d
go to The Lucky Digger. Tell the young lady in the bar that you have a
friend who's dying of hunger. Tell her to fill a jug with a quart of
beer, and a basket with tucker of sorts. And hurry back; for, by my
sacred aunt, if I don't get something better presently, I shall turn
cannibal and eat _you_!"

While the boy was gone, Tresco weighed the gold that lay on the bench.
It came to 111 ounces, and this, valued at the current price of gold
from Bush Robin Creek--the uninitiated are possibly unaware that as one
star differeth from another star in glory, so the gold from one locality
differs in price from that found in another--came to L430 2s. 6d.

Finding the safe locked, Tresco, whistling softly, turned down the gas,
and sat at his bench in the gloom.

When Jake returned he was cautiously admitted, the door was re-bolted,
and the gas was turned up sufficiently to show the goldsmith the way to
his mouth.

"Where's the key of the safe, Jake?"

"Where it ought to be."

"You young imp, anty up."

Jake produced the key from his pocket. "D'you suppose I label it and put
it in the winder?"

"Put this gold away--there's 111 ounces. I'll bring some more next time
I come. Now." He lifted the jug, and drank. When he set it down again,
it was half empty. "That's what I call a moment of bliss. No one who
hasn't spent a month in the bush knows what a thirst really is; he ain't
got no conception what beer means. Now, what's in the basket?" He lifted
the white napkin that covered his supper. "Ham!" A beautific smile
illumined his face. "Ham, pink and white and succulent, cut in thin
slices by fair hands. Delicious! And what's this? Oyster patties, cold
certainly, but altogether lovely. New bread, cheese, apple turn-over!
Couldn't be better. The order of the menu is; first, entrees--that means
oysters--next, ham, followed by sweets, and topped off with a morsel of
cheese. Stand by and watch me eat--a man that has suffered
semi-starvation for nearly a month."

Jake lit a cigarette, an indulgence with which in these days of worry
and stress he propitiated his overwrought nerves. He drew in the smoke
with all the relish of a connoisseur, and expelled it through his
nostrils.

"Is this gold the result of six weeks' work?" he asked.

"No, barely one week's," answered Tresco, his mouth full of ham and new
bread.

"Crikey!" Jake inhaled more cigarette smoke. "'Seems to me our potty
little trade ain't in it. I move that we bo