“Really!” he exclaimed, “this is most interesting, very interesting indeed. A remarkable event, Mr. Crewe, a most remarkable event. Do me the honour, sir, to introduce me to your friend.”
“Mr. Tonks, Scarlett,” said the old gentleman. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Tonks.”
Jack greeted the little man politely, and then turning to Cathro, said, “We’ve pegged off four men’s claims; so, Cathro, you’ll have to turn digger, and go back with me to the field.”
“But my dear sir,” replied Cathro, whose shrivelled form betokened no great physical strength, “my dear Scarlett, am I to do pick-and-shovel work? Am I to trundle a barrow? Am I to work up to my waist in water, and sleep in a tent? My dear sir, I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed.”
Scarlett threw back his head, and laughed. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “It’s the getting there with a 70lb. swag on your back that’s the trouble. The country is a mass of ranges; the bush is as thick as a jungle, and there’s nothing but a blazed track to go by. But your claim is waiting for you. What do you intend doing with it?”
The attenuated Cathro sank on a couch despairingly. “I think I’ll sell it,” he said. “I’ll sell it to Tonks here, I’ll sell it for £1000 down, and be content with small profits and quick returns.”
The little man, important that he should be referred to as good for so substantial an amount, strutted up and down, like a bantam on whom the eyes of the fowl-yard rested. However, the gentleman, dressed for riding, was beforehand with him.
“It’s an open offer, I suppose,” he said.
“Certainly,” replied Cathro. “I don’t care who gets my claim, so long as I get the money.”
“Then it’s concluded,” said the horsey man. “I buy the claim.”