“Three-quarters of an ounce,” said the storekeeper, when the balance ceased to vibrate.
“Come along, then, an’ let’s have another glass of grog for luck,” cried Gashford, striking his huge fist on the counter.
A throw of the dice was to decide the matter. While Lantry, who was appointed to make the throw, rattled the dice in the box, the diggers crowded round in eager curiosity, for, besides the unusual disparity between the stakes, there was much probability of a scene of violence as the result, Brixton having displayed a good deal of temper when he lost to the bully on the previous day.
“Lost!” exclaimed several voices in disappointed tones, when the dice fell on the table.
“Who’s lost?” cried those in the rear of the crowd.
“Tom Brixton, to be sure,” answered Gashford, with a laugh. “He always loses; but it’s no great loss this time, and I am not much the richer.”
There was no response to this sally. Every one looked at Brixton, expecting an outburst of rage, but the youth stood calmly contemplating the dice with an absent look, and a pleasant smile on his lips.
“Yes,” he said, recovering himself, “luck is indeed against me. But never mind. Let’s have a drink, Lantry; you’ll have to give it me on credit this time!”
Lantry professed himself to be quite willing to oblige an old customer to that extent. He could well afford it, he said; and it was unquestionable truth that he uttered, for his charges were exorbitant.
That night, when the camp was silent in repose, and the revellers were either steeped in oblivion or wandering in golden dreams, Tom Brixton sauntered slowly down to the river at a point where it spread out into a lakelet, in which the moon was brightly reflected. The overhanging cliffs, fringed with underwood and crowned with trees, shot reflections of ebony blackness here and there down into the water, while beyond, through several openings, could be seen a varied and beautiful landscape, backed and capped by the snow-peaks of the great backbone of America.