The next witness was a digger, a short man with a bushy, red beard. But even more extraordinary than the man’s beard was his casual, almost insolent, bearing. He glanced at the Judge contemptuously, he looked pityingly at the jury, he regarded the barristers with dislike, and then he settled himself resignedly against the front of the witness-box, and fixed his eyes superciliously upon the Sergeant of Police.
“Are you the owner of a claim on Bush Robin Creek?”
“I am, and it’s a good claim too.” The witness evidently considered himself on familiar terms with the counsel for the Crown.
“Did you sell gold to Isaac Zahn?”
“I did, an’ he give me £3 15s. an ounce. The result of a month’s work, yer Honour.”
“How much did you sell?”
“Forty-six ounces fifteen pennyweights; but, bless yer, I’d on’y begun to scratch the top of the claim.”
The idea of the witness blessing the Crown Prosecutor convulsed the bar with merriment; but, looking straight at the witness, the Judge said, “I beg you to remember, sir, that you are in a Court of Law, and not in the bar of a public-house.” To which admonition the digger was understood, by those nearest to him, to murmur, “I on’y wish I were.”
“Was there anything unusual in the appearance of the gold that you sold to Zahn?”
“It was very ’eavy gold,” replied the witness, “an’ there was one nugget that ’e give me extry for, as a curio.”