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 L5 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 L200
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 his
habit when in deep contemplation.
"But--ah--what if I were to tell you that I can find the field entirely
by my own exertions? What do you say to that, Mr. Tresco? What do you
say to that?"
"I say, sir, without the least hesitation, that you _never_ will find
it. I say that you will spend money and valuable time in a wild-goose
chase, whereas _I_ shall be entirely successful."
"We shall see," said Mr. Crewe, rising from his seat, "we shall see.
Don't try to coerce me, sir; don't try to coerce _me_!"
"I haven't the least desire in that direction." Benjamin's face assumed
the expression of a cherub. "Nothing is further from my thoughts. I know
of a good thing--my special knowledge qualifies me to make the most
of it; I offer you the refusal of 'chipping in' with me, and you, I
understand, refuse. Very well, Mr. Crewe, _I_ am satisfied; _you_ are
satisfied; all is amicably settled. I go to place my offer where it will
be accepted. Good evening, sir."
Benjamin put his nondescript, weather-worn hat on his semi-bald head,
and departed with as much dignity as his ponderous person could assume.
"And now," said Mr. Crewe to himself, as the departing figure of the
goldsmith disappeared, "we will go and see the result of our little bet;
we will see whether we have lost or gained the sum of five pounds."
The old man, taking his stick firmly in his hand, stumped down the
passage to the door of the room where the gamblers played, and, as he
turned the handle, he was greeted with a torrent of shouts, high words,
and the noise of a falling table.
There, on the floor, lay gold and bank notes, scattered in every
direction amid broken chairs, playing cards, and struggling men.
Mr. Crewe paused on the threshold. In the whirl and dust of the tumult
he could discern the digger's wilderness of hair, the bulky form of
Garsett, and the thin American, in a tangled, writhing mass. His friend
Cathro was looking on with open mouth and trembling hands, ineffectual,
inactive. But Scarlett, making a sudden rush into the melee, seized the
lucky digger, and dragged him, infuriated, struggling, swearing, from
the unwieldy Garsett, on whose throat his grimy fingers were tightly
fixed.
"Well, well," exclaimed Mr. Crewe. "Landlord! landlord! Scarlett, be
careful--you'll strangle that man!"
Scarlett pinioned the digger's arms from behind, and rendered him
harmless; Garsett sat on the floor fingering his throat, and gasping;
while Lichfield lay unconscious, with his head under the broken table.
"Fair play!" shouted the digger. "I've bin robbed. Le'me get at him.
I'll break his blanky neck. Cheat a gen'leman at cards, will you? Le'me
get at him. Le'go, I tell yer--who's quarrelling with _you_?" But he
struggled in vain, for Scarlett's hold on him was tighter than a vice's.
"Stand quiet, man," he expostulated. "There was no cheating."
"The fat bloke fudged a card. I was pickin' up a quid from the floor--he
fudged a card. Le'go o' me, an' I'll fight you fair."
"Stand quiet, I tell you, or you'll be handed over to the police."
The digger turned his hairy visage round, and glanced angrily into
Jack's eyes.
"You'll call in the traps?--you long-legged swine!" With a mighty
back-kick, the Prospector lodged the heel of his heavy boot fairly on
Scarlett's shin. In a moment he had struggled free, and faced round.
"Put up your fists!" he cried. "I fight fair, I fight fair."
There was a whirlwind of blows, and then a figure fell to the floor with
a thud like that of a felled tree. It was the lucky digger, and he lay
still and quiet amid the wreckage of the fight.
"Here," said Cathro, handing Mr. Crewe ten pounds. "Take your money--our
friend the digger lost the game."
"This is most unfortunate, Cathro." But as he spoke, the Father of
Timber Town pocketed the gold. "Did I not see Scarlett knock that man
down? This is extremely unfortunate. I have just refused the offer of
a man who avers--who avers, mind you--that he can put us on this new
gold-field in a week, but I trusted to Scarlett's diplomacy with the
digger: I come back, and what do I see? I see my friend Scarlett knock
the man down! There he lies as insensible as a log."
"It looks," said Cathro, "as if our little plan had fallen through."
"Fallen through? We have made the unhappy error of interfering in a game
of cards. We should have stood off, sir, and when a quarrel arose--I
know these diggers; I have been one of them myself, and I understand
them, Cathro--when a quarrel arose we should have interposed on behalf
of the digger, and he would have been our friend for ever. Now all the
gold in the country wouldn't bribe him to have dealings with us."
The noise of the fight had brought upon the scene all the occupants of
the bar. They stood in a group, silent and expectant, just inside the
room. The landlord, who was with them, came forward, and bent over the
inanimate form of the Prospector. "I think this is likely to be a case
for the police," said he, as he rose, and stood erect. "The man may be
alive, or he may be dead--I'm not a doctor: I can't tell--but there's
likely to be trouble in store for the gentlemen in the room at the time
of the fight."
