The Goldsmith Comes to Town.
Timber Town was in a state of commotion. The news of the discovery of the new gold-field had spread far and wide, and every steamer which came into the port was crowded with clammering diggers. Every boarding-house was full to overflowing, every inn was choked with men in heavy boots and corduroy trousers; the roads on the outskirts of the town were lined with rows of tents; everybody talked of the El Dorado in the mountains; there was no thought but of gold; men were buying stores in every shop; pack-horses stood with their heavy loads, in every inn-yard; and towards the bush, threading their way through the tortuous gorge that led into the heart of the mountains, a continual string of diggers, laden with heavy “swags” or leading patient over-laden horses, filed into the depths of the forest.
Jake Ruggles had lived a troubled life since his legal head and overlord, the official sponsor of his promising young life, had dropped out of his existence, as a stone drops to the bottom of a well and is nomore seen. Upon his immature shoulders rested all the worry of the goldsmith’s business. He was master of Tresco’s bench; the gravers and the rat-tail files, the stock-drills and the corn-tongs were under his hand for good or for evil. With blow-pipe and burnisher, with plush-wheel and stake-anvil he wrought patiently; almost bursting with responsibility, yet with anxiety gnawing at his heart. And the lies he told on behalf of his “boss”!—lies to men with unpaid accounts in their hands, lies to constables with bits of blue paper from the Clerk of the Court, lies to customers whose orders could not be executed except by the master-goldsmith. On all sides the world pressed heavily on Jake. His wizened face was quickly assuming the aspect of a little old man’s; his furtive eyes began to wear a scared look; sleep had ceased to visit his innocent couch with regularity; his appetite, which formerly had earned him a reputation with his peers, was now easily appeased with a piece of buttered bread and a cup of milkless tea; the “duff” and rice puddings, of the goldsmith’s making, had passed out of his life even as had the “boss” himself. Never was there a more badgered, woe-begone youth than Jake.
It was night time. The shutters of the shop were up, the door was bolted, the safe, with its store of gold-set gewgaws, was locked, and the key rested securely in the apprentice’s pocket, but by the light of a gas-jet, his head bent over the bench, Jake was hard at work on a half-finished ring. In one hand he held a tapering steel rod, on which was threaded a circle of metal which might have been mistaken for brass; in the other he held a light hammer with which he beat the yellow zone. Tap-tap. “Jerusalem, my ’appy ’ome, oh! how I long for thee!” Tap-tap-tap went the hammer. “If the ‘old man’ was on’y here to lend a hand, I’d give a week’s pay. The gold’s full o’ flaws—all along of the wrong alloy, in smeltin’—full o’ cracks and crevices.” He took the gold hoop off the steel rod, placed it on a piece of charred wood, pulled the gas-jet towards him, and with the blow-pipe impinged little jets of flame upon the yellow ring. “An’ the galloot that come in this afternoon said, ‘I always find the work turned out of this shop ah—excellent, ah—tip-top, as good as anything I ever bought in the Old Country, don’tcherknow.’ Yah! Gimme silver, that’s all. Gimme a butterfly buckle to make, or a monogram to saw out, an’ I wouldn’t call the Pope my uncle.” His eye lifted from his work and rested on a broken gold brooch, beautiful with plaited hair under a glass centre. “An’ that fussy old wood-hen’ll be in, first thing to-morrow, askin’ for ‘the memento of my poor dear ’usband, my child, the one with the ’air in it’—carrotty ’air. An’ those two bits of ’air-pins that want them silver bangles by ten o’clock, they’ll be here punctual. I’m just fair drove silly with badgerin’ wimmen. I’m goin’ ratty with worry. When the boss comes back from his spree, I’ll give ’im a bit o’ my mind. I’ll tell ’im, if hemustgo on a bend he should wait till the proper time—Christmas, Anniversary of the Settlement, Easter, or even a Gov’ment Holiday. But at a time likethis, when the town’s fair drippin’ with dollars ... stupid ole buck-rabbit! An’ when he can’t be found, the mutton-headed bobbies suddenly become suspicious. It’s no good for me to tell ’em it’s his periodical spree—theysay it’s robbery. Oh, well, I back my opinion, that’s all. But whether it’s the one, or the other, of all the chuckle-headed old idiots that ever was born”—Tap-tap. It was not the noise of Jake’s hammer, but a gentle knocking at the side-door of the workshop.
The apprentice rose quietly, and put his ear to the key-hole. Tap-tap-tap.
“Who’s there?”
“Open the door,” said a soft voice. “It’s me. I want to come in.”
“Very likely you do. There’s many more’d like to come in here.”
“Is that you, Jake?”
“Never you mind. Who’re you?”
“You weasel-faced young imp, am I to burst open my own door?”
The mystery was at an end. In a moment, the bolt was withdrawn and Benjamin Tresco stood in his workshop.
But before he spoke, he bolted the door behind him. Then he said, “Well?”
“So you’ve come back?” said Jake, fiercely.
“Looks like it,” said the goldsmith. “How’s things?”
“Gone to the devil. How d’you expect me to keep business goin’ when you go on a howling spree, for weeks?”
“Spree? Me? My dear innocent youth, I have clean forgotten the very taste of beer. At this present moment, I stand before you a total abstainer of six weeks’ duration. And yet what I ask for is not beer, but bread—I’m as hungry as a wolf; I’ve hardly eaten anything for two days. What have you got in the house?”
“Nothin’.”
“What!”
“Idon’t ’ave no time to cook. When I can find time, I go up to The Lucky Digger and get a good square feed. D’you expect me to do two men’s work and cook as well?”
Tresco undid the small “swag” which he carried, and before the astonished eyes of his apprentice he disclosed fully a hundred ounces of gold.
“Jee-rusalem! Blame me if you ain’t been diggin’!”
“That’s so, my son.”
“And the police are fair ratty because they thought you were hiding from the Law.”
“So I am, my son.”
“Garn!”
“Solemn fact—there’s a writ out against me.”
“Well?”
“I ain’t got a mind to be gaoled at such a glorious time in the history of Timber Town. I want to get more gold, stacks of it.”
“An’ where doIcome in?”
“You come in as owner of this business by and by—if you’re a good boy.”
“Huh! I want to go diggin’ too.”
“All in good time, my energetic youth, all in good time. But for the present, give me some food.”
“Didn’t I tell you there isn’t any?” yelled Jake.
“Very good, very good, but don’t talk so loud. Take this half-crown, and go to The Lucky Digger. Tell the young lady in the bar that you have a friend who’s dying of hunger. Tell her to fill a jug with a quart of beer, and a basket with tucker of sorts. And hurry back; for, by my sacred aunt, if I don’t get something better presently, I shall turn cannibal and eatyou!”
