“Sounds grand, don’t it? ‘Legal title,’ eh? But if you must have it—though it ar’n’t hardly ever used—put me down Bill Wurcott. That suit, eh?—Bill Wurcott?”
Tresco began to draw the cheque.
“Never mind the silver,” said the digger. “Make it three hundred an’ nine quid.” And just then Jake entered with the quart jug, tripped over the digger’s swag, spilt half-a-pint of beer on the floor, recovered himself in time to save the balance, and exclaimed, “Holee smoke!”
“Tell yer what,” said the digger. “Let the young feller have the change. Good idea, eh?”
Jake grinned—he grasped the situation in a split second.
The digger took the cheque from Tresco, looked at it upside-down, and said, “That’s all right,” folded it up, put it in his breeches’ pocket just as if it had been a common one-pound note, and remarked, “Well, I must make a git. So-long.”
“No, sir,” said the goldsmith. “There is the beer: here are the men. No, sir; not thus must you depart. Refresh the inner man. Follow me. We must drink your health and continued good fortune.”
Carefully carrying the beer, Tresco led the way to his workshop, placed the jug on his bench, and soon the amber-coloured liquor foamed in two long glasses.
The digger put his pint to his hairy lips, said, “Kia ora. Here’s fun,” drank deep and gasped—the froth ornamenting his moustache. “The first drop I’ve tasted this three months.”
“You must ha’ come from way back, where there’re no shanties,” risked Tresco.