“Done,” said the digger, and he counted out five sovereigns and placed them in a little heap by themselves.
Mr. Crewe had not come prepared for a “night out with the boys.” He found some silver in his pocket and two pounds in his sovereign-case.
“Hah! no matter,” he said. “Cathro, call the landlord. I take your bet, sir”—to the digger—“most certainly I take it, but one minute, give me one minute.”
“If there’s any difficulty in raising the cash,” said the digger, fingering his pile of money, “I won’t press the matter. I don’t want your blanky coin. I can easy do without it.”
The portly, rubicund landlord of the Lucky Digger entered the room.
“Ah, Townson,” said old Mr. Crewe, “good evening. We have a little bet on, Townson, a little bet between this gentleman from away back and myself, and I find I’m without the necessary cash. I want five pounds. I’ll give you my IOU.”
“Not at all,” replied the landlord, in a small high voice, totally surprising as issuing from such a portly person, “no IOU. I’ll gladly let you have twenty.”
“Five is all I want, Townson; and I expect to double it immediately, and then I shall be quite in funds.”
The landlord disappeared and came back with a small tray, on which was a bundle of bank-notes, some dirty, some clean and crisp. The Father of Timber Town counted the money. “Twenty pounds, Townson. Very well. You shall have it in the morning. Remind me, Cathro, that I owe Mr. Townson twenty pounds.”
The digger looked with surprise at the man who could conjure money from a publican.