Part 47 (1/2)

Rose laughed. ”Oh, no. She came, fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Fis.h.i.+ng?”

”Fis.h.i.+ng for news. She's very anxious to know how much gold Mr. Scarlett has got; in fact, she's very anxious to know all about Mr. Scarlett.”

The old Pilot laughed, till the s.h.i.+ngles of the roof were in danger of lifting. ”The wimmen, oh! the wimmen!” he said. ”They're deep. There's no sounding 'em. No lead'll bottom them. You'll have to protect that young man, my gal; protect him from scheming females. Once they can lure him on a lee sh.o.r.e, they'll wreck him to pieces and loot the cargo.

So she wanted to know how he was freighted? He's down to Plimsoll, my gal; down to Plimsoll with gold. A mighty fine cargo for wreckers!”

At the very time that Rachel was walking out of the garden of roses, Scarlett was turning into The Lucky Digger. He had come in from the ”bush,” weary and tired, and was met in the pa.s.sage by a man who packed stores to the new gold-field. In the bar stood Isaac Zahn, who was flirting with the bar-maid. But the regal dispenser of liquors responded to the young clerk's sallies with merely the brief politeness which she was paid to show towards all the customers of the inn. He could extort no marked encouragement, in spite of every familiarity and witticism at his command.

Turning his back on the Israelite, Scarlett gave all his attention to the packer. ”The track's clear to the field,” said Jack, ”all but four miles at the further end. In a few days, you'll be able to take your horses through easily.”

”My rate is 15 per ton,” said the man.

”The Syndicate won't quarrel with that.” Jack's head turned involuntarily, as an unusual sound occurred in the bar-room.

Zahn, leaning over the counter, had caught Gentle Annie roughly by the wrist. There was a struggle, the crash of falling gla.s.s, and a scream.

From the fair arm of the bar-maid blood was flowing.

In a moment, Scarlett was in the bar-room. He seized the spruce bank-clerk by the collar, and dragged him into the pa.s.sage.

Zahn kicked and swore; but, setting his teeth, Scarlett pulled his struggling victim towards the front-door; and there, with a suddenness which would have done credit to a field-gun, he kicked the Jew into the street.

The trajectory was low, but Zahn, with legs and arms extended, shot across the asphalt pavement, and fell sprawling at the feet of a dainty figure dressed in muslins and ribbons of rainbow hue.

It was Rachel Varnhagen, tripping home to her tea. With a little scream of elegant surprise, she dropped her parasol, and gazed at the prostrate form of her jilted lover.

Gathering himself up stiffly, Isaac stood, whimpering, before her; his whining interspersed with unprintable invective.

Scarlett, however, heedless of the anathemas of the stricken clerk, stepped from the door of The Lucky Digger, picked up the fallen parasol, and handed it politely to Rachel.

In less than a moment she recognised him.

”Oh, thanks,” she said. ”It's really awfully good of you.”

”What? To kick this unmitigated blackguard?”

”I've no doubt he deserved it,” she said, glancing with disgust at the clerk. ”It's charming of you to pick up my sunshade. I hope you're coming up to see us--Papa wants to see you awfully. It would be lovely if you would come to-night.”

”Thank you. I'll try. I hope you are none the worse for the fright you got.”

”Thanks, I'm not dead. What a terrible man you are--I wouldn't like to quarrel with you. Say eight o'clock.”

”Very good, eight.”

”Don't forget. I shall expect you.”