gold – it’s no relation to any gold I ever bought before. It comes from a virgin field. By the special knowledge I possess as a gold-buyer, I am able to say that; and you know when a virgin field yields readily as much as eighty-two ounces, the odds are in favour of it yielding thousands. Look at the Golden Bar. You remember that? – eight thousand ounces in two days, and the field’s been worked ever since. Then there was Greenstone Gully – a man came into town with fifty ounces, and the party that tracked him made two thousand ounces within a month. Those finds were at a distance, but this one is a local affair. How do I know? – my special knowledge, mister; my intuitive reading of signs which prognosticate coming events; my knowledge of the characters and ways of diggers. All this I am willing to place at your disposal, on one condition, Mr. Crewe; and that condition is that we are partners in the speculation. I find the field – otherwise the partnership lapses – and you find me £200 and the little capital required. I engage to do my part within a week.”

Mr. Crewe stroked his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as was his habit when in deep contemplation.

“But – ah – what if I were to tell you that I can find the field entirely by my own exertions? What do you say to that, Mr. Tresco? What do you say to that?”

“I say, sir, without the least hesitation, that you never will find it. I say that you will spend money and valuable time in a wild-goose chase, whereas I shall be entirely successful.”

“We shall see,” said Mr. Crewe, rising from his seat, “we shall see. Don’t try to coerce me, sir; don’t try to coerce me!”

“I haven’t the least desire in that direction.” Benjamin’s face assumed the expression of a cherub. “Nothing is further from my thoughts. I know of a good thing – my special knowledge qualifies me to make the most of it; I offer you the refusal of ‘chipping in’ with me, and you, I understand, refuse. Very well, Mr. Crewe, I am satisfied; you are satisfied; all is amicably settled. I go to place my offer where it will be accepted. Good evening, sir.”

Benjamin put his nondescript, weather-worn hat on his semi-bald head, and departed with as much dignity as his ponderous person could assume.

“And now,” said Mr. Crewe to himself, as the departing figure of the goldsmith disappeared, “we will go and see the result of our little bet; we will see whether we have lost or gained the sum of five pounds.”

The old man, taking his stick firmly in his hand, stumped down the passage to the door of the room where the gamblers played, and, as he turned the handle, he was greeted with a torrent of shouts, high words, and the noise of a falling table.

There, on the floor, lay gold and bank notes, scattered in every direction amid broken chairs, playing cards, and struggling men.

Mr. Crewe paused on the threshold. In the whirl and dust of the tumult he could discern the digger’s wilderness of hair, the bulky form of Garsett, and the thin American, in a tangled, writhing mass. His friend Cathro was looking on with open mouth and trembling hands, ineffectual, inactive. But Scarlett, making a sudden rush into the melee, seized the lucky digger, and dragged him, infuriated, struggling, swearing, from the unwieldy Garsett, on whose throat his grimy fingers were tightly fixed.

“Well, well,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “Landlord! landlord! Scarlett, be careful – you’ll strangle that man!”

Scarlett pinioned the digger’s arms from behind, and rendered him harmless; Garsett sat on the floor fingering his throat, and gasping; while Lichfield lay unconscious, with his head under the broken table.

“Fair play!” shouted the digger. “I’ve bin robbed. Le’me get at him. I’ll break his blanky neck. Cheat a gen’leman at cards, will you? Le’me get at him. Le’go, I tell yer – who’s quarrelling with you?” But he struggled in vain, for Scarlett’s hold on him was tighter than a vice’s.

“Stand quiet, man,” he expostulated. “There was no cheating.”

“The fat bloke fudged a card. I was pickin’ up a quid from the floor – he fudged a card. Le’go o’ me, an’ I’ll fight you fair.”

“Stand quiet, I tell you, or you’ll be handed over to the police.”

The digger turned his hairy visage round, and glanced angrily into Jack’s eyes.

“You’ll call in the traps? – you long-legged swine!” With a mighty back-kick, the Prospector lodged the heel of his heavy boot fairly on Scarlett’s shin. In a moment he had struggled free, and faced round.

“Put up your fists!” he cried. “I fight fair, I fight fair.”

There was a whirlwind of blows, and then a figure fell to the floor with a thud like that of a felled tree. It was the lucky digger, and he lay still and quiet amid the wreckage of the fight.

“Here,” said Cathro, handing Mr. Crewe ten pounds. “Take your money – our friend the digger lost the game.”

“This is most unfortunate, Cathro.” But as he spoke, the Father of Timber Town pocketed the gold. “Did I not see Scarlett knock that man down? This is extremely unfortunate. I have just refused the offer of a man who avers – who avers, mind you – that he can put us on this new gold-field in a week, but I trusted to Scarlett’s diplomacy with the digger: I come back, and what do I see? I see my friend Scarlett knock the man down! There he lies as insensible as a log.”

