street. With extended hand, portly mien, and benign
countenance, he approached the digger, after the manner of a benevolent
sidesman in a church.

"Selling gold, mate?" He spoke in his most confidential manner. "Come
this way. _I_ will help you."

Down the street he took the derelict, like a ship in full sail towing a
battered, mastless craft into a haven of safety.

Having brought the "swagger" to a safe anchorage inside his shop, Tresco
shut the door, to the exclusion of all intruders; took his gold-scales
from a shelf where they had stood, unused and dusty, for many a month;
stepped behind the counter, and said, in his best business manner: "Now,
sir."

The digger unhitched his swag and dropped it unceremoniously on the
floor, stood his long _manuka_ stick against the wall, thrust his hand
inside his "jumper," looked at the goldsmith's rubicund face, drew out a
long canvas bag which was tied at the neck with a leather boot-lace, and
said, in a hoarse whisper, "There, mister, that's my pile."

Tresco balanced the bag in his hand.

"You've kind o' struck it," he said, as he looked at the digger with a
blandness which could not have been equalled.

The digger may have grinned, or he may have scowled--Tresco could not
tell--but, to all intents and purposes, he remained imperturbable, for
his wilderness of hair and beard, aided by his hat, covered the
landscape of his face.

"Ja-ake!" roared the goldsmith, in his rasping, raucous voice, as though
the apprentice were quarter of a mile away. "Come here, you young limb!"

The shock-headed, rat-faced youth shot like a shrapnel shell from the
workshop, and burst upon the astonished digger's gaze.

"Take this bob and a jug," said the goldsmith, "and fetch a quart. We'll
drink your health," he added, turning to the man with the gold, "and a
continual run of good luck."

The digger for the first time found his full voice. It was as though the
silent company of the wood-hens in the "bush" had caused the hinges of
his speech to become rusty. His words jerked themselves spasmodically
from behind his beard, and his sentences halted, half-finished.

"Yes. That's so. If you ask me. Nice pile? Oh, yes. Good streak o' luck.
Good streak, as you say. Yes. Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" He actually broke into a
laugh.

Tresco polished the brass dish of his scales, which had grown dim and
dirty with disuse; then he untied the bag of gold, and poured the rich
contents into the dish. The go