While the boy was gone, Tresco weighed the gold that lay on the bench. It came to 111 ounces, and this, valued at the current price of gold from Bush Robin Creek—the uninitiated are possibly unaware that as one star differeth from another star in glory, so the gold from one locality differs in price from that found in another—came to £430 2s. 6d.
Finding the safe locked, Tresco, whistling softly, turned down the gas, and sat at his bench in the gloom.
When Jake returned he was cautiously admitted, the door was re-bolted, and the gas was turned up sufficiently to show the goldsmith the way to his mouth.
“Where’s the key of the safe, Jake?”
“Where it ought to be.”
“You young imp, anty up.”
Jake produced the key from his pocket. “D’you suppose I label it and put it in the winder?”
“Put this gold away—there’s 111 ounces. I’ll bring some more next time I come. Now.” He lifted the jug, and drank. When he set it down again, it was half empty. “That’s what I call a moment of bliss. No one who hasn’t spent a month in the bush knows what a thirst really is; he ain’t got no conception what beer means. Now, what’s in the basket?” He lifted the white napkin that covered his supper. “Ham!” A beautific smile illumined his face. “Ham, pink and white and succulent, cut in thin slices by fair hands. Delicious! And what’s this? Oyster patties, cold certainly, but altogether lovely. New bread, cheese, apple turn-over! Couldn’t be better. The order of the menu is; first, entrees—that means oysters—next, ham, followed by sweets, and topped off with a morsel of cheese. Stand by and watch me eat—a man that has suffered semi-starvation for nearly a month.”
Jake lit a cigarette, an indulgence with which in these days of worry and stress he propitiated his overwrought nerves. He drew in the smoke with all the relish of a connoisseur, and expelled it through his nostrils.
“Is this gold the result of six weeks’ work?” he asked.
“No, barely one week’s,” answered Tresco, his mouth full of ham and new bread.
“Crikey!” Jake inhaled more cigarette smoke. “’Seems to me our potty little trade ain’t in it. I move that we both go in for the loocrative profession of diggin’.”
“Mumf—mumf—muff—muff.” The ham had conquered Tresco’s speech.
“Jes’ so. That’s whatIthink, boss.”
Benjamin gave a gulp. “I won’t take you,” he said, as plainly as possible.
“Oh, you won’t?”
“I won’t.”
“Then, suppose I go on my own hook, eh?”
“You’ve got to stop and look after this shop. You’re apprenticed tome.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“If a man chooses to spend a little holiday in the bush, is his apprentice to suppose his agreement’s cancelled? Not a bit of it.”
“An’ suppose a man chooses to spend a little holiday in gaol, what then?”
“That’s outside the sphere of practical politics, my son.”
“I don’t know so much about that. I think different. I think we’ll cry quits. I think I’ll go along with you, or likely there’ll be trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes, trouble.”
“What sort of trouble, jackanapes?”
“Why, crimson trouble.”
“Indeed.”
“I’ve got you tied hand and foot, boss. You can take that fromme.”
“Is that so? What do you think you can do?”
“I intend to go along with you.”
“But I start to-night. If I can scrape together enough food to last a week or two. But I’ll take you along. You shall come. I’ll show you how I live. Now, then, what d’you say?” There was a twinkle in Tresco’s eye, and the corners of his mouth twitched with merriment.
“Think I don’t know when I’ve got a soft thing on?” Jake took off his apron, and hung it on a nail. “Shan’t wantthat, for amonth or two anyway.” Then he faced the “boss” with, “Equal whacks, you old bandicoot. I’ll find the tucker, and we’ll share the gold.”
Tresco’s smile broke into a hearty laugh. He put his hands to his sides, threw back his head, and fairly chortled.
“I don’t see any joke.” Jake looked at his master from beneath his extravagant eyebrows.
“You’ll ... you’ll get the tucker ... see?”
“Why, yes—how’s a man to live?”
“An’ you’ll help swag it?”
“’Course.”
“You’ll implicitly obey your lawful lord and master, out on the wallaby?”
“’Spect I’ll ’ave to.”
“You won’t chiack or poke borak at his grey and honoured head when, by reason of his endowment of adipose tissue, his wind gives out?”
“Oh, talk sense. Adipose rabbits’ skins!”
“All these several and collective points being agreed upon, my youthful Adonis, I admit you into partnership.”
“Done,” said the apprentice, with emphasis. “It’s a bargain. Go and sleep, and I’ll fossick round town for tucker—I’m good for a sixty-pound swag, and you for eighty. So-long.”
He turned off the gas, took the key of the side door, which he locked after him, and disappeared, whilst Tresco groped his way to bed.
The surreptitious goldsmith had slept for two hours when the stealthy apprentice let himself quietly into the dark and cheerless house. He bore on his back a heavy bag of flour, and carried on his arm a big basket filled with minor packages gleaned from sleepy shopkeepers, who had been awakened by the lynx-eyed youth knocking at their backdoors.
In the cheerful and enlivening company of an alarum clock, Jake retired to his couch, which consisted of a flax-stuffed mattress resting on a wooden bedstead, and there he quickly buried himself in a weird tangle of dirty blankets, and went to sleep.
At the conclusion of three brief hours, which to the heavy sleeper appeared as so many minutes, the strident alarum woke the apprentice to the stress of life. By the light of a tallow candle he huddled on his clothes, and entered the goldsmith’s chamber.
“Now, then, boss, three o’clock! Up you git!”
Benjamin rubbed his eyes, sat up in bed, and yawned.
“‘’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain:You’ve waked me too soon—I must slumber again.’
What’s the time, Jake?”
“Ain’t I tellin’ you?—three o’clock. If we don’t want to be followed by every digger in the town, we must get out of it before dawn.”
“Wise young Solomon, youth of golden promise. Go and boil the kettle. We’ll have a snack before we go. Then for fresh fields and pastures new.”
The goldsmith bounded out of bed, with a buoyancy which resembled that of an india-rubber ball.
“Ah-ha!‘Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweek bird’s throat,Come hither.’You see, Jakey, mine, we were eddicated when we was young.” Benjamin had jumped into his clothes as he talked. “A sup and asnack, and we flit by the light of the moon.”
“There ain’t no moon.”
“So much the better. We’ll guide our steps by the stars’ pale light and the beams of the Southern Cross.”
By back lanes and by-roads the goldsmith and his boy slunk out of the town. At the mouth of the gorge where diggers’ tents lined the road, they walked delicately, exchanging no word till they were deep in the solitude of the hills.
As the first streak of dawn pierced the gloom of the deep valley, they were wading, knee-deep, a ford of the river, whose banks they had skirted throughout their journey. On the further side the forest, dank, green, and dripping with dew, received them into its impenetrable shades, but still the goldsmith toiled on; his heavy burden on his back, and the panting, weary, energetic, enthusiastic apprentice following his steps.
