The Tale of Timber Town
- -
- 100%
- +
“Come and have a drink, mate,” said another.
“Ain’t thirsty,” replied the “swagger.”
“Let ’im alone,” said a third. “Can’t you see he’s bin working a ‘duffer’?”
Benjamin Tresco, standing on the curb of the pavement, watched the advent of the prospector with an altogether remarkable interest, which rose to positive restlessness when he saw the digger pause before the entrance of the Kangaroo Bank.
The ill-clad, dirty stranger pushed through the swinging, glass door, stood with his hobnailed boots on the tesselated pavement inside the bank, and contemplated the Semitic face of the spruce clerk who, with the glittering gold-scales by his side, stood behind the polished mahogany counter.
But either the place looked too grand and expensive, or else the clerk’s appearance offended, but the “swagger” backed out of the building, and stood once more upon the asphalt, wearing the air of a stray dog with no home or friends.
Tresco crossed the 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 gold 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 £3 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 second.
The digger took the cheque from Tresco, looked at it upside-down, and said, “That’s all right,” folded it up, put it in his breeches’ pocket just as if it had been a common one-pound note, and remarked, “Well, I must make a git. So-long.”
“No, sir,” said the goldsmith. “There is the beer: here are the men. No, sir; not thus must you depart. Refresh the inner man. Follow me. We must drink your health and continued good fortune.”
Carefully carrying the beer, Tresco led the way to his workshop, placed the jug on his bench, and soon the amber-coloured liquor foamed in two long glasses.
The digger put his pint to his hairy lips, said, “Kia ora. Here’s fun,” drank deep and gasped – the froth ornamenting his moustache. “The first drop I’ve tasted this three months.”
“You must ha’ come from way back, where there’re no shanties,” risked Tresco.
“From way back,” acknowledged the digger.
“Twelve solid weeks? You must have a thirst.”
“Pretty fair, you bet.” The digger groped about in the depth of his pocket, and drew forth a fine nugget. “Look at that,” he said, with his usual chuckle.
Tresco balanced the lump of gold in his deft hand.
“Three ounces?”
“Three, six.”
“’Nother little cheque. Turn out your pockets, mister. I’ll buy all you’ve got.”
“That’s the lot,” said the digger, taking back the nugget and fingering it lovingly. “I don’t sell that – it’s my lucky bit; the first I found.” Another chuckle. “Tell you what. Some day you can make me something outer this, something to wear for a charm. No alloy, you understand; all pure gold. And use the whole nugget.”
Tresco pursed his lips, and looked contemplative.
“A three-ounce charm, worn round the neck, might strangle a digger in a swollen creek. Where’d his luck be then? But how about your missis? Can’t you divide it?”
The digger laughed his loudest.
“Give it the missis! That’s good. The missis’d want more’n an ounce and a half for her share. Mister, wimmen’s expensive.”
“Ain’t you got no kid to share the charm with?”
“Now you’re gettin’ at me” – the chuckle again – “worse ’an ever. You’re gettin’ at me fine. Look ’ere, I’m goin’ to quit: I’m off.”
“But, in the meantime, what am I to do with this nice piece of gold? I could make a ring for each of your fingers, and some for your toes. I could pretty near make you a collarette, to wear when you go to evening parties in a low-necked dress, or a watch chain more massive than the bloomin’ Mayor’s. There’s twelve pounds’ worth of gold in that piece.”
The digger looked perplexed. The problem puzzled him.
“How’d an amulet suit you?” suggested the goldsmith.
“A what?”
“A circle for the arm, with a charm device chased on it.”
“A bit like a woman, that – eh, mister?”
“Not at all. The Prince o’ Wales, an’ the Dook o’ York, an’ all the elite wears ’em. It’d be quite the fashion.”
The digger returned the nugget to his pocket. “I call you a dam’ amusin’ cuss, I do that. You’re a goer. There ain’t no keepin’ up with the likes o’ you. You shall make what you blame well please – we’ll talk about it by-and-by. But for the present, where’s the best pub?”
“The Lucky Digger,” said Jake, without hesitation.
“Certainly,” reiterated Tresco. “You’ll pass it on your way to the Bank.”
“Well, so-long,” said the digger. “See you later.” And, shouldering his swag, he held out his horny hand.
“I reckon,” said the goldsmith. “Eight o’clock this evening. So-long.” And the digger went out.
Tresco stood on his doorstep, and with half-shut eyes watched the prospector to the door of The Lucky Digger.
“Can’t locate it,” he mused, “and I know where all the gold, sold in this town, comes from. Nor I can’t locate him. But he’s struck it, and struck it rich.”
