Father of Timber Town.

"There's a gentleman wants to see you, Mr. Crewe," she said.

"Very good, very good; bring him in--he has as much right here as I."

"He said he'd wait for you in the bar-parlour."

"But, my girl, I must watch the game: I have a five-pound note on it.
Yes, a five-pound note!"

"Think of that, now," said Gentle Annie, running her bejewelled hand
over her face. "You'll be bankrupt before morning. But never mind, old
gentleman,"--she deftly corrected the set of Mr. Crewe's coat, and
fastened its top button--"you'll always find a friend and protector in
_me_."

"My good girl, what a future! The tender mercies of bar-maids are cruel.
'The daughter of the horse-leech'--he! he!--where did you get all those
rings from?--I don't often quote Scripture, but I find it knows all
about women. Cathro, you must watch the game for me: I have to see a
party in the bar. Watch the game, Cathro, watch the game."

The old gentleman, leaning heavily upon his stick, walked slowly to the
door, and Gentle Annie, humming a tune, walked briskly before, in all
the glory of exuberant health and youth.

When Mr. Crewe entered the bar-parlour he was confronted by the bulky
figure of Benjamin Tresco, who was enjoying a glass of beer and the last
issue of _The Pioneer Bushman_. Between the goldsmith's lips was
the amber mouthpiece of a straight-stemmed briar pipe, a smile of
contentment played over the breadth of his ruddy countenance, and his
ejaculations were made under some deep and pleasurable excitement.

"By the living hokey! What times, eh?" He slapped his thigh with
his heavy hand. "The town won't know itself! We'll all be bloomin'
millionaires. Ah! good evening, Mr. Crewe. Auspicious occasion. Happy
to meet you, sir." Benjamin had risen, and was motioning the Father of
Timber Town to a seat upon the couch, where he himself had been sitting.
"You will perceive that I am enjoying a light refresher. Have something
yourself at my expense, I beg."

Mr. Crewe's manner was very stiff. He knew Tresco well. It was not so
much that he resented the goldsmith's familiar manner, as that, with
the instinct of his _genus_, he suspected the unfolding of some
money-making scheme for which he was to find the capital. Therefore
he fairly bristled with caution.

"Thank you, nothing." He spoke with great dignity. "You sent for me.
What do you wish to say, sir?"

Benjamin looked at the rich man through his spectacles, without w