Leaving the track, Tresco led the way up a steep gully, thickly choked with underscrub, and dark with the boughs of giant trees. Forcing their way through tangled supple-jacks and clinging “lawyer” creepers which sought to stay their progress, the wayfarers climbed till, as day dawned, they paused to rest their wearied limbs before a sheer cliff of rock.
“It’s not very far now,” said the goldsmith, as he wiped his dripping brow. “This is the sort of work to reduce the adipose tissue, my son. D’you think you could find your way here by yourself, indomitable Jakey?”
“Huh! ’Course,” replied the breathless youth, proud to be his master’s companion in such a romantic situation, and glorying in his “swag”. “Is this your bloomin’ camp?”
“No, sir.” Tresco glanced up the face of the great limestone rock which barred their path. “Not exactly. We’ve got to scale this cliff, and then we’re pretty well there.”
A few supple-jacks hung down the face of the rock. These Tresco took in his hand, and twisted them roughly into a cable. “’Look natural, don’t they?” he said. “’Look as if they growed t’other end, eh? Now, watch me.” With the help of his rope of lianas he climbed up the rugged cliff, and when at the summit, he called to Jake to tie the “swags” to separate creepers. These he hoisted to the top of the cliff, and shortly afterwards the eager face of the apprentice appeared over the brow.
“Here we are,” exclaimed Benjamin, “safe as a church. Pull up the supple-jacks, Jake.”
With an enthusiasm which plainly betokened a mind dwelling on bushrangers and hidden treasure, the apprentice did as he was told.
Out of breath through his exertions, he excitedly asked, “What’s the game, boss? Where’s the bloomin’ plant?”
“Plant?” replied the goldsmith.
“Yes, the gold, the dollars?”
“Dollars? Gold?”
“Yes, gold! ’ThinkIdon’t know? Theseyer rocks are limestone. Who ever saw gold in limestone formation? Eh?”
“How doyouknow it’s limestone?”
“Yah! Ain’t I bin down to the lime-kiln, by Rubens’ wharf, and seen the lime brought over the bay? What’s the game? Tell us.”
“The thing that I’m most interested in, at this present moment,”—the goldsmith took up his heavy “swag”—“is tucker.”
Without further words, he led the way between perpendicular outcrops of rocks whose bare, grey sides were screened by fuchsia trees, birch saplings, lance-wood, and such scrub as could take root in the shallow soil. Turning sharply round a projecting rock, he passed beneath a tall black birch which grew close to an indentationin the face of the cliff. Beneath the great tree the heels of the goldsmith crushed the dry, brown leaves deposited during many seasons; then in an instant he disappeared from the sight of the lynx-eyed Jake, as a rabbit vanishes into its burrow.
“Hi! Here! Boss! Where the dooce has the ole red-shank got too?”
A muffled voice, coming as from the bowels of the earth, said, “Walk inside. Liberty Hall.... Free lodging and no taxes.”
Jake groped his way beneath the tree, surrounded on three sides by the limestone cliff. In one corner of the rock was a sharp depression, in which grew shrubs of various sorts. Dropping into this, the lad pushed his way through the tangled branches and stood before the entrance of a cave.
Inside Tresco held a lighted candle in his hand. In front of him stood Jake, spellbound.
Overhead, the ceiling was covered with white and glistening stalactites; underfoot, the floor was strewn with bits of carbonate and the broken bases of stalagmites, which had been shattered to make a path for the ruthless iconoclast who had made his home in this pearly-white temple, built without hands.
Tresco handed Jake another lighted candle.
“Allow me to introduce you, my admirable Jakey, to my country mansion, where I retire from the worry of business, and turn my mind to the contemplation of Nature. This is the entrance hall, the portico: observe the marble walls and the ceiling-decorations—Early English, perpendicular style.”
Jake stood, open-mouthed with astonishment.
“Now we come to the drawing-room, the grandsalon, where I give my receptions.” Benjamin led the way through a low aperture, on either side of which stalactites and stalagmites had met, leaving a low doorway in the centre. Beyond this, the candles’ dim light struggled for supremacy in a great hall, whose walls shone like crystal. On one side the calcareous encrustations had taken the form of a huge organ, cut as if out of marble, with pipes and key-board complete.
“Holee Christopher!” exclaimed the apprentice.
“Nature’s handiwork,” said the goldsmith. “Beautiful.... Been making, this thousand years, forme—an’ you.”
“Then I reckon Nature forgot the chimbley—it’s as cold as the grave.”
“On the contrary, there is a chimney; but Nature doesn’t believe in a fireplace in each room. Proceed. I will now show you my private apartments. Mind the step.”
He led the way down a dark passage, strewn with huge pieces of limestone, over which master and apprentice scrambled, into an inner chamber, where the white walls were grimed with smoke and the black embers of an extinguished fire lay in the middle of the floor.
“Mysanctum sanctorum,” said the goldsmith, as he fixed the butt of his candle to a piece of rock by means of drops of melted wax poured from the lighted end. “This is where I meditate; this is where I mature my plans for the betterment of the human species.”
“Rats! You’re darn well hidin’ from the police.”
“My son, you grieve me; your lack of the poetic shocks me.”
“Oh, garn! You robbed those mails, that’s about the size of it.”
“Robbed?—no, sir. Examined?—yes, sir. I was the humble instrument in the hands of a great rascal, a man of unprincipled life, a man who offered bribes, heavy bribes—an’ I took ’em. I had need of money.”
“First comes the bender and then the bribe. I know, boss. But where d’you get the gold?”
Benjamin stooped over a mass of bedding, rolled up in a tent-fly, and brought to light a canvas bag.
“My private store,” he said, “mine and Bill’s. We go whacks. We’re doing well, but expediency demands that for a short while I should retire into private life. And, by the hokey, I can afford it.”
“Gold?” asked Jake, peering at the bag.
“Nuggets,” said the goldsmith.
Jake dropped his “swag” and felt the weight of the bag.
“It gits over me,” he said. “Either you stole it, or you dug it. I give it up. Any’ow, there it is.”
Benjamin smiled his broadest, and began to rake together the charred sticks scattered over the floor.
“This is my only trouble,” he said. “To yank my firewood in here is heart-breaking; that and swagging tucker from town.”
“Where’s the smoke go to?” Jake looked into the inky blackness above.
“Don’t know. Never asked. I guess it finds its way somewhere, for after I’ve hung my blanket over the doorway and lighted the fire, I sometimes notice that the bats which live overhead buzz round and then clear out somewhere. I imagine that there’s a passage which connects with the open air. Some day, perhaps, an over-earnest policeman will drop on our heads. Then there’ll be a picnic, eh?”
“What I want, just at present,” said Jake, “is a drink.”
“That’s another of my troubles,” replied the goldsmith. “I have to fetch my water from outside, but it’s lovely water when you’ve got it.”
