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.”