Kitabı oku: «The Tale of Timber Town», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVI

The Wages of Sin

As Pilot Summerhayes turned up the street, after having deposited his money, he might well have passed the goldsmith, hurrying towards the warehouse of Crookenden and Co. to receive the wages of his sin.

In Tresco’s pocket was the intercepted correspondence, upon his face was a look of happiness and self-contentment. He walked boldly into the warehouse where, in a big office, glazed, partitioned, and ramparted with a mighty counter, was a small army of clerks, who, loyal to their master, stood ready to pillage the goldsmith of every halfpenny he possessed.

But, with his blandest smile, Benjamin asked one of these formidable mercenaries whether Mr. Crookenden was within. He was ushered immediately into the presence of that great personage, before whom the conducting clerk was but as a crushed worm; and there, with a self-possession truly remarkable, the goldsmith seated himself in a comfortable chair and beamed cherubically at the merchant, though in his sinful heart he felt much as if he were a cross between a pirate and a forger.

“Ah! you have brought my papers?” said the merchant.

“I’ve brought my papers,” said the goldsmith, still smiling.

Crookenden chuckled. “Yes, yes,” he said, “quite right, quite right. They are yours till you are paid for them. Let me see: I gave you £50 in advance – there’s another £50 to follow, and then we are quits.”

“Another hundred-and-fifty,” said Tresco.

“Eh? What? How’s that? We said a hundred, all told.”

“Two hundred,” said Tresco.

“No, no, sir. I tell you it was a hundred.”

“All right,” said Tresco, “I shall retain possession of the letters, which I can post by the next mail or return to Mr. Varnhagen, just as I think fit.”

The merchant rose in his chair, and glared at the goldsmith.

“What!” cried Tresco. “You’ll turn dog? Complete your part of the bargain. Do you think I’ve put my head into a noose on your account for nothing? D’you think I went out last night because I loved you? No, sir, I want my money. I happen to need money. I’ve half a mind to make it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn’t that honour which is said to exist among thieves. We’ll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry quits.”

“Do you think you have me in your hands?”

“I don’t think,” replied the cunning goldsmith. “I know I’ve got you. But I’ll be magnanimous – I’ll take £150. No, £160 – I must pay the boatmen – and then I’ll say no more about the affair. It shall be buried in the oblivion of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of my youth. I must ask you to be quick.”

“Quick?”

“Yes, as quick as you conveniently can.”

“Would you order me about, sir?”

“Not exactly that, but I would urge you on a little faster. I would persuade you with the inevitable spur of fate.”

The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon his table.

“That would be of no use,” said Benjamin. “If you call fifty clerks and forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain nothing. Listen! Every clerk in this building would turn against you the moment he knew your true character; and before morning, every man, woman and child in Timber Town would know. And where would you be then? In gaol. D’you hear? – in gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant difference of a paltry hundred pounds will solve the difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet mind.”

“But what guarantee have I that after you have been paid you won’t continue to blackmail me?”

“You cannot possibly have such a guarantee – it wouldn’t be good for you. This business is going to chasten your soul, and make you mend your ways. It comes as a blessing in disguise. But so long as you don’t refer to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe me, I shall bury the hatchet. I simply give you my word for that. If you don’t care to take it, leave it: it makes no difference to me.”

The fat little merchant fiddled nervously with the writing materials in front of him, and his hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his watch from his pocket, and walked to and fro.

“It’s too much, too much,” petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. “It’s not worth it, not the half of it.”

“That’s not my affair,” retorted Tresco. “The bargain was for £200. I want the balance due.”

“But how do I know you have the letters?” whined the merchant.

“Tut, tut! I’m surprised to hear such foolishness from an educated man. What you want will be forthcoming when you’ve drawn the cheque – take my word for that. But I’m tired of pottering round here.” The goldsmith glanced at his watch. “I give you two minutes in which to decide. If you can’t make up your mind, well, that’s your funeral. At the end of that time I double the price of the letters, and if you want them at the new figure then you can come and ask for them.”