He placed his bag of gold in a corner. “Don’t put all your eggs into one basket,” he said. “I believe in Jacob’s plan—divide your belongings. If I’m caught here, I have the plant in town. If I’m caught in town, I have the plant here. Anyhow, the police can’t get everything.”
“An’ where do I come in?” The eyes of the rabbit-faced youth peered into his master’s.
“I don’t precisely know. I don’t think you come in at all.”
“Then what about that gold in the safe, boss?”
“The key is here.” Benjamin slapped his pocket gently. “But, if you’re a good boy you shall have my business, and be the boss goldsmith of Timber Town.”
“Honest injin?”
“Perfectly honest. If I get away with my gold, all I leave behind is yours.”
“Shake hands on it.”
“Certainly,” said the goldsmith, and he held out his hand.
Jake took it in his.
“It’s a bargain,” he said.
“That’s right; a bargain.”
“I’ll help you to get away with your gold, and you’ll leave me your business, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“That’s exactly it,” said the goldsmith, taking up an empty “billy” from the ground. “Now we’ll go and get the water for our tea.”
Fishing.
A case of bottling-plums, the bloom still on their purple cheeks, stood on the kitchen table. Beside it stood Rose, her arms bare to the elbows, and a snowy apron flowing from breast to ankle. Marshalled in regular array in front of the case, stood a small army of glass jars, which presently were to receive the fruit.
In a huge preserving-pan a thick syrup was simmering on the stove; and Rose had just begun to place the fruit in this saccharine mixture, when a succession of knocks, gentle but persistent, was heard coming from the front door.
“Oh, bother,” said Rose, as she paused with a double handful of plums half way between the fruit-case and the stove. “Who can that be?”
Again the knocking resounded through the house.
“I suppose I must go,” said Rose, placing the fruit carefully in the pan, and then, slipping off her flowing apron, she went hurriedly to the front door.
There stood the pretty figure of Rachel Varnhagen, dressed in billowy muslin, a picture hat which was adorned with the brightest of ribbons and artificial flowers, and the daintiest of shoes. Her sallow cheeks were tinged with a carmine flush, her pearly teeth gleamed behind a winning smile, and a tress of glossy hair, escaped from under her frail head-dress, hung bewitchingly upon her shoulder.
“Oh, how do youdo?” she exclaimed effusively, as she closed her silk parasol. “I look an awful guy, I know; but there’ssucha wind, that I’ve almost been blown to pieces.”
It was the first time that Rose’s humble roof had had the privilege of sheltering the daughter of the rich Jew.
“I’m afraid I hardly expected you.” The Pilot’s daughter looked frankly and with an amused smile at Rachel. “I’m in the middle of bottling fruit. Do you mind coming into the kitchen?—the fruit will spoil if I leave it.”
Leading the way, she was followed by her pretty caller, who, in all her glory, seated herself on a cane-bottomed chair in the kitchen, and commenced to gossip.
“I’vesuchnews,” she said, tapping the pine floor with the ferrule of her parasol. Rose continued to transfer her plums to the preserving-pan. “I expect you heard of the dreadful experience I had with that horrid, drunken digger who caught me on the foot-bridge—everybody heard of it. Who do you think it was that saved me?”
She waited for Rose to risk a guess.
“I suppose,” said the domestic girl, her arms akimbo as she faced her visitor, “I should think it ought to have been Mr. Zahn.”
“Oh, him!” exclaimed Rachel, disgustedly. “I’ve jilted him—he was rude to Papa.”
“Thenwhocould it be?” Rose placed more plums in the preserving-pan.
“Youought to know.” Just the trace of a pout disfigured Rachel’s pretty mouth. “He’s a friend of yours, I believe; a very great friend, indeed.”
“I’ve a good many friends.” The preserving-pan was now full, and Rose sat down, to wait a few minutes till the fruit should be ready for bottling.
“Papa is simply in love with him. He says he can never repay him. And how he laughed when I told him that my gallant rescuer threw the digger into the water! Can’t you guess who it is,now?”
Rose was silent.
“Really, I think this stupid cooking and jam-making has made you silly. Why don’t you work in the morning, and go out in the afternoon to see your friends?”
Rose turned her blue eyes on her visitor. They distinctly said, “What business is that of yours?” But her lips said, “Now, really, how can I?”
“When a girl’s engaged”—Rachel sighed as she spoke—“she doesn’t care much about society.”
Rose smiled.
“At least that was the way with me.” Rachel’s carmine lips gave a little quiver at the corners. “I supposeyoufeel like that.”
“Me? I feel just as usual.”
“But you’re so English, nothing would disturbyou.”
Rose laughed aloud. “I should shriek if a digger touched me,” she said.
“But it was almost worth the fright, dear.” Rachel leaned forward confidentially. “First, he put me on his horse, and we forded the river together; then, he took me home and was so kind. Idothink you’resucha lucky girl.”
“Me? Why?”
Suddenly Rachel’s manner altered. Bursting into a rippling laugh, she raised her parasol, and skittishly poked Rose in the ribs.
“How very close some people are,” she exclaimed. “But you might as well own the soft impeachment, and then all the girls could congratulate you.”
The thought went through Rose’s mind, that if the good wishes of her acquaintances were like this girl’s perhaps they might well be spared. She was completing her task by ladling the plums from the big pan into the array of jars, and she bent over her work in order to hide her annoyance.
“And I hear he’ssorich,” continued Rachel. “He’s had such wonderful luck on the diggings. Papa says he’s one of the best marks in Timber Town—barring old Mr. Crewe, of course.”
Rose gazed, open-eyed, at her visitor.
“How much do you think he is worth?” asked Rachel, unabashed.
“I really don’t know. I have no notion whom you mean.”
Again the rippling laugh rang through the kitchen.
“Really, this is too funny. Own up: wasn’t Mr. Scarlett very lucky?”
“Oh! Mr. Scarlett? I believe he gotsomegold—he showed me some.”
“Surely, he had it weighed?”
“I suppose so—I thought there was something in the paper about it.”
“Was all that gold Mr. Scarlett’s?”
“Yes, about as much as would fill this saucepan. He poured it out on the dining-room table, and Captain Sartoris and my father stared at it till their eyes almost dropped out.”
“You lucky girl! They say he gave you the dandiest ring.”
Rose mutely held out her unadorned fingers. When they had been closely inspected, she said, “You see, this is all rubbish about my being engaged. As for Mr. Scarlett, I have reason to think that he left his heart behind him in the Old Country.”
“Confidences, my dear. If he has told you that much, it won’t take you long to hook him. We giddy girls have no chance against you deep, demure stay-at-homes. The dear men dance and flirt with us, but they don’t propose. How I wish I had learned to cook, or even to bottle plums! Fancy having a man all to yourself in a kitchen like this; making a cake, with your sleeves tucked up to the elbows, and no one to interrupt—why, I guarantee, he’d propose in ten minutes.” She tapped her front teeth with her finger. “I have to go to the dentist to-morrow. I do hate it so, but I’ve got to have something done to one of my front teeth. I’m thinking of getting the man to fill it with gold, and put a small diamond in the middle. That ought to be quite fetching, don’t you think?”