“It looks,” said Cathro, “as if our little plan had fallen through.”

“Fallen through? We have made the unhappy error of interfering in a game of cards. We should have stood off, sir, and when a quarrel arose – I know these diggers; I have been one of them myself, and I understand them, Cathro – when a quarrel arose we should have interposed on behalf of the digger, and he would have been our friend for ever. Now all the gold in the country wouldn’t bribe him to have dealings with us.”

The noise of the fight had brought upon the scene all the occupants of the bar. They stood in a group, silent and expectant, just inside the room. The landlord, who was with them, came forward, and bent over the inanimate form of the Prospector. “I think this is likely to be a case for the police,” said he, as he rose, and stood erect. “The man may be alive, or he may be dead – I’m not a doctor: I can’t tell – but there’s likely to be trouble in store for the gentlemen in the room at the time of the fight.”

Suddenly an energetic figure pushed its way through the group of spectators, and Benjamin Tresco, wearing an air of supreme wisdom, and with a manner which would not have disgraced a medico celebrated for his “good bedside manner,” commenced to examine the prostrate man. First, he unbuttoned the insensible digger’s waistcoat, and placed his hand over his heart; next, he felt his pulse. “This man,” he said deliberately, like an oracle, “has been grossly manhandled; he is seriously injured, but with care we shall pull him round. My dear” – to Gentle Annie, who stood at his elbow, in her silks and jewels, the personification of Folly at a funeral – “a drop of your very best brandy – real cognac, mind you, and be as quick as you possibly can.”

With the help of Scarlett, Tresco placed the digger upon the couch. In the midst of this operation the big card-player and his attenuated accomplice, whose unconsciousness had been more feigned than actual, were about to slip from the room, when Mr. Crewe’s voice was heard loudly above the chatter, “Stop! stop those men, there!” The old gentleman’s stick was pointed dramatically towards the retreating figures. “They know more about this affair than is good for them.”

Four or five men immediately seized Garsett and Lichfield, led them back to the centre of the room, and stood guard over them.

At this moment, Gentle Annie re-entered with the eau de vie; and Tresco, who was bustling importantly about his patient, administrated the restorative dexterously to the unconscious digger, and then awaited results. He stood, with one hand on the man’s forehead and the other he held free to gesticulate with, in emphasis of his speech: —

“This gentleman is going to recover – with proper care, and in skilled hands. He has received a severe contusion on the cranium, but apart from that he is not much the worse for his ‘scrap.’ See, he opens his eyes. Ah! they are closed again. There! – they open again. He is coming round. In a few minutes he will be his old, breathing, pulsating self. The least that can be expected in the circumstances, is that the gentlemen implicated, who have thus been saved most disagreeable consequences by the timely interference of skilled hands, the least they can do is to shout drinks for the crowd.”

He paused, and a seraphic smile lighted his broad face.

“Hear, hear!” cried a voice from behind the spectators by the door.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” said another.

“There’s enough money on the floor,” remarked a third, “for the whole lot of us to swim in champagne.”

“My eye’s on it,” said Tresco. “It’s what gave me my inspiration. The lady will pick it up while you name your drinks to the landlord. Mine’s this liqueur brandy, neat. Let the lady pick up those notes there: a lady has a soul above suspicion – let her collect the money, and we’ll hold a court of enquiry when this gentleman here is able to give his evidence.”

The digger was now gazing in a befogged manner at the faces around him; and Gentle Annie, having collected all the money of the gamblers in a tray, placed it on the small table which stood against the wall.

“Now, doctor,” said a tall man with a tawny beard, “take your fee; it’s you restored the gent. Take your fee: is it two guineas, or do you make it five?”

“‘Doctor,’ did you say? No, Moonlight, my respected friend, I scorn the title. Doctors are a brood that batten on the ills of others. First day: ‘A pain internally, madam? Very serious. I will send you some medicine. Two guineas. Yes, the sum of two guineas.’ Next day: ‘Ah, the pain is no better, madam? Go on taking the medicine. Fee? Two guineas, if you please.’ And so on till the pain cures itself. If not, the patient grows worse, dies, is buried, and the doctor’s fees accrue proportionately. But we will suppose that the patient has some incurable tumour. The doctor comes, examines, looks wise, shakes his head, says the only chance is to operate; but it will be touch and go, just a toss up. He gets his knives, opens up the patient, and by good luck touches no vital part. Then the patient is saved, and it’s ‘My work, gentlemen, entirely my work. That’s what skill will do. My fee is forty-five guineas.’ That’s how he makes up for the folks that don’t pay. Doctor, me? No, Moonlight, my friend, I am a practitioner who treats for love. No fee; no fee at all. But, Annie, my dear, I’ll trouble you for that glass of brandy.”