The Tale of Timber Town Part 20

The dissipated digger ate half a chop and a morsel of bread and, when the tea was ready, he drank a cupful thirstily.

"Try another," suggested Tresco, holding the teapot in his hand. "You're a marvel at making a recovery."

The digger complied readily.

"That's the style," said the goldsmith. "There's nothing like tea to counteract the effects of a little spree."

"Spree!" The digger's face expressed indignation which he did not feel equal to uttering. "The spree remained with the other parties, likewise the dollars." He emptied his cup, and drew a long breath.

"I reckon we struck a bit of a snag," said Benjamin, "four of 'em in a lump."

"They properly cleaned me out, anyway," said the digger. "I ain't got so much as sixpence to jingle on a tombstone."

He fumbled in his pockets, and at length drew out two pieces of crumpled paper. These he smoothed with his rough begrimed hands, and then placed them on the table. They were Tresco's IOUs.

"I suppose you'll fix these 'ere, mate," said he.

Benjamin scratched his head.

"When I've squared up my hotel bill an' a few odds and ends," explained the digger, "I'll be makin' tracks."

Tresco looked on this man as a veritable gold-mine, in that he had discovered one of the richest diggings in the country. To quarrel with him therefore would be calamitous: to pay him was impossible, without recourse to financial suicide.

"What does it amount to?" he asked, bending over the bits of dirty paper. "H'm, 117--pretty stiff little bill to meet between 10 p.m. and 10 a.m. Suppose I let you have fifty?"

The digger looked at the goldsmith in astonishment.

"If I didn't want the money, I'd chuck these bits o' paper in the fire,"

he exclaimed. "S'fer as _I'm_ concerned the odd seventeen pound would do _me_, but it's the missis down in Otago. She _must_ 'ave a clear hundred. Women is expensive, I own, but they mustn't be let starve. So anty up like a white man."

"I'll try," said Tresco.

"If I was you I'd try blanky hard," said the digger. "Act honest, and I'll peg you off a claim as good as my own. Act dishonest, an' you can go to the devil."

Tresco had taken off his ap.r.o.n, and was putting on his coat. "I've no intention of doing that," he said. "How would it be to get the police to make those spielers disgorge?--you'd be square enough then."

"Do that, and I'll never speak to you again. I've no mind to be guy'd in the papers as a new chum that was bested by a set of lags."

"But I tell you they had loaded dice and six-shooters."

"The bigger fools we to set two minutes in their comp'ny."

"What if I say they drugged you?"

"I own to bein' drunk. But if you think to picture me to the public as a greenhorn that can be drugged first and robbed afterwards, you must think me a bigger fool'n I look."

Tresco held his hat in his hand.

"I want this yer money _now_," said the digger. "In three weeks money'll be no object to you or me, but what I lent you last night must be paid to-day."

Tresco went to the door.

"I'll get it if I can," he said. "Stay here till I come back, and make yourself at home. You may rely on my best endeavours." He put on his hat, and went into the street.

Mr. Crookenden sat in his office. He was a tubby man, with eyes like boiled gooseberries. No one could guess from his face what manner of man he might be, whether generous or mean, hot-tempered or good-humoured, because all those marks which are supposed to delineate character were in him obliterated by adipose tissue. You had to take him as you found him. But for the rest he was a merchant who owned a lucrative business and a few small blunt-nosed steamers that traded along the coasts adjacent to Timber Town.

As he sat in his office, glancing over the invoices of the wrecked _Mersey Witch_, and trying to compute the difference between the value of the cargo and the amount of its insurance, there was a knock at the door, and Benjamin Tresco entered.

"How d'e do, Tresco? Take a chair," said the man of business. "The little matter of your rent, eh? That's right; pay your way, Tresco, and fortune will simply chase you. That's been _my_ experience."

"Then I can only say, sir, it ain't bin mine."

"But, Tresco, the reason of that is because you're so long-winded.

Getting money from you is like drawing your eye-teeth. But, come, come; you're improving, you're getting accustomed to paying punctually. That's a great thing, a very great thing."

"To-day," said the goldsmith, with the most deferential manner of which he was capable, "I have _not_ come to pay."

"Mr. Tresco!"

"But to get _you_ to pay. I want a little additional loan."

"Impossible, absolutely impossible, Tresco."

"Owing to losses over an unfortunate investment, I find myself in immediate need of 150. If that amount is not forthcoming, I fear my brilliant future will become clouded and your rent will remain unpaid indefinitely."

The fat man laughed wheezily.

"That's very good," he said. "You borrow from me to pay my rent. A very original idea, Tresco; but don't you think it would be as well as to borrow from some one else--Varnhagen, for instance?"

"The Jews, Mr. Crookenden; I always try to avoid the Jews. To go to the Jews means to go to the dogs. Keep me from the hands of the Jews, I beg."

"But how would you propose to repay me?"

"By a.s.siduous application to business, sir."

"Indeed. Then what have you been doing all this while?"

"Suffering from bad luck." The ghost of a smile flitted across Benjamin's face as he spoke.

"But Varnhagen is simply swimming in money. He would gladly oblige you."

"He did once, at something like 60 per cent. If I remember rightly, you took over the liability."

"Did I, indeed? Do you know anything of Varnhagen's business?"

"No more than I do of the Devil's."

"You don't seem to like the firm of Varnhagen and Co."