“It certainly would be unique.”
“I think I’ll go along to Tresco’s shop, and get the stone.”
“But don’t you think the sight of a diamond in a tooth would pall after a while? or perhaps you might loosen it with a bit of biscuit, and swallow it. A diet of diamonds would pall, too, I fancy.”
“It’s not the expense.” Rachel pouted as she spoke. “The question is whether it’s done among smart people.”
“You could but try—your friends would soon tell you.”
“I believe it’s quite the thing over in Melbourne.”
“Then why not in Timber Town?”
“But perhaps it’s only amongst actresses that it’s ‘the thing.’”
“So that the glitter of their smiles may be intensified?”
Rachel had risen from her seat. “I must be going,” she said. “I looked in for a minute, and I’ve stopped half-an-hour.”
“Then won’t you stay just a little longer—I’m going to make some tea.”
“It’s very tempting.” Rachel took off her gloves, and displayed her begemmed fingers. “I think Imuststop.”
Rose infused the tea in a brown earthenware pot, and filled two china cups, in the saucers of which she placed two very old ornamented silver teaspoons.
The two girls sat at opposite sides of the white-pine table, in complete contrast; the one dark, the other fair; the one arrayed in purple and fine linen, the other dressed in plain starched print and a kitchen apron; the one the spoilt pet of an infatuated father, the other accustomed to reproof and domestic toil.
But they met on common ground in their taste for tea. With lips, equally pretty, they were sipping the fragrant beverage, when a hoarse voice resounded through the house.
“Rosebud, Rosebud, my gal! Where’s my slippers? Danged if I can see them anywhere.”
Into the kitchen stumped the Pilot of Timber Town, weary from his work. Catching sight of Rachel, he paused half-way between the door and the table. “Well, well,” he said, “I beg pardon, I’m sure—bellowing like an old bull walrus at my dar’ter. But the gal knows her old Dad—don’t you, Rosebud? He don’t mean nothing at all.”
In a moment, Rose had the old man’s slippers in her hand, and the Pilot sat down and commenced to take off his boots and to put on the more comfortable footgear.
Rachel was on her feet in a moment.
“I must be going,” she said. “Which way do I get out?”
“Rosebud, show the young lady the door—she’s in a hurry.” The Pilot never so much as took his eyes off the boot that he was unlacing.
Leading the way through the intricate passages, Rose conducted Rachel to the front door, and came back, smiling.
“Now, what doesshewant?” asked the Pilot. “She’s a mighty strange craft to be sailing in these waters. There’s a queer foreign rake about her t’gallant mast that’s new to me. Where’s she owned, Rosebud?”
“That’s Miss Varnhagen.”
“What! the Jew’s dar’ter? Well, well. That accounts for the cut of her jib. Old Varnhagen’s dar’ter? ’Want to sell anything?”
Rose laughed. “Oh, no. She came, fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“Fishing for news. She’s very anxious to know how much gold Mr. Scarlett has got; in fact, she’s very anxious to know all about Mr. Scarlett.”
The old Pilot laughed, till the shingles of the roof were in danger of lifting. “The wimmen, oh! the wimmen!” he said. “They’re deep. There’s no sounding ’em. No lead’ll bottom them. You’ll have to protect that young man, my gal; protect him from scheming females.Once they can lure him on a lee shore, they’ll wreck him to pieces and loot the cargo. So she wanted to know how he was freighted? He’s down to Plimsoll, my gal; down to Plimsoll with gold. A mighty fine cargo for wreckers!”
At the very time that Rachel was walking out of the garden of roses, Scarlett was turning into The Lucky Digger. He had come in from the “bush,” weary and tired, and was met in the passage by a man who packed stores to the new gold-field. In the bar stood Isaac Zahn, who was flirting with the bar-maid. But the regal dispenser of liquors responded to the young clerk’s sallies with merely the brief politeness which she was paid to show towards all the customers of the inn. He could extort no marked encouragement, in spite of every familiarity and witticism at his command.
Turning his back on the Israelite, Scarlett gave all his attention to the packer. “The track’s clear to the field,” said Jack, “all but four miles at the further end. In a few days, you’ll be able to take your horses through easily.”
“My rate is £15 per ton,” said the man.
“The Syndicate won’t quarrel with that.” Jack’s head turned involuntarily, as an unusual sound occurred in the bar-room.
Zahn, leaning over the counter, had caught Gentle Annie roughly by the wrist. There was a struggle, the crash of falling glass, and a scream.
From the fair arm of the bar-maid blood was flowing.
In a moment, Scarlett was in the bar-room. He seized the spruce bank-clerk by the collar, and dragged him into the passage.
Zahn kicked and swore; but, setting his teeth, Scarlett pulled his struggling victim towards the front-door; and there, with a suddenness which would have done credit to a field-gun, he kicked the Jew into the street.
The trajectory was low, but Zahn, with legs and arms extended, shot across the asphalt pavement, and fell sprawling at the feet of a dainty figure dressed in muslins and ribbons of rainbow hue.
It was Rachel Varnhagen, tripping home to her tea. With a little scream of elegant surprise, she dropped her parasol, and gazed at the prostrate form of her jilted lover.
Gathering himself up stiffly, Isaac stood, whimpering, before her; his whining interspersed with unprintable invective.
Scarlett, however, heedless of the anathemas of the stricken clerk, stepped from the door of The Lucky Digger, picked up the fallen parasol, and handed it politely to Rachel.
In less than a moment she recognised him.
“Oh, thanks,” she said. “It’s really awfully good of you.”
“What? To kick this unmitigated blackguard?”
“I’ve no doubt he deserved it,” she said, glancing with disgust at the clerk. “It’s charming of you to pick up my sunshade. I hope you’re coming up to see us—Papa wants to see you awfully. It would be lovely if you would come to-night.”
“Thank you. I’ll try. I hope you are none the worse for the fright you got.”
“Thanks, I’m not dead. What a terrible man you are—I wouldn’t like to quarrel with you. Say eight o’clock.”
“Very good, eight.”
“Don’t forget. I shall expect you.”
Zahn, who heard all the conversation, ground his teeth, and slunk away. Rachel smiled her farewell and bowed to Jack, who lifted his hat, and went into the inn, to see what could be done for the bar-maid’s injured wrist.
A Small but Important Link in the Story.
The Timber Town Club was filled with ineffable calm. The hum of convivial voices was hushed, the clicking billiard-balls were still, no merry groups of congenial spirits chatted in ante-room, or dining-room. All was strangely quiet, for most of the members were at the diggings, and the times were too pregnant with business to warrant much conviviality.
