The Gold League Washes Up.
The amalgamated "claims," worked upon an economical and extensive scale,
had promised from the outset to render enormous returns to the members
of the Gold League.
Throughout the canvas town which had sprung up on the diggings, the news
that the "toffs" were to divide their profits had created the widest
interest, and in every calico shanty and in every six-by-eight tent the
organising genius of the "field," Mr. Jack Scarlett, was the subject of
conversation.
Such topsy-turvy habitations as the stores and dwellings of Canvas Town
never were seen. The main street, if the thoroughfare where all the
business of the mushroom township was transacted could be dignified with
such a name, was a snare to the pedestrian and an impossibility to
vehicles, which, however, were as yet unknown on the "field."
The "Cafe de Paris" possessed no windows in its canvas walls, and its
solitary chimney was an erection of corrugated iron, surmounted by a tin
chimney-pot. "The Golden Reef," where spirituous liquors were to be had
at exorbitant prices, was of a more palatial character, as it had a
front of painted wood, in which there hung a real door furnished with a
lock, though the sides of the building were formed of rough logs, taken
in their natural state from the "bush." The calico structure which bore
in large stencilled letters the name of The Kangaroo Bank, was evidently
closed during the absence of the Manager, for, pinned to the cotton of
the front wall, was a piece of paper, on which was written in pencil
the following notice:--"During the temporary absence of the Manager,
customers of the Bank are requested to leave their gold with Mr.
Figgiss, of the Imperial Dining Rooms, whose receipts will be duly
acknowledged by the Bank. Isaac Zahn, Manager." Upon reading the notice,
would-be customers of the wealthy institution had only to turn round in
order to see Mr. Figgiss himself standing in the door of his place of
business. He was a tall, red-bearded, pugnacious-looking man, with an
expansive, hairy chest, which was visible beneath the unbuttoned front
of his Crimean shirt. The Imperial Dining Rooms, if not spacious, were
yet remarkable, for upon their calico sides it was announced in letters
of rainbow tints that curries and stews were always ready, that grilled
steaks and chops were to be had on Tuesdays and Fridays, and roast pork
and "duff" on Sundays.
But further along the street, where tree-stumps still remained and the
pedestrian traversed water-worn ruts which reached to his knee, the true
glory of Canvas Town stood upon a small elevation, overlooking the
river. This was the office of the Timber Town Gold League. It was felt
by every digger on the "field" that here was a structure which should
serve as a model. Its sides were made of heavy slabs of wood, which bore
marks of the adze and axe; its floor, raised some four feet from the
ground, was of sawn planks--unheard-of luxury--and in the cellars below
were stored the goods of the affluent company. Approaching the door by a
short flight of steps, admittance was gained to a set of small offices,
beyond which lay a spacious room, which, at the time when the reader is
ushered into it, is filled with bearded men dressed in corduroy, or blue
dungaree, copper-fastened, trousers and flannel shirts; men with mud on
their boots and on their clothes, and an air of ruffianism pervading
them generally. And yet this is the Timber Town Gold League, the
aristocratic members of which are assembled for the purpose of dividing
the proceeds of their first "wash-up."
On an upturned whisky-case, before a big table composed of boards
roughly nailed together and resting on trestles, sits the Manager of the
League, Mr. Jack Scarlett, and before him lie the proceeds of the
"wash-up."
The room is full of tobacco-smoke, and the hubbub of many voices drowns
the thin voice of the League's Secretary, who sits beside the Manager
and calls for silence.
But Jack is on his feet and, above the many voices, roars, "Order!"
"Quiet."
"Sit down."
"Stop that row."
"Order for the boss of the League."
Before long all is still, and the lucky owners of the gold which lies in
bags upon the table, listen eagerly for the announcement of the returns.
"Gentlemen,"--Scarlett's face wears a pleasant smile, which betokens
a pleasant duty--"as some of you are aware, the result of our first
wash-up is a record for the colony. It totals 18,000 oz., and this, at
the current price of Bush Robin gold--which I ascertained in Timber Town
during my last visit--gives us a return of L69,750."
Here Jack is interrupted by tremendous cheering.
"Of this sum," he continues, when he can get a hearing, "your Committee
suggests the setting aside, for the payment of liabilities and current
expenses, the sum of L9750, which leaves L60,000 to be divided amongst
the members of the League."
Upon this announcement being made, an uproar ensues, an uproar of
unrestrained jubilation which shakes the shingle roof, and the noise of
which reaches far down the street of Canvas Town and across the flats,
where clay-stained diggers pause amid their dirt-heaps to remark in
lurid language that the toffs are having "an almighty spree over their
blanky wash-up."