He held his watch in his hand, and marked the fleeting moments.

The merchant sat, staring stonily at the table in front of him.

The brief moments soon passed; Tresco shut his watch with a click, and returned it to his pocket.

“Now,” he said, taking up his hat, “I’ll wish you good morning.”

He was half-way to the door, when Crookenden cried, “Stop!” and reached for a pen, which he dipped in the ink.

“He, he!” he sniggered, “it’s all right, Tresco – I only wanted to test you. You shall have the money. I can see you’re a staunch man such as I can depend on.”

He rose suddenly, and went to the big safe which stood against the wall, and from it he took a cash-box, which he placed on the table.

“Upon consideration,” he said, “I have decided to pay you in cash – it’s far safer for both parties.”

He counted out a number of bank notes, which he handed to the goldsmith.

Tresco put down his hat, put on his spectacles, and counted the money. “Ten tens are a hundred, ten fives are fifty, ten ones are ten,” he said. “Perfectly correct.” He put his hand into the inner pocket of his coat, and drew out a packet, which was tied roughly with a piece of coarse string. “And here are the letters,” he added, as he placed them on the table. Then he put the money into his pocket.

Crookenden opened the packet, and glanced at the letters.

Tresco had picked up his hat.

“I am satisfied,” said the merchant. “Evidently you are a man of resource. But don’t forget that in this matter we are dependent upon each other. I rely thoroughly on you, Tresco, thoroughly. Let us forget the little piece of play-acting of a few minutes ago. Let us be friends, I might say comrades.”

“Certainly, sir. I do so with pleasure.”

“But for the future,” continued Crookenden, “we had better not appear too friendly in public, not for six months or so.”

“Certainly not, not too friendly in public,” Benjamin smiled his blandest, “not for at least six months. But any communication sent me by post will be sure to find me, unless it is intercepted by some unscrupulous person. For six months, Mr. Crookenden, I bid you adieu.”

The merchant sniggered again, and Benjamin walked out of the room.

Then Crookenden rang his bell. To the clerk who answered it, he said:

“You saw that man go out of my office, Mr. Smithers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If ever he comes again to see me, tell him I’m engaged, or not in. I won’t see him – he’s a bad stamp of man, a most ungrateful man, a man I should be sorry to have any dealings with, a man who is likely to get into serious trouble before he is done, a man whom I advise all my young men to steer clear of, one of the most unsatisfactory men it has been my misfortune to meet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all, Mr. Smithers,” said the head of the firm. “I like my young men to be kept from questionable associates; I like them to have the benefit of my experience. I shall do my best to preserve them from the evil influence of such persons as the man I have referred to. That will do. You may go, Mr. Smithers.”

Meanwhile, Benjamin Tresco was striding down the street in the direction of his shop; his speed accelerated by a wicked feeling of triumph, and his face beaming with an acute appreciation of the ridiculous scene in which he had played so prominent a part.

“Hi-yi!” he exclaimed exultingly, as he burst into the little room at the back of his shop, where the Prospector was waiting for him, “the man with whips of money would outwit Benjamin, and the man with the money-bags was forced to shell out. Bill, my most esteemed pal, the rich man would rob the poor, but that poor man was Benjamin, your redoubtable friend Benjamin Tresco, and the man who was dripping with gold got, metaphorically speaking, biffed on the boko. Observe, my esteemed and trusty pal, observe the proceeds of my cunning.”

He threw the whole of his money on the table.

“Help yourself,” he cried. “Take as much as you please: all I ask is the sum of ten pounds to settle a little account which will be very pressing this evening at eight o’clock, when a gentleman named Rock Cod and his estimable mate, Macaroni Joe, are dead sure to roll up, expectant.”

The digger, who, in spite of his return to the regions of civilisation, retained his wildly hirsute appearance, slowly counted the notes.