Scarlett and Mr. Crewe alone sat in the reading-room, where the magazines from England lay in perfect order on little tables, and steel engravings, of which the Club was proud, hung upon the walls. Jack was enjoying the luxury of a big easy chair, and the Father of Timber Town sat upright in another.
“I was asked out to spend the evening, yesterday,” said Jack, lazily.
“Indeed, asked to spend the evening?” replied the alert old gentleman. “I can’t say that I see anything remarkable in that, Scarlett.”
Jack smiled. “By a most charming young lady, I assure you.”
“Ah, that is another matter, quite a different matter, my dear sir.”
“Ostensibly, it was to meet her father, but hang me if the old gentleman put in an appearance!”
“Ho-ho! Better, Scarlett, better still. And what did you do, you rascal?”
“I did nothing. It was the young lady who took up the running.”
“But wasn’t she provided with a judicious Mama, in the background somewhere?”
“No, a calamity seems to have befallen the Mama. She’snon est.”
“That’s very good. The girl depends for protection solely upon her Papa?”
“I remarked that, and said, ‘Your Father will hardly approve of my coming to see you in his absence.’ ‘Oh, you needn’t mind that,’ she said—‘he trusts me implicitly. And as for you—didn’t you save me, the other night?’ You see, I found a drunken digger molesting her, and threw him into the river. But I haven’t so much as seen the old boy yet.”
“Quite so, quite so, but I want to hear about the girl—the father will turn up in due time, and as for the digger, he at least would get a bath.”
“I waited for her loving parent to come home, as it was supposed he wanted to see me.”
“I see; I see: and what did he say when he came?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“That was very churlish conduct, don’t you think Scarlett?”
“But, you see, he didn’t come.”
“Didn’t come home? Now, look here, Scarlett; now, look here, my good fellow. You’re getting into bad ways; you’re courting temptation. By Jupiter! they’ll be marrying you next. They will, sir; they’ll be marrying you, before you know where you are; marrying you in a church. And if they can’t get you to church, they’ll marry you before the Registrar; by Jupiter! they will.”
“But she’s a pretty girl, remember that.”
“She may be the most monstrous pretty girl, for all I care. But don’t you let her hook you, my boy. Women are all fudge, sir. Girls are mostly dolls dressed in feathers and fine clothes. But I grant you that there’s some dignity in a woman who’s a mother; but by forty she becomes old, and then she must be a plaguey nuisance. No, Scarlett, I never married, thank God. Fancy being at the beck and call of a crotchety old beldame, at my time of life. No, sir; I never knew what it was to be questioned and badgered when I came home at night, no matter if it was two in the morning. I can do as I like, sir: I need not go home at all. I’m a free man. Now, take my advice, Scarlett; be a free man too.”
“But you never could have been in love, Mr. Crewe.”
“Perhaps not; very likely not.”
Mr. Crewe had stood during the latter part of the dialogue, that he might the more emphatically denounce matrimony; and Scarlett rose from his comfortable chair, and stood beside him.
“But do as I did, my dear sir”—the Father of Timber Town placed his hand on Jack’s sleeve—“and nothing disastrous will happen. Whenever a young woman became very pressing, what do you think I used to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how I can tell. Perhaps you told her you had an incurable disease, and had one foot in the grave.”
“No, sir; that would have made her marry me the quicker—in order to get my money. No, I used to propose solemnly and in due form—on behalf of my brother Julius. I would say, ‘My dear young lady, my brother Juliusoughtto be married, and you are the girl to suit him. He is delicate, affectionate in disposition, domesticated—quite the reverse of myself, my dear—and you are the beau ideal companion for him.’ But do you believe that Julius is married? No, sir; not a bit of it; no more married than I am—no, sir; as confirmed an old bachelor as ever you saw. Very good, wasn’t it? Just the way to deal with them, eh? Adopt the plan, Jack; adopt the plan, and you’ll escape as certainly as I did.”
“Look here,” said Scarlett, “we’ll go and see the banker; we ought to have seen him this morning.”
The old gentleman chuckled. He perceived that his young friend had changed the subject of conversation; but he also agreed that business should come before gossip.
It was but a brief walk from the Club to the Kangaroo Bank.
“You’re a god-send to this town, Jack; a perfect god-send. Do you know that since you discovered this gold, sir, my properties in Timber Town have increased twenty-five per cent. in value? And do you know that I believe they will increase cent. per cent.? Imagine it, sir. Why, we shall all be rich men.”
They passed out into the bright street, where the gaily-painted shops shone in the blazing sun and the iron roofs of the verandahs ticked with the midday heat. The door of the Bank stood open, that the outer air might circulate freely through the big building. The immaculately-attired clerk stood behind his counter, with a big piece of plaster on his forehead; but Scarlett, taking no notice of the scowl he received from the dark-featured Zahn, knocked at the door of the Manager’s room.
Within the financialsanctum, a little shrivelled-up man sat at a large table which was placed in the middle of the room. His face was clean-shaven but for a pair of grizzled mutton-chop whiskers, and as he bent over his papers he showed a little bald patch on the top of his crown.
Scarlett and Mr. Crewe stood side by side, in front of him.
“I have come from the diggings,” said Jack, “and have called to ask ...”
“Oh ... How do you do, Mr. Crewe? Be seated, sir.... Be seated, both of you.... A lovely day, Mr. Crewe; a perfectly beautiful day. Take a seat, sir, I beg.”
But as the chairs stood a long way off against the wall, old Mr. Crewe and Jack only glanced at them.
“I’ve come to ask,” continued Scarlett, “that you will establish a branch of your Bank on Bush Robin Creek.”
The Manager looked first at Scarlett and then at Mr. Crewe. “You’re very good,” he said. “Establish a branch on the diggings? Gentlemen,dobe seated.” So saying, he journeyed to a far wall, and returned with a couple of chairs, which he dragged after him to where his visitors stood.
“It would be a great convenience to the diggers,” said Jack, “to sell their gold on the field, and receive drafts on your Bank. Then, they would travel with more safety and less fear of being robbed.”
“It’s worth thinking of,” said the Manager, when he had seen that both Scarlett and Mr. Crewe were seated.
“It should be profitable to the Bank,” said Mr. Crewe, “and that, sir, is your main consideration.”
“The track will be completed in a few days,” Scarlett remarked, “and your agent couldn’t possibly lose his way in the bush.”
“Could not lose his way? Exactly. It would be very awkward if he were to get lost, with £20,000 in his possession.”
“I can imagine what sort of a losing it would be considered,” said Mr. Crewe, laughing.
“How far is it to the field?” asked the Manager.
“As the crow flies, about forty miles,” replied Jack, “but by the track, some eight or ten miles more.”
“The difficulty will be the escort,” said the Manager. “There must be an escort to convey gold to town. If the police, now, would give assistance, it could be managed.”
“Failing them,” said Jack, “the diggers would be only too glad to provide an escort themselves.”
