The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus
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.”
And just at this interesting moment entered Gentle Annie. She walked with little steps; propelling her plenitude silently but for the rustle of her silk skirt. In her hand she held a scented handkerchief, like any lady in a drawing-room; her hair, black at the roots and auburn at the ends, was wreathed, coil on coil, upon the top of her head; her face, which gave away all her secrets, was saucy, expressive of self-satisfaction, petulance, and vanity. And yet it was a handsome face; but it lacked mobility, the chin was too strong, the grey eyes wanted expression, though they were ever on the watch for an admiring glance.
“The angel has come to pour oil upon the troubled waters,” said the flabby, florid man, looking up from his cards at the splendid bar-maid.
Gentle Annie regarded the speaker boldly, smiled, and coloured with pleasure.
“To pour whisky down your throats,” she said, laughing – “that would be nearer the mark.”
“And produce a more pleasing effect,” said Garsett.
“Attend to the game,” said the American. “Spades are trumps.”
“Pass,” said the digger.
“Then down she goes,” said the Englishman.
“Pass again,” said the American.
“I make it Diamonds, and cross the blanky suit,” said the digger.
Gentle Annie turned to the Father of Timber Town.
“There’s a gentleman wants to see you, Mr. Crewe,” she said.
“Very good, very good; bring him in – he has as much right here as I.”
“He said he’d wait for you in the bar-parlour.”
“But, my girl, I must watch the game: I have a five-pound note on it. Yes, a five-pound note!”
“Think of that, now,” said Gentle Annie, running her bejewelled hand over her face. “You’ll be bankrupt before morning. But never mind, old gentleman,” – she deftly corrected the set of Mr. Crewe’s coat, and fastened its top button – “you’ll always find a friend and protector in me.”
“My good girl, what a future! The tender mercies of bar-maids are cruel. ‘The daughter of the horse-leech’ – he! he! – where did you get all those rings from? – I don’t often quote Scripture, but I find it knows all about women. Cathro, you must watch the game for me: I have to see a party in the bar. Watch the game, Cathro, watch the game.”
The old gentleman, leaning heavily upon his stick, walked slowly to the door, and Gentle Annie, humming a tune, walked briskly before, in all the glory of exuberant health and youth.
When Mr. Crewe entered the bar-parlour he was confronted by the bulky figure of Benjamin Tresco, who was enjoying a glass of beer and the last issue of The Pioneer Bushman. Between the goldsmith’s lips was the amber mouthpiece of a straight-stemmed briar pipe, a smile of contentment played over the breadth of his ruddy countenance, and his ejaculations were made under some deep and pleasurable excitement.
“By the living hokey! What times, eh?” He slapped his thigh with his heavy hand. “The town won’t know itself! We’ll all be bloomin’ millionaires. Ah! good evening, Mr. Crewe. Auspicious occasion. Happy to meet you, sir.” Benjamin had risen, and was motioning the Father of Timber Town to a seat upon the couch, where he himself had been sitting. “You will perceive that I am enjoying a light refresher. Have something yourself at my expense, I beg.”
Mr. Crewe’s manner was very stiff. He knew Tresco well. It was not so much that he resented the goldsmith’s familiar manner, as that, with the instinct of his genus, he suspected the unfolding of some money-making scheme for which he was to find the capital. Therefore he fairly bristled with caution.
“Thank you, nothing.” He spoke with great dignity. “You sent for me. What do you wish to say, sir?”
Benjamin looked at the rich man through his spectacles, without which he found it impossible to read the masterpieces of the editor of The Pioneer Bushman; pursed his lips, to indicate that he hardly relished the old gentleman’s manner; scrutinised the columns of the newspaper for a desired paragraph, on which, when found, he placed a substantial forefinger; and then, glancing at Mr. Crewe, he said abruptly, “Read that, boss,” and puffed furiously at his pipe, while he watched the old man’s face through a thick cloud of tobacco smoke.
Mr. Crewe read the paragraph; folded up the paper, and placed it on the couch beside him; looked at the ceiling; glanced round the room; turned his keen eyes on Tresco, and said: —
“Well, what of that? I saw that an hour ago. It’s very fine, if true; very fine, indeed.”
“True, mister? I bought the gold myself! I gave the information to the ‘buster’! Now, here is my plan. I know this gold is new gold – it’s no relation to any gold I ever bought before. It comes from a virgin field. By the special knowledge I possess as a gold-buyer, I am able to say that; and you know when a virgin field yields readily as much as eighty-two ounces, the odds are in favour of it yielding thousands. Look at the Golden Bar. You remember that? – eight thousand ounces in two days, and the field’s been worked ever since. Then there was Greenstone Gully – a man came into town with fifty ounces, and the party that tracked him made two thousand ounces within a month. Those finds were at a distance, but this one is a local affair. How do I know? – my special knowledge, mister; my intuitive reading of signs which prognosticate coming events; my knowledge of the characters and ways of diggers. All this I am willing to place at your disposal, on one condition, Mr. Crewe; and that condition is that we are partners in the speculation. I find the field – otherwise the partnership lapses – and you find me £200 and the little capital required. I engage to do my part within a week.”
Mr. Crewe stroked his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as was