“I make it a hundred-and-sixty,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Tresco: “there’s sixty-seven for you, and the balance for me.”

Bill took out the two IOUs, and placed them on the table. They totalled £117, of which Benjamin had paid £50.

“I guess,” said the Prospector, “that sixty-seven’ll square it.” He carefully counted out that sum, and put it in his pocket.

Benjamin counted the balance, and made a mental calculation. “Ninety-three pounds,” he said, “and ten of that goes to my respectable friends, Rock Cod and Macaroni. That leaves me the enormous sum of eighty-three pounds. After tearing round the town for three solid days, raising the wind for all I’m worth and almost breaking my credit, this is all I possess. That’s what comes of going out to spend a quiet evening in the company of Fortunatus Bill; that’s what comes of backing my luck against ruffians with loaded dice and lumps on their necks.”

“Have you seen them devils since?” asked the Prospector.

“I’ve been far too busy scrapin’ together this bit of cash to take notice of folks,” said Benjamin, as he tore up the IOUs and threw them into the fireplace. “It’s no good crying over spilt milk or money lost at play. The thing is for you to go back to the bush, and make good your promise.”

“I’m going to-morrow mornin’. I’ve got the missus’s money, which I’ll send by draft, and then I’ll go and square up my bill at the hotel.”

“And then,” said Benjamin, “fetch your swag, and bunk here to-night. It’ll be a most convenient plan.”

“We’re mates,” said the Prospector. “You’ve stood by me and done the ’an’some, an’ I’ll stand by you and return the compliment. An’ it’s my hope we’ll both be rich men before many weeks are out.”

“That’s so,” said Benjamin. “Your hand on it.”

The digger held out his horny, begrimed paw, which the goldsmith grasped with a solemnity befitting the occasion.

“You’ll need a miner’s right,” said the digger.

“I’ve got one,” said Tresco. “Number 76032, all in order, entitling me to the richest claim in this country.”

“I’ll see, mate, that it’s as rich as my own, and that’s saying a wonderful deal.”

“Damme, I’ll come with you straight away!”

“Right, mate; come along.”

“We’ll start before dawn.”

“Before dawn.”

“I’ll shut the shop, and prospect along with you.”

“That’s the way of it. You an’ me’ll be mates right through; and we’ll paint this town red for a week when we’ve made our pile.”

“Jake! Drat that boy; where is he? Jake, come here.”

The shock-headed youth came running from the back yard, where he was chopping wood.

“Me and this gentleman,” said his master, “are going for a little excursion. We start to-morrow morning. See? I was thinking of closing the shop, but I’ve decided to leave you in charge till I return.”

The lad stood with his hands in his pockets, and blew a long, shrill whistle. “Of all the tight corners I was ever in,” he said, “this takes the cake. I’ll want a rise in wages – look at the responsibility, boss.”

The goldsmith laughed. “All right,” he said. “You shall have ten shillings a week extra while I’m away; and if we have luck, Jake, I’ll make it a pound.”

“Right-oh! I’ll take all the responsibility that comes along. I’ll get fat on it. And when you come back, you’ll find the business doubled, and the reputation of B. Tresco increased. It’ll probably end in you taking me in as partner – but I don’t care: it’s all the same to me.”

The goldsmith made an attempt to box the boy’s ear, but Jake dodged his blow.

“That’s your game, is it?” exclaimed the young rogue. “Bash me about, will you? All right – I’ll set up in opposition!”

He didn’t wait for the result of this remark, but with a sudden dart he passed like a streak of lightning through the doorway, and fled into the street.

CHAPTER XVII

Rachel’s Wiles

Rachel Varnhagen walked down the main street of Timber Town, with the same bustling gait, the same radiant face, the same air of possessing the whole earth, as when the reader first met her. As she passed the Kangaroo Bank she paused, and peered through the glass doors; but, receiving no responsive glance from the immaculately attired Isaac, who stood at the counter counting out his money, she continued her way towards her father’s place of business, where she found the rotund merchant in a most unusual state of excitement.