The banker smiled. “I was imagining that the Government might undertake the transportation.”
“This is a detail,” said Mr. Crewe. “It could be arranged when your agent wished to come to town with all the gold he had bought on the field.”
“I make the proposal to you on behalf of the syndicate which I represent,” said Jack. “There is a demand for a branch of your Bank on Bush Robin Creek: communication is now easy, and the field is developing fast.”
“I shall see to it, gentlemen; I shall do my best to oblige you.”
“And to benefit your institution,” interjected Mr. Crewe.
The Manager smiled the sycophantic smile of one who worships Mammon. “I shall endeavour to meet the difficulty, Mr. Crewe. We shall see what can be done.” He rang his bell, and a clerk appeared. “Mr. Zahn is not at the counter to-day,” he said.
“No, sir,” said the clerk; “he is buying gold.”
“Very good; send him to me,” said the Manager, and Isaac was quickly summoned.
“I shall require you to proceed to the diggings at Bush Robin Creek,” said the Manager, addressing the gold-clerk. “These gentlemen have made representations to me which show that there is considerable business to be done there by buying gold. You will hold yourself in readiness to start in a couple of days. Does that suit you, sir?” he added, turning to Scarlett.
“Admirably,” replied Jack. “I’ll return to-morrow, and shall tell the diggers that your agent is coming.”
“But why should you not travel together?” said the Manager. “You could show Mr. Zahn the way.”
Isaac looked at Scarlett, and Scarlett looked at him.
“I think I could find my way alone,” said Zahn.
Jack smiled. “I shall be only too glad to give any assistance I can; but if Mr. Zahn prefers to travel by himself, of course there is the bare chance that he might get off the track and be lost.”
“I’ll risk it,” said the Jew. “I’d rather get lost than be thrown over a precipice.”
“Dear me, dear me,” said Mr. Crewe, his voice and gesture expressive of the utmost astonishment. “This looks bad, Jack; this is a very bad beginning.”
“You mean that you don’t quite appreciate this gentleman’s overtures?” asked the Manager.
Zahn was silent.
“We had a small difference in a hotel,” said Jack. “But for my part I am quite willing to let bygones be bygones.”
Zahn scowled. “That may be so,” he said, “but I should prefer to travel alone.”
“Dear, dear; well, well,” said the Father of Timber Town. “But, after all, this is a mere matter of detail which can be settled by and by. If you go to the diggings, sir”—he turned his benignant gaze on the clerk—“you will not only be in a most responsible position, but you will be able to do such profitable business for your Bank, sir, that you will probably earn promotion.”
“It’s settled,” said the Manager. “We shall send a representative, and I hope that the arrangement will be satisfactory to all parties. I hope you are contented, Mr. Crewe.”
“Perfectly, my dear sir, perfectly,” said the Father of Timber Town.
“Then you may consider the thing done,” said the Manager; and ushering his visitors from the room he conducted them to the garish street.
The Signal-Tree.
“I jest walked in,” said Dolphin, “an’ I says, ‘About thisyer gold-escort: when does it start?’ I says. The shrivelled party with the whiskers looks at me acrost the counter, an’ e’ says, ‘What business is that of yours, my man?’ ‘None,’ I says, ‘’xcept me an’ my mate is nervous of swaggin’ our gold to town ourselves.’ ‘Don’t you bother about that,’ ’e says. ‘All you’ve got to do is to sell your gold to our agent on the field, and leave the rest to him.’ The escort will leave reg’lar, accordin’ to time-table; so we can stick it up, sure as Gawd made little apples.”
“And what about goin’ through the Bank?” asked Sweet William.
“Now I ask you,” said Dolphin, “what’s the use of messing with the Bank, when we can clean out the gold-escort, an’ no one the wiser?”
“Same here. My opinion,” said Gentleman Carnac.
“I’m slick agin letting the Bank orf,” growled Garstang. “Why not let the escort get its gold to the Bank, and then nab everything in the show. The original plan’s the best.”
“I gave you credit for more sense, Garstang.” The leader of the gang looked darkly at his subordinate. “I gave you credit for knowing more of your trade.”
“More credit, eh?” asked the man with the crooked mouth. “For why?”
The four rascals were in the cottage where they had met before, and the room reeked with the smoke of bad tobacco.
“Why?” replied Dolphin. “Because you’re the oldest hand of the lot, an’ you’ve been in the business all your life.”
“Jes’ so,” said Garstang, with an evil smile. “’Xcept when I’ve bin the guest of the Widow.”
“Which has been pretty frequent,” interjected Sweet William.
“To clean the Bank out is easy enough,” said Dolphin: “the trouble is to get away with the stuff. You ought to see that with half an eye. To stick up the escort requires a little skill, a little pluck; but as for gettin’ away with the gold afterwards, that’s child’s play.”
“Dead men don’t tell no tales,” remarked Sweet William.
“But their carcases do,” objected Garstang.
“You beat everything!” exclaimed the leader, growing almost angry. “Ain’t there such a thing as a shovel? No wonder you were copped pretty often by the traps, Garstang.”
“You two men wrangle like old women,” said Carnac. “Drop it. Tell us what’s the first thing to do.”
“To go an’ look at the country,” answered Dolphin.
“That’s it.... Go it.... Dolphin controls the whole push.... Jest do as ’e tells.” Garstang was evidently annoyed that the leadership of the murderous gang, which had once been his, had passed out of his hands.
Dolphin took no notice of the remarks. “We shall have plenty time to get to work, ’cause the Bank can’t bring the gold to town till it’s bought it, and it can’t begin to buy it till the agent reaches the field, an’ he only started to-day.”
“Every blessed thing’s ready,” chimed in Sweet William, who was evidently backing the new leader strongly. “Carny an’ me’s bin through the guns, an’ they’re all clean an’ took to bits ready for putting in the swags. When they’re packed, not a trap in the country but wouldn’t take us for the garden variety of diggers, 2 dwts. to the dish, or even less. Quite mild, not to say harmless, gruel-fed, strictly vegetarian—a very useful an’ respectable body of men.”
Dolphin smiled at the young man’s witticism. “It doesn’t need for more than two to go,” he said. “There’s no use in making a public show of ourselves, like a bloomin’ pack-train. Two’s plenty.”
“I’ll stop at ’ome,” growled Garstang. “It’s your faik, Dolphin—you planned it. Let’s see you carry it out.”
“I’ll go,” volunteered William. “Carny can stop behind an’ help keep Garstang’s temper sweet.” In his hilarity he smacked the sinister-faced man on the back.
“Keep your hands t’ yerself,” snarled Garstang, with an oath. “You’re grown too funny, these days—a man’d think you ran the show.”
“Lord, what a mug!” Young William grimaced at Garstang’s sour face. “But it’ll sweeten up, ole man, when the gold’s divided.”
