As the ship left her moorings, he stood looking down the river toward the sea—unlike the other passengers who looked, some tearfully, toward the shore they were leaving—stood and gazed with hot eyes and clinched teeth. In his mind he spanned the six weeks—the six dreary weeks which must elapse before he came up with the fugitives, and in fancy he already stood face to face with Norman, the friend who had betrayed and dishonored him.
[CHAPTER XXXIV.]
The Australian winter had passed, the spring was smiling with strict impartiality on Three Star and Dog’s Ear alike, and the heavy rains had swollen the stream beside which Norman and Esmeralda had sat in the placid moonlight into a mighty torrent, whose brawling filled the camp with a sullen music, to which the men worked as to an accompaniment.
Things were looking up at Three Star, and times were flush. The Eldorado had been newly painted—a brilliant red picked out with green—some of the tents had developed into quite respectable wooden houses; MacGrath’s whisky had not improved, and was still as deadly; but empty champagne cases, piled ostentatiously outside the saloon—for the benefit of Dog’s Ear, which had not been lucky—indicated the prosperity of the camp.
At a newly covered table Varley sat, as of old, deftly and gracefully shuffling the cards, and softly inquiring, “Who plays this deal?” In honor of the blandness of the season he wore a new suit of the latest Melbourne fashion, and Esmeralda’s diamond pin glittered and shot fire from his correctly tied scarf.
The saloon was full, business in fine swing, and MacGrath, from his place behind the bar, dispensed, as of old, noggins of his infamous whisky; there was the usual noisy game of billiards going on, and now and again a youth with musical gifts was hammering on the tin-kettle piano. Taffy, gloriously drunk, was bawling out the last comic song—it had expired in England of general loathing six months ago—and two men were quarreling in a corner and breathing threats of mutual destruction.
As of old, Varley sat serene, impassive, languid, his white hands shuffling and dealing the cards, his dark eyes glancing at the faces round the table as if he were performing some feat of magic, from which, sooner or later, as surely as fate or death, he would reap the benefit.
In a pause of the game, Taffy with difficulty steered his way to the table and smiled round with tipsy complacency.
“How’s the game a-going, Varley?” he asked, with a hiccough.