Suddenly an energetic figure pushed its way through the group of
spectators, and Benjamin Tresco, wearing an air of supreme wisdom, and
with a manner which would not have disgraced a medico celebrated for his
"good bedside manner," commenced to examine the prostrate man. First, he
unbuttoned the insensible digger's waistcoat, and placed his hand over
his heart; next, he felt his pulse. "This man," he said deliberately,
like an oracle, "has been grossly manhandled; he is seriously injured,
but with care we shall pull him round. My dear"--to Gentle Annie, who
stood at his elbow, in her silks and jewels, the personification of
Folly at a funeral--"a drop of your very best brandy--real cognac, mind
you, and be as quick as you possibly can."
With the help of Scarlett, Tresco placed the digger upon the couch. In
the midst of this operation the big card-player and his attenuated
accomplice, whose unconsciousness had been more feigned than actual,
were about to slip from the room, when Mr. Crewe's voice was heard
loudly above the chatter, "Stop! stop those men, there!" The old
gentleman's stick was pointed dramatically towards the retreating
figures. "They know more about this affair than is good for them."
Four or five men immediately seized Garsett and Lichfield, led them back
to the centre of the room, and stood guard over them.
At this moment, Gentle Annie re-entered with the _eau de vie_; and
Tresco, who was bustling importantly about his patient, administrated
the restorative dexterously to the unconscious digger, and then awaited
results. He stood, with one hand on the man's forehead and the other he
held free to gesticulate with, in emphasis of his speech:--
"This gentleman is going to recover--with proper care, and in skilled
hands. He has received a severe contusion on the cranium, but apart from
that he is not much the worse for his 'scrap.' See, he opens his eyes.
Ah! they are closed again. There!--they open again. He is coming round.
In a few minutes he will be his old, breathing, pulsating self. The
least that can be expected in the circumstances, is that the gentlemen
implicated, who have thus been saved most disagreeable consequences by
the timely interference of skilled hands, the least they can do is to
shout drinks for the crowd."
He paused, and a seraphic smile lighted his broad face.
"Hear, hear!" cried a voice from behind the spectators by the door.
"Just what the doctor ordered," said another.
"There's enough money on the floor," remarked a third, "for the whole
lot of us to swim in champagne."
"My eye's on it," said Tresco. "It's what gave me my inspiration. The
lady will pick it up while you name your drinks to the landlord. Mine's
this liqueur brandy, neat. Let the lady pick up those notes there: a
lady has a soul above suspicion--let her collect the money, and we'll
hold a court of enquiry when this gentleman here is able to give his
evidence."
The digger was now gazing in a befogged manner at the faces around him;
and Gentle Annie, having collected all the money of the gamblers in a
tray, placed it on the small table which stood against the wall.
"Now, doctor," said a tall man with a tawny beard, "take your fee; it's
you restored the gent. Take your fee: is it two guineas, or do you make
it five?"
"'Doctor,' did you say? No, Moonlight, my respected friend, I scorn the
title. Doctors are a brood that batten on the ills of others. First day:
'A pain internally, madam? Very serious. I will send you some medicine.
Two guineas. Yes, the sum of two guineas.' Next day: 'Ah, the pain is no
better, madam? Go on taking the medicine. Fee? Two guineas, _if_ you
please.' And so on till the pain cures itself. If not, the patient grows
worse, dies, is buried, and the doctor's fees accrue proportionately.
But we will suppose that the patient has some incurable tumour. The
doctor comes, examines, looks wise, shakes his head, says the only
chance is to operate; but it will be touch and go, just a toss up. He
gets his knives, opens up the patient, and by good luck touches no vital
part. Then the patient is saved, and it's 'My work, gentlemen, entirely
my work. That's what skill will do. My fee is forty-five guineas.'
That's how he makes up for the folks that don't pay. Doctor, _me_? No,
Moonlight, my friend, I am a practitioner who treats for love. No fee;
no fee at all. But, Annie, my dear, I'll trouble you for that glass of
brandy."
The digger was contemplating Tresco's face with a look of bewildered
astonishment. "An' who the blanky blank are _you_?" he exclaimed, with
all his native uncouthness. "What the blank do you want to take my
clo'es off of me for? Who the blue infernal----" All eyes were fixed on
his contused countenance and the enormous bump on his temple. "Ah!
there's the gent that shook me of five quid. I'll remember you, old
party. An' as for you two spielers--you thought to fleece me. I'll give
you what for! An' there's the other toff, 'im that biffed me. Fancy
bein' flattened out by a toney remittance man! Wonderful. I call it
British pluck, real bull-dog courage--three to one, an' me the littlest
of the lot, bar one. Oh, it's grand. It pays a man to keep his mouth
shut, when he comes to Timber Town with money in his pocket."
