“Not at all. The Prince o’ Wales, an’ the Dook o’ York, an’ all the elite wears ’em. It’d be quite the fashion.”
The digger returned the nugget to his pocket. “I call you a dam’ amusin’ cuss, I do that. You’re a goer. There ain’t no keepin’ up with the likes o’ you. You shall make what you blame well please—we’ll talk about it by-and-by. But for the present, where’s the best pub?”
“The Lucky Digger,” said Jake, without hesitation.
“Certainly,” reiterated Tresco. “You’ll pass it on your way to the Bank.”
“Well, so-long,” said the digger. “See you later.” And, shouldering his swag, he held out his horny hand.
“I reckon,” said the goldsmith. “Eight o’clock this evening. So-long.” And the digger went out.
Tresco stood on his doorstep, and with half-shut eyes watched the prospector to the door of The Lucky Digger.
“Can’t locate it,” he mused, “and I know where all the gold, sold in this town, comes from. Nor I can’t locate him. But he’s struck it, and struck it rich.”
There were birch twigs caught in the straps of the digger’s “swag,” and he had a bit of rata flower stuck in the band of his hat. “That’s where he’s come from!” Tresco pointed in the direction of the great range of mountains which could be seen distinctly through the window of his workshop.
“What’s it worth?” asked Jake, who stood beside his master.