“These are the ravings of delirium,” said Tresco. “I ask you to pay no attention to such expressions. We frequently hear things of this sort in the profession, but we let them pass. He’ll be better in the morning.”
“Is the money divided?” asked Mr. Crewe.
“Yes,” said the landlord. “One hundred and twenty-five pounds and sixpence in each lot.”
“Mr. Garsett,” said the Father of Timber Town, the tone of command in his voice, “come and take your money. Mr. Lichfield, take yours, sir.”
Still agitated and confused, the two gamblers came forward, took their shares, and pocketed notes and gold with trembling hands.
“Give your friend his, Tresco,” said the venerable arbitrator.
“Here’s your winnings, or your losings,” said the goldsmith to the digger. “It don’t matter what name you call ’em by, but tuck it safely away agin your brisket. And when next you strike it rich, take my advice: put it in the bank, an’ keep it there.”
The digger took the money in his open hands, placed scoopwise together, and said, “All this mine, is it? You’re too kind. What do I want the blanky money for, eh? Didn’t I tell you I could get money for the pickin’ of it up? Well, you’re all a pretty measly crowd, all as poor as church rats, by the manners of yer. Well, you pick it up.” And he flung the money among the crowd, lay back on the couch, and closed his eyes.
There was a scurry, and a scrambling on the floor, in the doorway, and in the passage outside.
Amid the tumult, Garsett and the American slunk off unperceived, while Tresco and Mr. Crewe, the landlord, Gentle Annie and Scarlett remained spectators of the scene.