ld lay in a lovely, dull yellow heap.

"Clean, rough gold," said Tresco, peering closely at the precious mound,
and stirring it with his grimy forefinger. "It'll go L3 15s. You're in
luck, mister. You've struck it rich, and"--he assumed his most benignant
expression--"there's plenty more where this came from, eh?"

"You bet," said the digger. "Oh, yes, any Gawd's quantity." He laughed
again. "You must think me pretty green, mister." He continued to laugh.
"How much for the lot?"

Tresco spread the gold over the surface of the dish in a layer, and,
puffing gently but adroitly, he winnowed it with his nicotine-ladened
breath till no particle of sand remained with the gold. Then he put the
dish on the scales, and weighed the digger's "find."

"Eighty-two ounces ten pennyweights six grains," he said, with infinite
deliberation, and began to figure on a piece of paper. Seemingly, the
goldsmith's arithmetic was as rusty as the digger's speech, for the sum
took so long to work out that the owner of the gold had time to cut a
"fill" of tobacco from a black plug, charge his pipe, and smoke for
fully five minutes, before Tresco proclaimed the total. This he did
with a triumphant wave of the pen.

"Three hundred and nine pounds seven shillings and elevenpence farthing.
That's as near as I can get it. Nice clean gold, mister."

He looked at the digger; the digger looked at him.

"What name?" asked Tresco. "To whom shall I draw the cheque?"

"That's good! My name?" laughed the digger. "I s'pose it's usual, eh?"

"De-cidedly."

"Sometimes they call me Bill the Prospector, sometimes Bill the Hatter.
I ain't particular. I've got no choice. Take which you like."

"'Pay Bill the Prospector, or Order, three hundred and nine pounds.' No,
sir, that will hardlee do. I want your real name, your proper legal
title."

"Sounds grand, don't it? 'Legal title,' eh? But if you must have
it--though it ar'n't hardly ever used--put me down Bill Wurcott. That
suit, eh?--Bill Wurcott?"

Tresco began to draw the cheque.

"Never mind the silver," said the digger. "Make it three hundred an'
nine quid." And just then Jake entered with the quart jug, tripped over
the digger's swag, spilt half-a-pint of beer on the floor, recovered
himself in time to save the balance, and exclaimed, "Holee smoke!"

"Tell yer what," said the digger. "Let the young feller have the change.
Good idea, eh?"

Jake grinned--he grasped the situation in a split secon