“Now, vat you come bothering me this morning, Rachel? Can’t you see I’m pizzy?”

“I want a cheque, father.”

“You get no cheque from me this morning, my child. I’ve got poor all of a sudden. I’ve got no cheques for nopody.”

“But I have to get things for the house. We want a new gourmet boiler – you know you won’t touch currie made in a frying-pan – a steamer for potatoes, and half-a-dozen table-knives.”

“Don’t we haff no credit? What goot is my name, if you can’t get stew-pans without money? Here I am, with no invoices, my orders ignored as if I was a pauper, and my whole piz’ness at a standstill. Not one single letter do I get, not one. I want a hundred thousand things. I send my orders months and months ago, and I get no reply. My trade is all going to that tam feller, Crookenden! And you come, and ask me for money. Vhen I go along to the Post Master, he kvestion me like a criminal, and pring the Police Sergeant as if I vas a thief. I tell him I nefer rob mail-bags. I tell him if other peoples lose letters, I lose them too. I know nothing aboudt it. I tell him the rascal man is Crookenden and Co. – he should take him to prison: he contracts for mails and nefer delivers my letters. I tell him Crookenden and Co. is the criminal, not me. Then he laff, but that does not gif me my letters.”

During this harangue, Rachel had stood, the mute but pretty picture of astonishment.

“But, father,” she said, “I want to go to the bank. I want to speak to Isaac awfully, and how can I go in there without some excuse!”

“I’ll gif you the exguse to keep out! I tell you somethings which will make you leave that young man alone. He nefer loaf you, Rachel – he loaf only my money.”

“Father! this worry about the mail has turned you silly.”

“Oh, yes, I’m silly when I throw the ink-pot at him. I’ve gone mad when I kick him out of my shop. You speak to that young man nefer again, Rachel, my tear; you nefer look at him. Then, by-and-by, I marry you to the mos’ peautiful young man with the mos’ loafly moustache and whiskers. You leaf it to your poor old father. He’ll choose you a good husband. When I was a young man I consult with my father, and I marry your scharming mamma, and you, my tear Rachel, are the peautiful result. Eh? my tear.”

The old man took his daughter’s face between his fat hands, and kissed her on both cheeks.

“You silly old goose,” said Rachel, tenderly, “you seem to think I have no sense. I’m not going to marry Isaac yet– there can’t be any harm in speaking to him. I’m only engaged. Why should you be frightened if I flirt a little with him? You seem to think a girl should be made of cast-iron, and just wait till her father finds a husband for her. You’re buried up to your eyes in invoices and bills of lading and stupid, worrying things that drive you cranky, and you never give a thought to my future. What’s to become of me, if I don’t look out for myself? Goodness knows! there are few enough men in the town that I could marry; and because I pick out one for myself, you storm and rage as if I was thinking of marrying a convict.”

“Young Zahn is worse: he is the worst rogue I ever see. He come in here to bully me into making him my partner. He threatens to tell my piz’ness to Crookenden and Co. I tell him, ‘You do it, my poy. I schange my account, and tell your manager why.’ That young man’s too smart: soon he find himself in gaol. If my tear little Rachel marries a criminal, what would become of her poor old father? My tear, my tarling, you make me die with grief! But wait till the right young man comes along, then I gif you my blessing and two thousand pounds. But I gif you not von penny if you marry young Zahn.”

The tears were now standing in Rachel’s pretty eyes, and she looked the picture of grief.

“I never do anything, but you blame me,” she sobbed. “When I wish to do a thing, you always say it’s bad. You don’t love me!” And she burst into a flood of tears.