There were birch twigs caught in the straps of the digger’s “swag,” and he had a bit of rata flower stuck in the band of his hat. “That’s where he’s come from!” Tresco pointed in the direction of the great range of mountains which could be seen distinctly through the window of his workshop.
“What’s it worth?” asked Jake, who stood beside his master.
“The gold? Not a penny less than £3/17/-an ounce, my son.”
“An’ you give £3/15/-. Good business, boss.”
“I drew him a cheque for three hundred pounds, and I haven’t credit at the bank for three hundred shillings. So I must go and sell this gold before he has time to present my cheque. Pretty close sailing, Jake.
“But mark me, young shaver. There’s better times to come. If the discovery of this galoot don’t mean a gold boom in Timber Town, you may send the crier round and call me a flathead. Things is goin’ to hum.”
CHAPTER VI
The Father of Timber Town“I never heard the like of it!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “You say, eighty-two ounces of gold? You say it came from within fifty miles of Timber Town? Why, sir, the matter must be looked into.” The old gentleman’s voice rose to a shrill treble. “Yes, indeed, it must.”
They were sitting in the Timber Town Club: the ancient Mr. Crewe, Scarlett, and Cathro, a little man who rejoiced in the company of the rich octogenarian.
“I’m new at this sort of thing,” said Scarlett: “I’ve just come off the sea. But when the digger took a big bit of gold from his pocket, I looked at it, open-eyed – I can tell you that. I called the landlord, and ordered drinks – I thought that the right thing to do. And, by George! it was. The ruffianly-looking digger drank his beer, insisted on calling for more, and then locked the door.”
Mr. Crewe was watching the speaker closely, and hung on every word he uttered. Glancing at the lean and wizened Cathro, he said, “You hear that, Cathro? He locked the door, sir. Did you ever hear the like?”
“From inside his shirt,” Scarlett continued, “he drew a fat bundle of bank notes, which he placed upon the table. Taking a crisp one-pound note from the pile, he folded it into a paper-light, and said, ‘I could light my pipe with this an’ never feel it.’
"‘Don’t think of such a thing,’ I said, and placed a sovereign on the table, ‘I’ll toss you for it.’
“‘Right!’ said my hairy friend. ‘Sudden death?’
“‘Sudden death,’ I said.
“‘Heads,’ said he.”
“Think of that, now!” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “The true digger, Cathro, the true digger, I know the genus– there’s no mistaking it. Most interesting. Go on, sir.”
“The coin came down tails, and I pocketed the bank-note.
“‘Lookyer here, mate,’ said my affluent friend. ‘That don’t matter. We’ll see if I can’t get it back,’ and he put another note on the table. I won that, too. He doubled the stakes, and still I won.
“‘You had luck on the gold-fields,’ I said, ‘but when you come to town things go dead against you.’
“‘Luck!’ he cried. ‘Now watch me. If I lost the whole of thisyer bloomin’ pile, I could start off to-morrer mornin’ an, before nightfall, I’d be on ground where a week’s work would give me back all I’d lost. An’ never a soul in this blank, blank town knows where the claim is.’”
“Well, well,” gasped old Mr. Crewe; his body bent forward, and his eyes peering into Scarlett’s face. “I’ve lived here since the settlement was founded. I got here when the people lived in nothing better than Maori whares and tents, when the ground on which this very club stands was a flax-swamp. I have seen this town grow, sir, from a camp to the principal town of a province. I know every man and boy living in it, do I not, Cathro? I know every hill and creek within fifty miles of it; I’ve explored every part of the bush, and I tell you I never saw payable gold in any stream nearer than Maori Gully, to reach which you must go by sea.”
“What about the man’s mates?” asked Cathro.
“I asked him about them,” replied Scarlett. “I said, ‘You have partners in this thing, I suppose.’ ‘You mean pals,’ he said. ‘No, sir. I’m a hatter – no one knows the place but me. I’m sole possessor of hundreds of thousands of ounces of gold. There’s my Miner’s Right.’ He threw a dirty parchment document on the table, drawn out in the name of William Wurcott.”
“Wurcott? Wurcott?” repeated Mr. Crewe, contemplatively. “I don’t know the name. The man doesn’t belong to Timber Town.”
“You speak as though you thought no one but a Timber Town man should get these good things.” Cathro smiled as he spoke.
