f,
but what he lacked in tailoring he made good in serene benignity of
countenance. His features, which beamed like the sun shining above him,
were recognised by all who passed by. It was, "How do, Benjamin; bobbin'
up, old party?" "Mornin', Tresco. You remind me of the rooster that
found the jewel--you look so bloomin' contented with yourself." "Ah!
good day, Mr. Tresco. I hope I see you well. Remember, I still have that
nice little bit of property for sale. Take you to see it any time you
like."

With Benjamin it was, "How do, Ginger? In a hurry? Go it--you'll race
the hands round the clock yet." "Good morning, Mr. Flint. Lovely
weather, yes, but hot. Now, half-a-pint is refreshing, but you lawyers
have no time--too many mortgages, conveyances, bills of sale to think
about. I understand. Good morning." "Why, certainly, Boscoe, my beloved
pal. Did you say 'half'?--I care not if it's a pint. Let us to the
blushing Hebe of the bar."

Tresco and his friend, Boscoe, entered the portals of The Lucky Digger.
Behind the bar stood a majestic figure arrayed in purple and fine linen.
She had the development of an Amazon and the fresh face of a girl from
the shires of England. Through the down on her cheek "red as a rose was
she."

Tresco advanced as to the shrine of a goddess, and leant deferentially
over the bar. Never a word spoke he till the resplendent deity had
finished speaking to two commercial travellers who smoked cigars, and
then, as her eyes met his, he said simply, "Two pints, if you please,
miss."

The liquor fell frothing into two tankards; Boscoe put down the money,
and the goddess withdrew to the society of the bagmen, who talked to her
confidentially, as to their own familiar friend.

Tresco eyed the group, smilingly, and said, "The toffs are in the
cheese, Boscoe. You'd think they'd a monopoly of Gentle Annie. But wait
till I get on the job."

Boscoe, a wizened little tinsmith, with the grime of his trade upon him,
looked vacuously to his front, and buried his nose in his pot of beer.

"Flash wimmen an't in my line," said he, as he smacked his lips, "not
but this yer an't a fine 'piece.' But she'd cost a gold mine in clo'es
alone, let alone brooches and fallals. I couldn't never run it." Here
one of the gaudy bagmen stretched out his hand, and fingered the
bar-maid's rings. The girl seemed nothing annoyed at this awkward
attention, but when her admirer's fingers stole to her creamy chin, she
stepped b