“Rachel! Rachel! I gafe you the gold watch; and that bill came to thirty-three pounds. I gif you everything, and when I tell you not to run after a bad young feller, you say I nefer loaf you. Rachel, you are cruel; you make your father’s heart bleed; you stab me here” – he pointed with his fat forefinger to the middle of his waistcoat – “you stab me here” – he placed his finger on his forehead. “You show no loaf, no consideration. You make me most unhappy. You’re a naughty girl!”

The old fellow was almost crying. Rachel put her arms about his neck, and pressed his corpulent person with affection.

“Father, I’ll be good. I know I’m very bad. But I love you, father. I’ll never cause you any sorrow again. I’ll do everything you tell me. I won’t gad about so much; I’ll stop at home more. I will, father; I really will.”

“My tear Rachel! My loafly!” The old man was holding his pretty daughter at arm’s length, and was gazing at her with parental fondness. “You are my peautiful, tear, goot, little girl.”

Again her arms were flung round his neck. Again she kissed his bristly cheeks with her ruby-red lips. “You are an old dear,” she exclaimed. “You’re the kindest old governor going.”

“You loaf your old father?”

“Of course I do. But I do– I do so want a small cheque. I must have it for the house.”

“You’ll always loaf your father, Rachel?”

“Always.” She renewed her affectionate embraces.

“You shall have a little one – not so big as when my ship comes home, not so big as I’d like, but enough to show that I loaf you, Rachel.”

He let her lead him to his desk, and there he sat and wrote a cheque which Rachel took gladly. She gave him one more kiss, and said, “You dear, good, kind old party; your little Rachel’s awfully pleased,” and gaily tripped from the dingy office into the sunny street.

CHAPTER XVIII

Digging

Moonlight and Scarlett were glad with the delight of success, for inside their tent, which was pitched beside Bush Robin Creek, lay almost as much gold as one of them could conveniently carry to Timber Town.

They had searched the rocky sides of the gorge where they had first found gold, and its ledges and crevices had proved to be exceedingly rich. Next, they had examined the upper reaches of the creek, and after selecting a place where the best “prospects” were to be found, they had determined to work the bottom of the river-bed. Their “claim” was pegged off, the water had been diverted, and the dam had been strengthened with boulders taken from the river-bed, and now, having placed their sluice-boxes in position, they were about to have their first “washing up.”

As they sat, and ate their simple fare – “damper” baked on the red-hot embers of their fire, a pigeon which Scarlett had shot that morning, and tea – their conversation was of their “claim.”

“What do you think it will go?”

“The dirt in the creek is rich enough, but what’s in the flat nobody can say. There may be richer gold in some of the higher terraces than down here. I’ve known such cases.”

At the place where they were camped, the valley had been, at some distant period, a lake which had subsided after depositing a rich layer of silt, through which the stream had cut its way subsequently. Over this rich alluvial deposit the forest had spread luxuriantly, and it was only the skill of the experienced prospector that could discover the possibilities of the enormous stretches of river silt which Nature had so carefully hidden beneath the tangled, well-nigh impenetrable forest.

“The river is rich,” continued Moonlight, “that we know. Possibly it deposited gold on these flats for ages. If that is so, this valley will be one of the biggest ‘fields’ yet developed. What we must do first is to test the bottom of the old lake; therefore, as soon as we have taken the best of the gold out of the river, I propose to ‘sink’ on the terraces till I find the rich deposit.”

“Perhaps what we are getting now has come from the terraces above,” said Jack.

“I think not.”

“Where does it come from then?”

“I can’t say, unless it is from some reef in the ranges. You must not forget that there’s the lower end of the valley to be prospected yet – we have done nothing below the gorge.”

Talking thus, they ate their “damper” and stewed pigeon, and drank their “billy” tea. Then they lit their pipes, and strolled towards the scene of their labours.

The place chosen for the workings was selected by circumstance rather than by the diggers. At this particular point of its course there had been some hesitation on the part of the river in choosing its bed, and with but a little coaxing it had been diverted into an old channel – which evident signs showed to be utilised as an overflow in time of flood – and thus by a circuitous route it found its way to the mouth of the gorge.

