The digger, on the other hand, looked serious, not to say anxious, and his manner was full of uneasiness. His glass stood untouched, his half-finished pipe had gone out, and he could not sit still, but began to pace backwards and forwards restlessly.
“I’ve put my foot in it,” he said, pulling nervously at his bushy beard. “I’ve quarrelled with the toffs of the town, and the best thing I can do is to make a git. I’ll start for the bush to-morrer.”
“Now you’re talking bunkum,” said Tresco, as the smoke from his pipe wreathed above his head. “I know those men—two bigger rogues never breathed. They simply wanted to fleece you, and instead of that you gave ’em one in the eye. More power to you: it was immense! As for old Mr. Crewe and his crowd, they were on the make too; but they are out of court—there’s no chance of them trying to renew your acquaintance. Now, what you must do is to enjoy yourself quietly, and by-and-by get back to your claim. But, for to-night, we’ll have a good time—a little liquor, a quiet game of cards, a bit of a talk, and perhaps a better understanding.”
“To speak the blanky truth,” said the digger, “you’re the whitest man I’ve met. True, I’ve give myself away a bit, but you’re the only man ain’t tried to do the pump-handle business with me.”
“I’ll buy all the gold you like to bring to town.”
“Right! Here’s my fist: you shall ’ave all I git.”
The two men solemnly shook hands.
“Drink your liquor,” said Tresco. “It’ll do you good.”
The digger drank, and re-lit his pipe.
“Now, what I says is that there’s men I like to put in the way of a good thing.”