“We’re wasting time,” broke in Dolphin. “We must be getting along. Pack your swag, William: mine’s at The Bushman’s Tavern.”
“Matilda is ready,” exclaimed the youthful member of the gang, picking up his swag from the floor, and hitching it on to his shoulders. “Gimme that long-handled shovel, Carny—it’ll look honest, though it weighs half a ton. Well, so-long.”
He shook the bad-tempered Garstang, slapped Carnac on the back, and followed Dolphin from the cottage.
While this ominous meeting was being held, Jake Ruggles might have been observed to be acting in a most extraordinary manner in the back-garden of Tresco’s shop. In the middle of a patch of ill-nourished cabbages which struggled for existence amid weeds and rubbish, he had planted a kitchen chair. On the back of this he had rested a long telescope, which usually adorned the big glass case which stood against the wall behind the shop-counter. This formidableinstrument he had focussed upon the pinnacle of a wooded height, which stood conspicuous behind the line of foot-hills, and, as he peered at the distant mountain-top, he gave vent to a string of ejaculations, expressive of interest and astonishment.
Upon the top of the wooded mountain a large tree, which he could distinguish with the naked eye, stood conspicuous; a tree which spread its branches high above its fellows, and silhouetted its gigantic shape against the sky-line. Directing his telescope upon this remarkable giant of the forest, by aid of its powerful lenses he could see, projecting from the topmost branch, a flag, which upon further observation proved to be nothing less than the red ensign employed on merchant ships; and it was this emblem of the mercantile marine which so amazed and interested the youthful Ruggles.
“The ole beggar’s got his pennant out,” he exclaimed, as he smacked his lean shanks and again applied his eye to the telescope. “That means a spree for Benjamin. The crafty ole rascal’ll be comin’ in to-night. It means his tucker supply’s given out, an’ I must fly round for bacon, tea, sugar, bread, flour; an’ I think I’ll put in a tin or two of jam, by way of a treat.”
He took a long look at the signal, and then shut up the telescope.
“It’s quite plain,” he soliloquised: “the old un’s comin’ in. I must shut up shop, and forage. Then, after dark, I’ll take the tucker to the ford.”
But, as though a sudden inspiration had seized him, he readjusted his instrument and once more examined the conspicuous tree.
“Why, he’s there himself, sittin’ in a forked bough, an’ watchin’ me through his glass.” Placing the telescope gently on the ground, Jake turned himself into a human semaphore, and gesticulated frantically with his arms. “That ought to fetch ’im,” and he again placed his eye to the telescope. “Yes, he sees. He’s wavin’ his ’at. Good old Ben. It’s better than a play. Comic opera ain’t in it with this sort o’ game. He’s fair rampin’ with joy ’cause I seen ’im.” Shutting up his instrument, Jake gave a last exhibition of mad gesticulations, danced a mimic war-dance, and then, with the big telescope under his arm, he went into the house.
It was a long stretch of tangled forest from the big tree to Tresco’s cave, but the goldsmith was now an expert bushman, versed in the ways of the wilderness, active if not agile, enduring if still short of breath. His once ponderous form had lost weight, his once well-filled garments hung in creases on him, but a look of robust health shone in his eye and a wholesome tan adorned his cheek. He strode down the mountain as though he had been born on its arboreous slopes. Without pause, without so much as a false step, he traversed those wild gullies, wet where the dew still lay under the leafy screen of boughs, watered by streams which gurgled over mighty boulders—a wilderness where banks of ferns grew in the dank shade and the thick tangle of undergrowth blocked the traveller’s way.
But well on into the afternoon Tresco had reached the neighbourhood of his cave, where his recluse life dragged out its weary days. His route lay for a brief mile along the track which led to the diggings. Reaching this cleared path, where locomotion was easier, the goldsmith quickened his pace, when suddenly, as he turned a corner, he came upon two men walking towards him from Timber Town.
In a moment he had taken cover in the thick underscrub which lined each side of the track, and quickly passing a little way in the direction from which he had come, he hid himself behind a dense thicket, and waited for the wayfarers to pass by.
They came along slowly, being heavy laden.
“I tell yer I seen the bloke on the track, Dolly, just about here,” said the younger man of the two. “One moment he was here, next ’e was gone. Didn’t you see ’m?”
“I must ha’ bin lookin’ t’other way, up the track,” said the other. “I was thinkin’ o’ somethin’. I was thinkin’ that this place, just here, was made a-purpose for our business. Now, look at this rock.”
He led his companion to the inner edge of the track, where a big rock abutted upon the acute angle which the path made in circumventing the forest-clad hill-side. Placing their “swags” on the path the two men clambered up behind the rock, and Tresco could hear their conversation as he lay behind the thick scrub opposite them.
“See?” said Dolphin, as he pointed up the track in the direction of Timber Town. “From here you can command the track for a half-a-mile.”
Sweet William looked, and said, “That’s so—you can.”
“Now, look this way,” Dolphin pointed down the track in the direction of the diggings. “How far can you see, this way?”
“Near a mile,” replied William.
“Very good. We plant two men behind this rock, and two over there in the bush, on the opposite side, and we can bail up a dozen men. Eh?”
“It’s the place, the identical spot, Dolly; but I should put the other two men a little way up the track—we don’t want to shoot each other.”
“Just so. It would be like this: we have ’em in view, a long while before they arrive; they’re coming up hill, tired, and goin’ slow; we’re behind perfect cover.”
“I don’t see how we can beat it, unless it is to put a tree across the road, just round the corner on the Timber Town side.”
“No, no. That’d give the show away. That’d identify the spot. There’re a hundred reasons against it. A tree across the track might stop the diggers as well, and the first party that come along would axe it through, and where would our log be then? It would never do. But let’s get down, and have a drink. Thank Gawd, there’s a bottle or two left in my swag.”
Tresco saw them clamber down from the rock, and drink beer by the wayside. Only too quickly did he recognise these men, who looked like diggers but behaved so strangely; but the sight of the liquor was almost more than he could bear, yet not daring to stir a finger lest he should be discovered he was forced to see them drink it.
Indeed, they made quite a meal; eating bread and cheese, which they washed down with their favourite beverage. When the bottles were empty, Dolphin flung them into the bushes opposite to him, and the missiles, shivering into hundreds of pieces, sprinkled the goldsmith with broken glass.
He stifled a wordy protest which rose to his lips, and lay still; and shortly afterwards he had the pleasure of seeing the undesirable strangers hump their “swags” and retrace their steps towards Timber Town.
When they had disappeared, Tresco came from his hiding-place. He looked up and down the track. “Just so,” he soliloquised, “half-a-mile this way, a mile that. Good cover.... Commanding position. What’s their little game? It seems to me that there are bigger rascals than Benjamin in Timber Town.” And with this salve applied to his conscience, the goldsmith pursued his way towards his dismal cavern.