"Eighty-two ounces ten pennyweights six grains," he said, with infinite deliberation, and began to figure on a piece of paper. Seemingly, the goldsmith's arithmetic was as rusty as the digger's speech, for the sum took so long to work out that the owner of the gold had time to cut a "fill" of tobacco from a black plug, charge his pipe, and smoke for fully five minutes, before Tresco proclaimed the total. This he did with a triumphant wave of the pen.

"Three hundred and nine pounds seven shillings and elevenpence farthing.

That's as near as I can get it. Nice clean gold, mister."

He looked at the digger; the digger looked at him.

"What name?" asked Tresco. "To whom shall I draw the cheque?"

"That's good! My name?" laughed the digger. "I s'pose it's usual, eh?"

"De-cidedly."

"Sometimes they call me Bill the Prospector, sometimes Bill the Hatter.

I ain't particular. I've got no choice. Take which you like."

"'Pay Bill the Prospector, or Order, three hundred and nine pounds.' No, sir, that will hardlee do. I want your real name, your proper legal t.i.tle."

"Sounds grand, don't it? 'Legal t.i.tle,' eh? But if you must have it--though it ar'n't hardly ever used--put me down Bill Wurcott. That suit, eh?--Bill Wurcott?"

Tres...o...b..gan to draw the cheque.

"Never mind the silver," said the digger. "Make it three hundred an'

nine quid." And just then Jake entered with the quart jug, tripped over the digger's swag, spilt half-a-pint of beer on the floor, recovered himself in time to save the balance, and exclaimed, "Holee smoke!"

"Tell yer what," said the digger. "Let the young feller have the change.

Good idea, eh?"

Jake grinned--he grasped the situation in a split second.

The digger took the cheque from Tresco, looked at it upside-down, and said, "That's all right," folded it up, put it in his breeches' pocket just as if it had been a common one-pound note, and remarked, "Well, I must make a git. So-long."

"No, sir," said the goldsmith. "There is the beer: here are the men. No, sir; not thus must you depart. Refresh the inner man. Follow me. We must drink your health and continued good fortune."

Carefully carrying the beer, Tresco led the way to his workshop, placed the jug on his bench, and soon the amber-coloured liquor foamed in two long gla.s.ses.

The digger put his pint to his hairy lips, said, "_Kia ora._ Here's fun," drank deep and gasped--the froth ornamenting his moustache. "The first drop I've tasted this three months."

"You must ha' come from way back, where there're no shanties," risked Tresco.

"From way back," acknowledged the digger.

"Twelve solid weeks? You _must_ have a thirst."

"Pretty fair, you bet." The digger groped about in the depth of his pocket, and drew forth a fine nugget. "Look at that," he said, with his usual chuckle.

Tres...o...b..lanced the lump of gold in his deft hand.

"Three ounces?"

"Three, six."

"'Nother little cheque. Turn out your pockets, mister. I'll buy all you've got."

"That's the lot," said the digger, taking back the nugget and fingering it lovingly. "I don't sell that--it's my lucky bit; the first I found."

Another chuckle. "Tell you what. Some day you can make me something outer this, something to wear for a charm. No alloy, you understand; all pure gold. And use the whole nugget."

Tresco pursed his lips, and looked contemplative.

"A three-ounce charm, worn round the neck, might strangle a digger in a swollen creek. Where'd his luck be then? But how about your missis?

Can't you divide it?"

The digger laughed his loudest.

"Give it the missis! That's good. The missis'd want more'n an ounce and a half for her share. Mister, wimmen's expensive."

"Ain't you got no kid to share the charm with?"

"Now 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.s it on your way to the Bank."

"Well, so-long," said the digger. "See you later." And, shouldering his swag, he held out his h.o.r.n.y 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."