All was ready for the momentous operation of washing up, and the men’s minds were full of expectation.

The bottom of fine silt, which had been laid bare when the boulders had been removed, stood piled on the bank, so as to be out of harm’s way in case the river burst through the dam. Into the old bed a trickle of water ran through the sluice-boxes. These were set in the dry bed of the stream, and were connected with the creek by a water-race. They were each twelve feet in length, and consisted of a bottom and two sides, into which fitted neatly a twelve-foot board, pierced with a number of auger-holes. These boxes could be joined one to another, and the line of them could thus be prolonged indefinitely. The wash-dirt would be shovelled in at the top end, and the water, flowing down the “race,” would carry it over the boxes, till it was washed out at the lower end, leaving behind a deposit of gold, which, owing to its specific gravity, would lodge in the auger-holes.

Moonlight went to the head of the “race,” down which presently the water rushed, and rippled through the sluice-boxes. Next, he threw a shovelful of wash-dirt into the lower part of the “race,” and soon its particles were swept through the sluice, and another shovelful followed.

When Moonlight tired, Scarlett relieved him, and so, working turn and turn about, after an hour they could see in the auger-holes a small yellow deposit: in the uppermost holes an appreciable quantity, and in the lower ones but a few grains.

“It’s all right,” said Moonlight, “we’ve struck it.” He looked at the great heaps of wash-dirt on the bank, and his eyes shone with satisfaction.

“Do you think the dam will hold?” asked Scarlett of the experienced digger.

“It’s safe enough till we get a ‘fresh’,” was the reply. Moonlight glanced at the dripping rampart, composed of tree-trunks and stones. “But even if there does happen to be a flood, and the dam bursts,” he added, “we’ve still got the ‘dirt’ high and dry. But we shall have warning enough, I expect, to save the ‘race’ and sluice-boxes.”

“It meant double handling to take out the wash-dirt before we started to wash up,” said Scarlett, “but I’m glad we did it.”

“Once, on the Greenstone,” said Moonlight, “we were working from the bed of the creek. There came a real old-man flood which carried everything away, and when we cleaned out the bed again, there wasn’t so much as a barrowful of gold-bearing dirt left behind. Once bitten, twice shy.”

If the process was monotonous, it had the advantage of being simple. The men slowly shovelled the earth into the last length of the “race,” and the running water did the rest. In the evening, a big pile of “tailings” was heaped up at the foot of the sluice, and as some of the auger-holes were half-filled with gold, Moonlight gave the word for cleaning out the boxes.

The water from the dam was cut off, leaving but a trickle running through the boxes. The false bottoms were then taken out of the sluice, and upon the floors of the boxes innumerable little heaps of gold lay exposed to the miners’ delighted eyes.

The heavy gold, caught before it had reached the first sluice-box, lay at the lower end of the “race.” To separate the small quantity of grit that remained with the gold, the diggers held the rich little heaps claw-wise with their fingers, while the rippling water ran through them. Thus the gold was left pure, and with the blade of a sheath-knife, it was easily transferred to the big tin dish.

“What weight?” asked Jack, as he lifted the precious load.

Moonlight solemnly took the “pan” from his mate. “One-fifty to one-sixty ounces,” he said oracularly. His gaze wandered to the heap of wash-dirt which remained. “We’ve washed about one-sixth,” he said. “Six times one-fifty is nine hundred. We’ll say, roughly, £4 an ounce: that gives us something like £3600 from that heap.”

As night was now approaching, they walked slowly towards their tent, carrying their richly-laden dish with them. Sitting in the tent-door, with their backs to the dark forest and their heads bent over the gold, they transferred the precious contents of the dish to a strong chamois-leather bag. Moonlight held open the mouth of the receptacle, and watched the process eagerly. About half the pleasant task was done, when suddenly a voice behind them said, “Who the blazes are you?”

