“Nothing,” said Varley, languidly. “I want eighteen pence to pay a man who’s hard up.”
The crowd was quick to appreciate the repartee, and laughed with keen enjoyment.
“Take my horse and wash him down, and give him as much oats as he can eat,” said Varley; then he passed into the bank.
The manager was at the counter, and received him with a smile of fellowship and the air of respect which were always unquestioningly and freely accorded to Mr. Varley Howard.
“Give me a hundred and sixty pounds in gold—and quick!” said Varley.
The manager looked at him in surprise, but a little exclamation of Varley’s, scarcely a word, not much more than a breath, spurred the manager to haste. He counted out the gold and put it in a bag, which Varley consigned to his pocket. Then, with a “Thanks; hot, isn’t it?” he walked out. His reappearance was of course greeted with numerous offers to drink. Varley went to the nearest pub and tossed off a glass of whisky and water, then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it deliberately. His admirers watched him with curious and worshiping regard.
“Been killin’ any one, Varley, and want to provide for the widow?” asked one. “Where have you come from?”
“From Three Star,” said Varley, quietly. “I left there at two o’clock this morning.”
From any other man the assertion would have been received with incredulous amusement; but Varley’s word was always ever so much better than any other man’s bond, and the group stared at him with amazement. He finished his cigarette and sauntered out. Half an hour later he was mounted on his mare, who looked as if she had just come fresh from the stable after a week’s rest, and was going at an easy swing out of the embryo town.
As rider and horse were disappearing in a cloud of dust, the Ballarat coach drove in. The coachman—no other than Johnson, the phlegmatic—nodded toward the disappearing horseman, and, addressing a gentleman who sat beside him, remarked: