think I have done you a service, young sir," he said. "I saw a centipede crawling in your hair on to your face as you were lying asleep, and I plucked it away. That is all. I was once stung in the arm by such a reptile, and was disabled for three months. I fancied you might not relish a like experience; your face is far too handsome to be spoiled in that way. If you will lift my handkerchief gently and carefully-I did not care to seize the beast with naked fingers-you will see for yourself."
The young man had no need to lift the handkerchief. The long ugly thing was wriggling out of it; half its body was exposed.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the young man, seizing a spade and cutting the creature in a dozen pieces, all of which immediately began to crawl away in different directions, north, south, east, and west, with the intention of commencing independent existences.
CHAPTER V
PHILIP'S RIDE FOR FLOWERS FOR MARGARET
"Thank you," said the young man to Mr. Hart, replacing his revolver in his belt.
"Thank you," returned Mr. Hart drily, "for cutting up my pocket-handkerchief."
The young man laughed.
"Take mine," he said, offering a red-silk handkerchief to Mr. Hart.
Red was a favourite colour in the diggings in the matter of personal adornment. Red handkerchiefs, red serge shirts, red scarves and sashes, red tassels and bindings, were much coveted.
Mr. Hart shook his head.
"No; I will keep my own as a remembrance."
He gazed admiringly at the young man, and with curiosity, for he saw that the young fellow was superior to the general run of gold-diggers.
"What are you looking at?" asked the young man merrily.
"At what seems to me an anomaly."
"That's me."
"That is you. What made a gold-digger of you?"
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
"A thirst for freedom and adventure. That answer will do as well as another, I suppose. I was cramped up in the old country, so I thought I would come where there was room to move and breathe."
"You find it here."
"Rather!"
He inflated his lungs, and expelled the air with vigorous enjoyment.
"What part of the old country do you hail from?" There was an unconscious tenderness in their tones as they spoke of their native land.
"Devon-dear old Devon. Oh, for a tankard of real Devonshire cider!"
Mr. Hart sighed. "You have home ties, then?"
"Yes, I have an old father at home, who is old only in years. Let us drink to him." He took a tin saucepan half filled with cold tea, and handed it to Mr. Hart, who drank from it, and returned it. "He is about your age, I should say. Have you been long in the colony?"
"Seven years."
"Ah! I haven't served my apprenticeship yet. Now, what brought you over these hills to-day?"
Mr. Hart stammered and hesitated; no man on the goldfields liked to confess that he had been wasting hours and days in the wild hope of discovering a golden reef, simply by wandering about and chipping up stones, although every man did it at some time or other, in secret. However, Mr. Hart blurted out the truth.
"Well," said the young man, "that's the way I and my mate discovered this reef. We found a vein of quartz with gold in it, cropping out on the surface, and we followed it down until we came to another vein about two feet thick, and this we are working now. We're down a hundred and two feet. You see we have about twenty tons of quartz up now; it will go about twelve ounces to the ton, I should say. But we're stuck for a machine to crush it."
"There's one being put up in Iron Bark Gulley."
"Yes; that's nine miles off," said the young man fretfully; "how are we to get the stone to the machine over the ranges, unless we carry it on our backs? A nice job that would be, and would cost as much as the stone's worth!"
"When Mahomet found that the mountain wouldn't' come to him-" Mr. Hart said, and paused.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the young quartz miner, "you're a gentleman. It does one good to talk to a man who can talk. Well, then Mahomet went to the mountain. That is to say, as we can't take the stone to a machine, we must bring a machine to the stone. But that would cost money, and we're on our beam ends."
Many a gold-miner has been in the same strait-with wealth at his feet, staring him in the face, and no money in his pocket-a rich beggar.
Mr. Hart considered. Should he offer his savings for a share in the claim? He had a hundred and twenty pounds in the corner of his trunk. The chance was a good one. He made the offer. The young man laughed at him.
"We should want twenty times as much," he said.
"I shall mark out a claim for myself, then," said Mr. Hart.
"All right, mate; but you'll have to go a mile away for it. The reef is pegged, north and south, for quite that distance."
This was true; Mr. Hart, with regret, gave up the idea. He looked at the sun, and saw that if he wished to get back to the theatre in time for the performance he must start at once. He bade the young man good-day.
"What's your hurry?"
Mr. Hart explained.
"By Jove!" cried the young man, his face flushing scarlet. "I thought! recognised you. How I should like to go behind the scenes."
"Come then; I shall be glad to see you. This will admit you." And he took a card from his pocket, and wrote some words in pencil upon it. "What name shall I say?"
"Rowe."
"Here is the open sesame. Admit Mr. Rowe by the stage-door. Hart's Star Dramatic Company. – Signed, John Hart.'"
"You're a brick!" said the young fellow, looking at the card with a flushed face. If it had been an enchanted wand, it could not have made his heart beat more quickly. "I'll be there to-night."
He was as good as his word. What made him so eager was that he had been to the theatre three times, and had fallen dead in love with the singing and dancing Chambermaid. Such an opportunity to make her acquaintance was not to be thrown away. At eight o'clock he stood by the wings, as handsome as Apollo, as strong as Hercules. When he was introduced to the singing and dancing Chambermaid, he was as shy as a sensitive plant, and would have looked foolish but that his beard prevented him. Many a man has to thank his beard for similar grace. The Chambermaid, as good a girl as she was beautiful, saw the state of affairs at once, and knew, by feminine instinct, that she could twist him round her little finger. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him. Nature will not be denied, and he was a man to be fallen in love with. Her name was Margaret. His was Philip.
After the performance, John Hart and Philip Rowe had a glass together. They spoke of the old country.
"I'll give you a toast," said Philip Rowe. "Here's to the Silver Flagon."
"To
