The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus

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СКАЧАТЬ old man’s voice ran up to a falsetto, he stroked his nose with his forefinger and thumb, he broke into the shrill laugh of an octogenarian. “And the rascal boasts he can get a hundred ounces more in a week or two! We must look into the matter – we must see what it means.”

      The three men smoked silently and solemnly.

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

      All three of them sat silent, and thought hard.

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

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

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

      CHAPTER VII

Cut-throat Euchre

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

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

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

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

      “Pass again,” said the American.

      “Ditto,” said the Englishman.

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

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

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

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

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

      “The deuce!” exclaimed the florid man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Scarlett nodded.

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

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

      “Pass,” said Lichfield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Right Bower,” said the Englishman.

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

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

      “Your friend is СКАЧАТЬ