“Stop that row.”
“Order for the boss of the League.”
Before long all is still, and the lucky owners of the gold which lies in bags upon the table, listen eagerly for the announcement of the returns.
“Gentlemen,”—Scarlett’s face wears a pleasant smile, which betokens a pleasant duty—“as some of you are aware, the result of our first wash-up is a record for the colony. It totals 18,000 oz., and this, at the current price of Bush Robin gold—which I ascertained in Timber Town during my last visit—gives us a return of £69,750.”
Here Jack is interrupted by tremendous cheering.
“Of this sum,” he continues, when he can get a hearing, “your Committee suggests the setting aside, for the payment of liabilities and current expenses, the sum of £9750, which leaves £60,000 to be divided amongst the members of the League.”
Upon this announcement being made, an uproar ensues, an uproar of unrestrained jubilation which shakes the shingle roof, and the noise of which reaches far down the street of Canvas Town and across the flats, where clay-stained diggers pause amid their dirt-heaps to remark in lurid language that the toffs are having “an almighty spree over their blanky wash-up.”
“I rise to make a propothition,” says a long, thin, young Gold Leaguer, with a yellow beard and a slight lisp. “I rise to suggest that we send down to Reiley’s for all hith bottled beer, and drink the health of our noble selves.”
The motion is seconded by every man in the room rising to his feet and cheering.
Six stalwart Leaguers immediately go to wait upon the proprietor of The Golden Reef, and whilst they are transacting their business their mates sing songs, the choruses of which float through the open windows over the adjacent country. The dirt-stained owners of the Hatters’ Folly claim hear the members of the League asking to be “wrapped up in an old stable jacket,” and those working in the Four Brothers’ claim learn the truth about “the place where the old horse died.”