The Tale of Timber Town

From about his waist Scarlett untied a long leather belt, which proved to be lined with gold. But the soup-plate would hold no more, and so the lucky digger poured the residue in a heap upon the polished table. Next, he went out to the verandah, and undoing his swag, he returned with a tin canister which had been wrapped in his blankets. This also was full of gold, and taking off its lid, he added its contents to the pile upon the table.

“And there’s some left in camp,” he said. “I couldn’t carry it all to town.”

“Well, well,” said Sartoris, “while I’ve been boxed up in that stinking plague-ship, I might ha’ been on God A’mighty’s earth, picking up stuff like this. Well, well, what luck!”

“There must be a matter o’ two thousand pound,” said the Pilot. “Two thousand pound!”

“More,” said Jack. “There should be about 800 ozs., valued at something like £3000; and this is the result of but our first washing-up.”

“Good lord, what luck!” exclaimed the Pilot. “As I always have said, it comes in streaks. Now, Jack, here, has had his streak o’ bad luck, and now he’s got into a new streak, and it’s so good that it’s like to turn him crazy before he comes to the end of it. If you want to know the real truth about things, ask an old sailor – he won’t mislead you.”

But all that Rose said was, “How nice it must be to meet with such success.”

“By George, I was almost forgetting our bargain,” exclaimed Scarlett. He took from his pocket a little linen bag, which he handed to Rose. “Those are the nuggets you wanted – glad to be able to keep my promise.”

The girl untied the neck of the small bag, and three heavy pieces of gold tumbled on the table.

“I can’t take them,” she exclaimed. “They’re worth too much. I can’t make any adequate return.”

“I hope you won’t try. Pilot, she must take them.”

“Take ’em? Of course. Why, Rosebud, his luck would leave him to-morrer, if you was to stop him keeping his promise. You’re bound to take ’em.”

Rose weighed the bits of virgin gold in the palm of her little hand.

“Of course, I never really meant you to give me any of your gold,” she said. “I only spoke in joke.”

“Then it’s a joke I should make pretty often, if I were you,” said Sartoris. “You don’t seem to know when you’re well off.”

“I take it under compulsion; hoping that you’ll find so much more that you won’t feel the loss of this.”

“There’s no fear of that,” said Jack. “As for repayment, I hope you won’t mention it again.”

“I’ll have to give it you in good wishes.”

The basket of roses stood on the table. Jack looked at the beautifully blended colours, and stooped to smell the sweet perfume. “I’ll take one of these,” he said, “ – the one you like the best.”

The girl took a bud of La Rosiere, dark, velvety, fragrant, perfect. “I’m in love with them all,” she said, “but this is my favourite.”

She handed the bud to Jack, who put it in the button-hole of his worn and shabby coat.

“Thanks,” he said, “I’m more than repaid.”

Sartoris burst out laughing.

“Don’t you feel a bit in the way, Summerhayes?” he said. “I do. When these young things exchange love-tokens, it’s time we went into the next room.”

“No,” laughed the Pilot, “we won’t budge. The gal gets twenty-pound worth of gold, and offers a rose in return. It’s a beautiful flower, no doubt; but how would a slice of mutton go, after ‘damper’ and ‘billy’ tea? Rosebud, my gal, go and get Mr. Scarlett something to eat.”

Joining in the laugh, Rose went into her kitchen, and Jack commenced to pack up his gold, in order that the table might be laid for dinner.

But if you come to think of it, there may have been a great deal in his request, and even more in the girl’s frank bestowal.

CHAPTER XXI

The Foundation of the Gold League

Mr. Crewe sat in the Timber Town Club with his satellite, Cathro, beside him. The old gentleman was smoking a well-seasoned briar pipe, from which he puffed clouds of smoke contemplatively, as he watched the gesticulations of a little man who was arguing with a gentleman who wore riding-breeches and leggings.

“I tell you, sir,” said the little man, “that there is not the vestige of proof that the mails were stolen, not the slightest scintilla of truth in the suspicion.”

“Then what became of them?” asked the other, as he fixed a gold horse-shoe pin more securely in his tie.

“What became of them?” exclaimed the little man. “They were washed overboard, washed overboard and lost.”

“But,” said the man of horses, “I happened to be riding home late that night, and, I assure you, there was not a breath of wind; the sea was as smooth as glass.”

“That might be,” retorted the little man, who was now pacing up and down in front of his adversary in a most excited fashion. “That might be, but there is a lot of surge and swell about a steamer, especially in the neighbourhood of the screw, and it is very possible, I may say highly probable, that the missing bags were lost as the mail was being passed up the side.”

“But how would that affect the incoming mail?” asked the other. “Did that drop over the side, too?”

“No, sir,” said the diminutive man, drawing himself up to his full height. “There is nothing to prove that the incoming mail was anything but complete. We are honest people in Timber Town, sir. I do not believe we have in the entire community men capable of perpetrating so vile a crime.” He turned to the Father of Timber Town for corroboration. “I appeal to you, Mr. Crewe; to you, sir, who have known the town from its inception.”

Mr. Crewe drew his pipe from his mouth, and said, with great deliberation, “Well, that is, ah – that is a very difficult question. I may say that though Timber Town is remarkably free from crime, still I have known rascals here, and infernal dam’ rascals, too.”

The little man fairly bristled with indignation at this remark. He was about to refute the stigma laid on his little pet town, when the door opened and in walked Scarlett, dressed still in his travel-stained clothes, and with his beard unshorn.

His appearance was so strange, that the little argumentative man believed an intruder, of low origin and objectionable occupation, had invaded the sacred precincts of his club.

“I beg your pardon, but what does this mean, sir?” he asked; immense importance in his bearing, gesture, and tone. “You have made some mistake, sir. I should like to know if your name has been duly entered in the visitors’ book, and by whom, sir?”

Taking no notice of these remarks, Jack walked straight across the room, and held out his hand to Mr. Crewe. The white-haired old gentleman was on his feet in a moment. He took the proffered hand, and said, with a politeness which was as easy as it was natural, “What is it I can do for you, sir? If you will step this way, we can talk quite comfortably in the ante-room.”

Jack laughed. “I don’t believe you know me,” he said.

“’Pon my honour, you’re right. I don’t,” said Mr. Crewe.

Jack laughed again, a thing which in a non-member almost caused the pompous little man to explode with indignation.

“I’m the fellow, you know, who went to look for the new gold-field,” said Jack, “and by the lord! I’ve found it.”

“Scarlett! Is it you?” exclaimed old Mr. Crewe. “You have got it? My dear sir, this is good news; this is excellent news! You have found the new gold-field? This is really remarkable, this is indeed most fortunate! This is the happiest day I have seen for a long while!”

“Eh? What? what?” said Cathro, who was on his feet too. “Is it rich?”

“Rich?” said Jack. Taking a bank deposit-receipt from his pocket, he handed it to Cathro.

“Good God!” cried he, eyeing the figures on the paper, “it’s a fortune.”