Denis Dent: A Novel

by E. W. Hornung

"It wasn't much of one, certainly," the other admitted on reflection, with his own ingenuous candour. "I am not so sure, now, that it would have paid my passage home. I never thought of that before. So you two are going up to the diggings, just as I come down?" he added rather wistfully, after a pause.

"We start to-morrow if we can."

"Much capital, may I ask?"

"Not much more than half your pile between us, I'm afraid."

"It needs more capital than you'd think," said Moseley, in a pensive way.

"I dare say."

And Denis sighed.

"Ballarat or Bendigo?"

"I thought of tossing for it."

They were back again on the foul fringe of the sail-cloth suburb. Moseley stood still in the mud. And the bright southern stars discovered a pleasing diffidence in a wholly amiable face.