The eyes of the spectators began to turn angrily upon Lichfield and
Garsett, who, looking guilty as thieves, stood uneasy and apart; but
Scarlett stepped forward, and was about to speak in self-defence, when
Mr. Crewe offered to explain the situation.
"I ask you to listen to me for one moment," he said; "I ask you to take
my explanation as that of a disinterested party, a mere looker on. These
three gentlemen"--he pointed to the three euchre players--"were having a
game of cards, quite a friendly game of cards, in which a considerable
sum of money was changing hands. My friend Scarlett, here, was looking
on with me, when for some cause a quarrel arose. Next thing, the
gentleman here on the sofa was attacking his opponents in the game with
an empty bottle--you can see the pieces of broken glass amongst the
cards upon the floor. Now, a bottle is a very dangerous weapon, a very
dangerous weapon indeed; I might say a deadly weapon. Then it was that
Mr. Scarlett interfered. He pulled off our friend, and was attacked--I
saw this with my own eyes--attacked violently, and in self-defence he
struck this gentleman, and inadvertently stunned him. That, I assure
you, is exactly how the case stands. No great damage is done. The
difference is settled, and, of course, the game is over."
"An' '_e_," said the digger, raising himself to a sitting posture, "'_e_
shook me for five quid. The wily ol'e serpint. 'E never done nothin'--'e
only shook me for five quid."
"Count the money into three equal parts, landlord," said the Father of
Timber Town. "It's perfectly true, I _did_ relieve the gentleman of five
pounds; but it was the result of a bet, of a bet he himself insisted on.
He would have made it even heavier, had I allowed him. But here is the
money--he can have it back. I return it. I bet with no man who begrudges
to pay money he fairly loses; but I have no further dealings with such a
man."
"Oh, you think I want the blanky money, do you?" cried the digger.
"You're the ol'e gen'leman as is said to own the crimson town, ain't
you? Well, keep that five quid, an' 'elp to paint it crimsoner. _I_
don't want the money. _I_ can get plenty more where it came from, just
for the pickin' of it up. You keep it, ol'e feller, an' by an' by I'll
come and buy the town clean over your head."
"Give the patient some more brandy, my dear." Tresco's voice sounded as
sonorous as a parson's. "Now he's talkin'. And what will you do with the
town when you've bought it, my enterprising friend?"
"I'll turn the present crowd out--they're too mean to live. I'll sell it
to a set of Chinamen, or niggers. I'd prefer 'em."
"These are the ravings of delirium," said Tresco. "I ask you to pay no
attention to such expressions. We frequently hear things of this sort in
the profession, but we let them pass. He'll be better in the morning."
"Is the money divided?" asked Mr. Crewe.
"Yes," said the landlord. "One hundred and twenty-five pounds and
sixpence in each lot."
"Mr. Garsett," said the Father of Timber Town, the tone of command in
his voice, "come and take your money. Mr. Lichfield, take yours, sir."
Still agitated and confused, the two gamblers came forward, took their
shares, and pocketed notes and gold with trembling hands.
"Give your friend his, Tresco," said the venerable arbitrator.
"Here's your winnings, or your losings," said the goldsmith to the
digger. "It don't matter what name you call 'em by, but tuck it safely
away agin your brisket. And when next you strike it rich, take my
advice: put it in the bank, an' keep it there."
The digger took the money in his open hands, placed scoopwise together,
and said, "All this mine, is it? You're too kind. What do _I_ want the
blanky money for, eh? Didn't I tell you I could get money for the
pickin' of it up? Well, you're all a pretty measly crowd, all as poor as
church rats, by the manners of yer. Well, _you_ pick it up." And he
flung the money among the crowd, lay back on the couch, and closed his
eyes.
There was a scurry, and a scrambling on the floor, in the doorway, and
in the passage outside.
Amid the tumult, Garsett and the American slunk off unperceived, while
Tresco and Mr. Crewe, the landlord, Gentle Annie and Scarlett remained
spectators of the scene.
Soon all was hushed and still, and they were left alone with the
eccentric digger; but presently the tall figure of Moonlight, the man
with the tawny beard, reappeared.
"Here's fifty pound, anyway," he said, placing a quantity of notes and
gold in the landlord's hands. "Some I picked up myself, some I took off
a blackguard I knocked over in the passage. Take the lot, and give it
back to this semi-lunatic when he suffers his recovery in the morning.
Good-night, gentlemen; I wish you the pleasures of the evening." So
saying, the man with the tawny beard disappeared, and it was not long
before Tresco was left alone with his patient.