“From way back,” acknowledged the digger.
“Twelve solid weeks? You must have a thirst.”
“Pretty fair, you bet.” The digger groped about in the depth of his pocket, and drew forth a fine nugget. “Look at that,” he said, with his usual chuckle.
Tresco balanced the lump of gold in his deft hand.
“Three ounces?”
“Three, six.”
“’Nother little cheque. Turn out your pockets, mister. I’ll buy all you’ve got.”
“That’s the lot,” said the digger, taking back the nugget and fingering it lovingly. “I don’t sell that—it’s my lucky bit; the first I found.” Another chuckle. “Tell you what. Some day you can make me something outer this, something to wear for a charm. No alloy, you understand; all pure gold. And use the whole nugget.”
Tresco pursed his lips, and looked contemplative.
“A three-ounce charm, worn round the neck, might strangle a digger in a swollen creek. Where’d his luck be then? But how about your missis? Can’t you divide it?”