The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus

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СКАЧАТЬ you’re gettin’ at me” – the chuckle again – “worse ’an ever. You’re gettin’ at me fine. Look ’ere, I’m goin’ to quit: I’m off.”

      “But, in the meantime, what am I to do with this nice piece of gold? I could make a ring for each of your fingers, and some for your toes. I could pretty near make you a collarette, to wear when you go to evening parties in a low-necked dress, or a watch chain more massive than the bloomin’ Mayor’s. There’s twelve pounds’ worth of gold in that piece.”

      The digger looked perplexed. The problem puzzled him.

      “How’d an amulet suit you?” suggested the goldsmith.

      “A what?”

      “A circle for the arm, with a charm device chased on it.”

      “A bit like a woman, that – eh, mister?”

      “Not at all. The Prince o’ Wales, an’ the Dook o’ York, an’ all the elite wears ’em. It’d be quite the fashion.”

      The digger returned the nugget to his pocket. “I call you a dam’ amusin’ cuss, I do that. You’re a goer. There ain’t no keepin’ up with the likes o’ you. You shall make what you blame well please – we’ll talk about it by-and-by. But for the present, where’s the best pub?”

      “The Lucky Digger,” said Jake, without hesitation.

      “Certainly,” reiterated Tresco. “You’ll pass it on your way to the Bank.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