"I rise to make a propothition," says a long, thin, young Gold Leaguer,
with a yellow beard and a slight lisp. "I rise to suggest that we send
down to Reiley's for all hith bottled beer, and drink the health of our
noble selves."
The motion is seconded by every man in the room rising to his feet and
cheering.
Six stalwart Leaguers immediately go to wait upon the proprietor of The
Golden Reef, and whilst they are transacting their business their mates
sing songs, the choruses of which float through the open windows over
the adjacent country. The dirt-stained owners of the Hatters' Folly
claim hear the members of the League asking to be "wrapped up in an old
stable jacket," and those working in the Four Brothers' claim learn the
truth about "the place where the old horse died."
At length the forage-party arrives with the liquor, and there follows
the unholy sound of the drawing of corks.
By this time all Canvas Town has learnt what business is going forward
in "the Toffs' Shanty," and from both sides of the river the diggers
begin to assemble in anticipation of a "spree." Across the scarred,
disfigured valley, over the mullock-heaps, from every calico tent, from
out of every shaft, from the edge of the dark forest itself, bearded
men, toil-stained but smiling, bent on festivity, collect in Canvas
Town's one ramshackle street.
Between the calico shanties and along the miry, uneven ways, men stand
in groups, their conversation all of the luck of "the toffs." But around
the Office of the Gold League the crowd is greatest, and the cheers of
the members are echoed by the diggers outside.
Bill the Prospector and Moonlight are on guard at the door, for though
they have no interest in the League's claims, as owners of the two
richest patches on the field they stand hand-in-glove with the leaders
of that strong combination. Inside, Scarlett has risen to his feet, amid
prolonged cheering.
"We have not decided yet, gentlemen," he says, "whether we shall take
our dividends in gold or in cheques; and this causes me to allude to
a most disagreeable matter. It is well known that the agent of the
Kangaroo Bank has been robbed of a considerable amount of gold and
perhaps murdered, on his way between this field and Timber Town."
Suddenly the room is filled with groans, deep and sepulchral, which are
immediately repeated by the growing crowd outside.
"Evidently," continues Jack, "it is not safe for a man to travel with
gold on his person; I therefore wish to propose that payments be made by
cheque, and that all members not absolutely needed on the claims form
themselves into an escort to convey the gold to Timber Town. And when we
adjourn, I suggest that a meeting of all diggers on the field be called
for the purpose of forming a vigilance committee, for the detection and
suppression of crime on the diggings."
He sits down amid renewed cheering. This has barely subsided and the
long, thin young man, who appears to be a person of importance in the
League, has risen to speak, when a considerable disturbance occurs
outside.
During Scarlett's speech four mounted constables have wended their way
through the groups of diggers standing in the street. They dismount in
front of the League's Office, and ascend the steps, at the top of which
they come into violent altercation with Moonlight and the Prospector.
These are immediately ordered in the Queen's name to stand aside, and
the four blue-coated men walk into the meeting.
The tall, thin, young man, catching sight of the intruders, pauses
in his speech, and says, "What the deyvil!" but the constables walk
straight to the improvised table, and their leader, laying his hand on
Scarlett's shoulder, say, "John Richard Scarlett, you are charged with
the murder of Isaac Zahn. I arrest you in the Queen's name."
For half a minute there rests on the assembly a silence that can be
felt. Then there bursts a roar of indignation from fifty throats. In a
moment the constables have closed round their prisoner, and with drawn
revolvers they stand ready to resist interference.
Not many of "the toffs" are armed, but such as are quickly draw their
weapons, and it only needs a single shot to start a fight which must end
disastrously for the Law, when Scarlett's voice rings out, "Stand back,
you fellows! For God's sake, don't fire! This thing is a mistake which
will be more quickly cleared up before a Magistrate than by bloodshed."
Expostulating, but obedient to his wish, his friends one by one lower
their weapons.
"_I_ know nothing of a mistake," says the Sergeant, as he takes a piece
of paper from his pocket. "But here's the warrant, which any gentleman
present is at liberty to see. We are but carrying out our duty."
The handcuffs are now on Scarlett's wrists, and his captors lead him
slowly through the crowded room.
"Let me speak." Filled with emotion which he can hardly suppress, Jack's
voice almost seems to choke him. "Let me speak before you take me away."
"Not a word," retorts the Sergeant. "You shall say all you want to the
Magistrate."
"Men," cries Scarlett, as he is hustled through the door, "I am
innocent, I swear." But he has no time to say more. He is hurried down
the steps; he is quickly placed on a spare horse; the constables spring
into their saddles, and ere the great concourse of diggers can grasp
what is happening, Jack is conducted at a trot through the town of
canvas, along the track which leads to Timber Town, and is soon out
of sight.