“No, sir,” retorted the old gentleman, testily. “I said no such thing, sir. I simply said he did not belong to this town. But you must agree with me, it’s a precious strange thing that we men of this place have for years been searching the country round here for gold, and, by Jupiter! a stranger, an outsider, a mere interloper, a miserable ‘hatter’ from God knows where, discovers gold two days’ journey from the town, and brings in over eighty ounces?” The old man’s voice ran up to a falsetto, he stroked his nose with his forefinger and thumb, he broke into the shrill laugh of an octogenarian. “And the rascal boasts he can get a hundred ounces more in a week or two! We must look into the matter – we must see what it means.”
The three men smoked silently and solemnly.
“Scarlett, here, owns the man’s personal acquaintance,” said Cathro. “The game is to go mates with him – Scarlett, the ‘hatter,’ and myself.”
All three of them sat silent, and thought hard.
“But what if your ‘hatter’ won’t fraternize?” asked Mr. Crewe. “You young men are naturally sanguine, but I know these diggers. They may be communicative enough over a glass, but next day the rack and thumbscrews wouldn’t extract a syllable from them.”
“All the more reason why we should go, and see the digger what time Scarlett deems him to be happy in his cups.” This was Cathro’s suggestion, and he added, “If he won’t take us as mates, we may at least learn the locality of his discovery. With your knowledge of the country, Mr. Crewe, the rest should be easy.”
“It all sounds very simple,” replied the venerable gentleman, “but experience has taught me that big stakes are not won quite so easily. However, we shall see. When our friend, Scarlett, is ready, we are ready; and when I say I take up a matter of this kind, you know I mean to go through with it, even if I have to visit the spot myself and prospect on my own account. For believe me, gentlemen, this may be the biggest event in the history of Timber Town.” Mr. Crewe had risen to his feet, and was walking to and fro in front of the younger men. “If payable gold were found in these hills, this town would double its population in three months, business would flourish, and everybody would have his pockets lined with gold. I don’t talk apocryphally. I have seen such things repeatedly, upon the Coast. I have seen small townships literally flooded with gold, and yet a pair of boots, a tweed coat, and the commonest necessaries of life, could not be procured there for love or money.”
CHAPTER VII
Cut-throat Euchre“Give the stranger time to sort his cards,” said the thin American, with the close-cropped head.
“Why, certainly, certainly,” replied the big and bloated Englishman, who sat opposite. “Well, my noble, what will you do?”
The Prospector, who was the third player, looked up from his “hand” and drummed the table with the ends of his dirty fingers.
“What do I make it? Why, I turn it down.”
“Pass again,” said the American.
“Ditto,” said the Englishman.
“Then this time I make it ‘Spades,’” said the digger, bearded to the eyes; his tangled thatch of black hair hiding his forehead, and his clothes such as would have hardly tempted a rag-picker.
“You make it ‘next,’ eh?” It was the Englishman who spoke.
“We’ll put you through, siree,” said the American, who was a small man, without an atom of superfluous flesh on his bones. His hair stood upright on his head, his dough-coloured face wore a perpetual smile, and he was the happy possessor of a gold eye-tooth with which he constantly bit his moustache. The player who had come to aid him in plucking the pigeon was a big man with a florid complexion and heavy, sensuous features, which, however, wore a good-natured expression.
The game was cut-throat euchre; one pound points. So that each of the three players contributed five pounds to the pool, which lay, gold, silver and bank-notes, in a tempting pile in the middle of the table.
“Left Bower, gen’lemen,” said the digger, placing the Knave of Clubs on the table.
“The deuce!” exclaimed the florid man.
“Can’t help you, partner,” said the man with the gold tooth, playing a low card.
“One trick,” said the digger, and he put down the Knave of Spades. “There’s his mate.”
“Right Bower, egad!” exclaimed the big man, who was evidently minus trumps.
The pasty-faced American played the Ace of Spades without saying a word.
“A blanky march!” cried the digger. “Look-a-here. How’s that for high?” and he placed on the table his three remaining cards – the King, Queen, and ten of trumps.
The other players showed their hands, which were full of red cards.
“Up, and one to spare,” exclaimed the digger, and took the pool.
About fifty pounds, divided into three unequal piles, lay on the table, and beside each player’s money stood a glass.
The florid man was shuffling the pack, and the other two were arranging their marking cards, when the door opened slowly, and the Father of Timber Town, followed by Cathro and Scarlett, entered the room.
“Well, well. Hard at it, eh, Garsett?” said the genial old gentleman, addressing himself to the Englishman. “Cut-throat euchre, by Jupiter! A ruinous game, Mr. Lichfield,” – to the man with the gold tooth – “but your opponent” – pointing with his stick to the digger – “seems to have all the luck. Look at his pile, Cathro. Your digger friend, eh, Scarlett? Look at his pile – the man’s winning.”
