Part 43 (1/2)
”You young imp, anty up.”
Jake produced the key from his pocket. ”D'you suppose I label it and put it in the winder?”
”Put this gold away--there's 111 ounces. I'll bring some more next time I come. Now.” He lifted the jug, and drank. When he set it down again, it was half empty. ”That's what I call a moment of bliss. No one who hasn't spent a month in the bush knows what a thirst really is; he ain't got no conception what beer means. Now, what's in the basket?” He lifted the white napkin that covered his supper. ”Ham!” A beautific smile illumined his face. ”Ham, pink and white and succulent, cut in thin slices by fair hands. Delicious! And what's this? Oyster patties, cold certainly, but altogether lovely. New bread, cheese, apple turn-over!
Couldn't be better. The order of the menu is; first, entrees--that means oysters--next, ham, followed by sweets, and topped off with a morsel of cheese. Stand by and watch me eat--a man that has suffered semi-starvation for nearly a month.”
Jake lit a cigarette, an indulgence with which in these days of worry and stress he propitiated his overwrought nerves. He drew in the smoke with all the relish of a connoisseur, and expelled it through his nostrils.
”Is this gold the result of six weeks' work?” he asked.
”No, barely one week's,” answered Tresco, his mouth full of ham and new bread.
”Crikey!” Jake inhaled more cigarette smoke. ”'Seems to me our potty little trade ain't in it. I move that we both go in for the loocrative profession of diggin'.”
”Mumf--mumf--m.u.f.f--m.u.f.f.” The ham had conquered Tresco's speech.
”Jes' so. That's what _I_ think, boss.”
Benjamin gave a gulp. ”I won't take you,” he said, as plainly as possible.
”Oh, you won't?”
”I won't.”
”Then, suppose I go on my own hook, eh?”
”You've got to stop and look after this shop. You're apprenticed to _me_.”
”Oh, indeed!”
”If a man chooses to spend a little holiday in the bush, is his apprentice to suppose his agreement's cancelled? Not a bit of it.”
”An' suppose a man chooses to spend a little holiday in gaol, what then?”
”That's outside the sphere of practical politics, my son.”
”I don't know so much about that. I think different. I think we'll cry quits. I think I'll go along with you, or likely there'll be trouble.”
”Trouble?”
”Yes, trouble.”
”What sort of trouble, jackanapes?”
”Why, crimson trouble.”
”Indeed.”
”I've got you tied hand and foot, boss. You can take that from _me_.”