Turning quickly, they saw standing behind them two men who had emerged from the forest.

Seizing an axe which lay beside him, Moonlight assumed an attitude of defence. Scarlett, who was weaponless, stood firm and rigid, ready for an onslaught.

“You seem to have struck it,” said the newcomer who had spoken, his greedy eyes peering at the dish. “Do put down that axe, mate. We ain’t bushrangers.”

Moonlight lowered the head of his weapon, and said, “Yes, we’ve got the colour.”

“Blow me if it ain’t my friend Moonlight!” exclaimed the second intruder, advancing towards the diggers. “How’s yerself?”

“Nicely, thank you,” replied Moonlight. “Come far to-day?”

“A matter of eight hours’ tramp – but not so fer; the bush is mighty thick. This is my mate. Here, Ben, shake ’ands.”

It was none other than Benjamin Tresco who came forward. As he lowered his “swag” to the ground, he said, smiling urbanely, “How de do? I reckon you’ve jumped our claim. But we bear no malice. We’ll peg out another.”

“This ain’t ours,” said the Prospector, “not by chalks. You’re above the gorge, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Moonlight, “I should reckon we must be a mile above it.”

“Where I worked,” continued Bill, “was more’n a mile below the gorge. What are you makin’?”

“A few pennyweights,” responded Moonlight.

“It looks like it!” exclaimed the Prospector, glancing at the richly-laden dish. “Look ’ere, Ben: a few pennyweights, that’s all – just makin’ tucker. Poor devils!”

Moonlight laughed, and so did Scarlett.

“Well, we might do worse than put our pegs alongside theirs, eh, Ben?”

“Oceans worse,” replied Tresco.

“Did you prospect the gorge?” asked Moonlight.

“I wasn’t never in the gorge,” said the Prospector. “The river was too high, all the time I was working; but there’s been no rain for six weeks, so she’s low now.”

Tresco advanced with mock trepidation, and looked closely at the gold in the chamois-leather bag, which he lifted with assumed difficulty. “About half a hundredweight,” he said. “How much more of this sort have you got?”

Moonlight ignored the question, but turning to the Prospector, he said, “I shouldn’t have left till I’d fossicked that gorge, if I’d been you.”

“Then you’ve been through it?” queried Bill.

Moonlight nodded.

“How did it pan out?”

“There was gold there.”

“Make tucker, eh?” the Prospector laughed. “Well this’ll be good enough for us. We’ll put in our pegs above yours. But how you dropped on this field just gits over me. You couldn’t have come straighter, not if I’d shown you the way myself.”

“Instinct,” replied Moonlight. “Instinct and the natural attraction of the magnet.” He desired to take no credit for his own astuteness in prospecting.

Scarlett had so far said nothing, but he now invited the newcomers to eat, before they pitched their tent.

“No, no,” said the Prospector, “you must be on pretty short commons – you must ha’ bin out a fortnight and more. Me an’ my mate’ll provide the tucker.”

“We are a bit short, and that’s the truth,” said Moonlight, “but we reckon on holding out till we’ve finished this wash-up, and then one of us’ll have to fetch stores.”

While Benjamin and his mate were unpacking their swags and Scarlett was lighting the fire, Moonlight transferred the rest of the gold from the dish to the leather bag.

When the four men sat down to their frugal meal of “billy” tea, boiled bacon, and “damper,” they chatted and laughed like schoolboys.

“Ah!” exclaimed Tresco, as red flames of the fire shot toward the stars and illumined the gigantic trunks of the surrounding trees, “this is freedom and the charm of Nature. No blooming bills to meet, no bother about the orders of worrying customers, no everlasting bowing and scraping; all the charm of society, good-fellowship, confidence, and conversation, with none of the frills of so-called civilization. But that is not all. Added to this is the prospect of making a fortune in the morning. Now, that is what I call living.”