Scarlett nodded.
“He’s in luck again,” said Mr. Crewe; “in luck again, by all that’s mighty.”
The pool was made up, the cards were dealt, and the game continued. The nine of Hearts was the “turn-up” card.
“Pass,” said Lichfield.
“Then I order you up,” said the digger.
The burly Garsett drew a card from his “hand,” placed it under the pack, and said, “Go ahead. Hearts are trumps.”
The gentleman with the gold tooth played the King of Hearts, the digger a small trump, and Garsett his turn-up card.
“Ace of Spades,” said Lichfield, playing that card.
“Trump,” said the digger, as he put down the Queen of Hearts.
“Ace of trumps!” exclaimed Garsett, and took the trick.
“’Strewth!” cried the man from the “bush.” “But let’s see your next.”
“You haven’t a hope,” said the big gambler. “Two to one in notes we euchre you.”
“Done,” replied the digger, and he took a dirty one-pound bank-note from his heap of money.
“Most exciting,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “Quite spirited. The trumps must all be out, Cathro. Let us see what all this betting means.”
“Right Bower,” said the Englishman.
“Ho-ho! stranger,” the American cried. “I guess that pound belongs to Mr. Garsett.”
The digger put the Knave of Diamonds on the table, and handed the money to his florid antagonist.
“Your friend is set back two points, Scarlett.” It was Mr. Crewe that spoke. “England and America divide the pool.”
The digger looked up at the Father of Timber Town.
“If you gen’l’men wish to bet on the game, well and good,” he said, somewhat heatedly. “But if you’re not game to back your opinion, then keep your blanky mouths shut!”
Old Mr. Crewe was as nettled at this unlooked-for attack as if a battery of artillery had suddenly opened upon him.
“Heh! What?” he exclaimed. “You hear that, Cathro? Scarlett, you hear what your friend says? He wants to bet on the game, and that after being euchred and losing his pound to Mr. Garsett. Why, certainly, sir. I’ll back my opinion with the greatest pleasure. I’ll stake a five-pound note on it. You’ll lose this game, sir.”
“Done,” said the digger, and he counted out five sovereigns and placed them in a little heap by themselves.
Mr. Crewe had not come prepared for a “night out with the boys.” He found some silver in his pocket and two pounds in his sovereign-case.
“Hah! no matter,” he said. “Cathro, call the landlord. I take your bet, sir” – to the digger – “most certainly I take it, but one minute, give me one minute.”
“If there’s any difficulty in raising the cash,” said the digger, fingering his pile of money, “I won’t press the matter. I don’t want your blanky coin. I can easy do without it.”
The portly, rubicund landlord of the Lucky Digger entered the room.
“Ah, Townson,” said old Mr. Crewe, “good evening. We have a little bet on, Townson, a little bet between this gentleman from away back and myself, and I find I’m without the necessary cash. I want five pounds. I’ll give you my IOU.”
“Not at all,” replied the landlord, in a small high voice, totally surprising as issuing from such a portly person, “no IOU. I’ll gladly let you have twenty.”
“Five is all I want, Townson; and I expect to double it immediately, and then I shall be quite in funds.”
The landlord disappeared and came back with a small tray, on which was a bundle of bank-notes, some dirty, some clean and crisp. The Father of Timber Town counted the money. “Twenty pounds, Townson. Very well. You shall have it in the morning. Remind me, Cathro, that I owe Mr. Townson twenty pounds.”
The digger looked with surprise at the man who could conjure money from a publican.
“Who in Hades are you?” he asked, as Mr. Crewe placed his £5 beside the digger’s. “D’you own the blanky pub?”
“No, he owns the town,” interposed Garsett.
The digger was upon his feet in a moment.
“Proud to meet you, mister,” he cried. “Glad to have this bet with you. I like to bet with a gen’l’man. Make it ten, sir, and I shall be happier still.”
“No, no,” replied the ancient Mr. Crewe. “You said five, and five it shall be. That’s quite enough for you to lose on one game.”
“You think so? That’s your blanky opinion? See that?” The digger pointed to his heap of money. “Where that come from there’s enough to buy your tin-pot town three times over.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Crewe. “I’m glad to hear it. Bring your money, and you shall have the town.”
“Order, gentlemen, order,” cried the dough-faced man. “I guess we’re here to play cards, and cards we’re going to play. If you three gentlemen cann’t watch the game peaceably, it’ll be my disagreeable duty to fire you out – and that right smart.”