Wealth shall be yours, with its business and bores,
Health and hard labour be mine!
"Health and hard labour be mine!" thundered a score of voices, and a score of strong labour-hardened hands came crashing down upon the rough deal tables. "Bravo, Ned!" "That's your sort for Cariboo!" "Mate, we'll wet that song if you please," and a dozen other similar expressions of approval rewarded Ned for his efforts, but Steve Chance did not go as far as the rest of the audience.
"A pretty good song, Ned," he said, "with lots of shouting in it, but no sense."
"Give us a better, little one," replied his friend good-naturedly. "Ah, Lilla, you are a brick—I beg your pardon, but I don't know the German for a fairy who brings a thirsty man just what he wants;" and Ned buried his moustache in a foaming glass of Lager.
"That beats all the champagne and such like trash into fits," he added with a sigh of satisfaction as he put down the empty glass. "Now, Steve, beat my song if you can."
"Beat it! No trouble to do that. If the boys don't shout themselves silly over my chorus I'll take a back seat."
"You wouldn't stay there if you did," laughed Ned; "but drive on, my boy."
Thus adjured, Steve got up and sang with a spirit and go of which I am unable to give any adequate idea, the song of—