Benjamin laughed.
“Mind you make it real good,” said the Prospector, who stood, watching the operation. “Person’lly, I’d say put a good big diamond in the centre.”
“’Twouldn’t do,” replied the goldsmith. “Unfortunately, Custom says wedding-rings must be plain, so plain it must be.”
“Then let it be pure,” said the Prospector. “Anyway it’ll bring good luck.”
He had divided his lucky nugget, the same that he had refused to sell when he made the goldsmith’s acquaintance and sold the first gold from Bush Robin Creek, and while he had retained one half of this talisman, out of the other half Tresco was fashioning a wedding-ring for Scarlett.
The red-hot piece of gold had been cooled suddenly by being cast into the “pickle,” and was now subjected to another severe hammering, after which it was drawn, by means of a gigantic pair of tongs fixed to the windlass of a bench by a long leather strap through graduated holes in a strong steel plate. Next, it was branded, by means of certain steel punches, with the goldsmith’s private marks, and afterwards it was bent with pliers into a circle, and its clear-cut ends were soldered together under the blow-pipe.
Benjamin peered over the tops of his glasses at the Prospector. “I owe you luck, fortune, and freedom,” he said, “and yet, Bill, your power to create happiness is distinctly limited.”
“I dessay,” replied the Prospector. “But what’d you have me do? Would you ask me to make you into a gold-plated angel with a pair o’ patent wings, twelve foot in the spread? It’d save me a deal o’ trouble if you could fly away from the police an’ Timber Town.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the police. I was thinking of adorable, elusive Woman. I ought to be making my own wedding-ring: instead of that I must roll my bluey and be footing it over the mountains before to-morrow morning. I’m turned into a perfect Wandering Jew.”
“You should be darn glad I give you the opportunity.”