“That’s the style,” said the goldsmith. “There’s nothing like tea to counteract the effects of a little spree.”
“Spree!” The digger’s face expressed indignation which he did not feel equal to uttering. “The spree remained with the other parties, likewise the dollars.” He emptied his cup, and drew a long breath.
“I reckon we struck a bit of a snag,” said Benjamin, “four of ’em in a lump.”
“They properly cleaned me out, anyway,” said the digger. “I ain’t got so much as sixpence to jingle on a tombstone.”
He fumbled in his pockets, and at length drew out two pieces of crumpled paper. These he smoothed with his rough begrimed hands, and then placed them on the table. They were Tresco’s IOUs.
“I suppose you’ll fix these ’ere, mate,” said he.
Benjamin scratched his head.
“When I’ve squared up my hotel bill an’ a few odds and ends,” explained the digger, “I’ll be makin’ tracks.”
Tresco looked on this man as a veritable gold-mine, in that he had discovered one of the richest diggings in the country. To quarrel with him therefore would be calamitous: to pay him was impossible, without recourse to financial suicide.
“What does it amount to?” he asked, bending over the bits of dirty paper. “H’m, £117—pretty stiff little bill to meet between 10 p.m. and 10 a.m. Suppose I let you have fifty?”