'Well (by Jove, this is a cigar, I must have another by and by), looks so, doesn't it? But it's necessary to be hard and sharp at the diggings or the country would go to the devil. Wrong man shopped now and then, like Tom Rattleton in California, but can't be helped. Ever hear that yarn? No! Well, I'll just light number two, and here goes: Tom, you must know, was a bit fastish before he left the paternal halls in another colony. After one of his escapades, a friend of the family, good fellow, observes one day, "Tom, it's no use talking, you'll come to be hanged." "Thank you," says Tom, "I think I'll try San Francisco; this place is too confined for a man of my talents." Gold at Suttor's Mill had just been reported.'
'And did he go?'
'Like a bird, with lots of Australian "bloods," as they used to call them. Had to work their way back before the mast, most of them. Tom had, anyhow. After the fatted calf had been duly potted, friend of the family arrives.
'"Hulloa, Tom! home again? Proud to see you, my boy. Safe back to the old place, hey?"
'"That is so," answered Tom, putting on a little Yankee touch, "do you remember what you said to me as I was leaving?"
'"No, my boy, what was it?" Friend didn't like to own up, you see.
'"Well, you said I'd come to be hanged, and, by Jove! I nearly was in 'Frisco. The rope was round my neck, sure as you're there. Took me for a gambler who'd shot a man the night before. He turned up in time to be turned off, or I should have been—well, I shouldn't have been here to-day."
'Friend turned quite pale, grasped his hand, and sloped. Affecting, wasn't it?'
'Good story, very,' quoth the host. 'Like Tom Rattleton. Reckless young beggar he always was—but turned out well afterwards. Experientia docet. Near thing, though. Now, touching this poor girl's cousin. Nothing earthly will prevent her going to look for him.'
'H—m! Does she know any one in Ballarat?'