"Bad luck," answered Chaytor.
"Sorry to hear it. Never struck a rich patch, eh?"
"Never," said Chaytor. "And you?"
"I can't complain. To tell you the truth, I've made my pile."
"You have!" cried Chaytor, with a furious envy in his voice.
"I have. You made a mistake when you refused to go mates with me; I could have shown you a trick or two. However, that's past: what's ended can't be mended."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Haven't quite made up my mind. Think of going to Sydney for a spree; perhaps to Melbourne for another; perhaps shall give up that idea, and make tracks for old England. I've got enough to live upon if I like to take care of it. Well, Master Basil, I wish you had better news to give me. Have you heard from the old country? No?" This was in response to Basil's shake of the head. "Why, I thought the little lady promised to write to you."
"She did promise, but I have not heard for all that."
"Out of sight, out of mind," observed Chaytor, inwardly discomposed at the turn the conversation had taken.