Part 9 (2/2)
”Well, sor, to tell you the raal truth, it's about tchwo hundred pound, more or less, and I brought it wid me, for fear you might want it, an' I haven't got a nugget more if it was to save me own life. It's the truth I'm tellin' ye, sor.”
There was a tone and look of such intense sincerity about the poor fellow, as he slowly drew a second bag of gold from his pocket and placed it beside the first, that Gashford could not help being convinced.
”Two hundred and five hundred,” he said, meditatively.
”That makes siven hundred, sor,” said Flinders, suggestively.
The bully did not reply for a few seconds. Then, taking up the bags of gold, he threw them into a corner. Thereafter he drew a large key from his pocket and handed it to the Irishman, who grasped it eagerly.
”Go to the prison,” said Gashford, ”tell the sentry you've come to relieve him, and send him to me. Mind, now, the rest of this business must be managed entirely by yourself, and see to it that the camp knows nothing about our little commercial transaction, for, _if it does_, your own days will be numbered.”
With vows of eternal secrecy, and invoking blessings of an elaborate nature on Gashford's head, the Irishman hastened away, and went straight to the prison, which stood considerably apart from the huts and tents of the miners.
”Who goes there?” challenged the sentry as he approached, for the night was very dark.
”Mesilf, av coorse.”
”An' who may that be, for yer not the only Patlander in camp, more's the pity!”
”It's Flinders I am. Sure any man wid half an ear might know that.
I've come to relave ye.”
”But you've got no rifle,” returned the man, with some hesitation.
”Aren't revolvers as good as rifles, ay, an' better at close quarters?
Shut up your tatie-trap, now, an' be off to Muster Gashford's hut for he towld me to sind you there widout delay.”
This seemed to satisfy the man, who at once went away, leaving Flinders on guard.
Without a moment's loss of time Paddy made use of the key and entered the prison.
”Is it there ye are, avic?” he said, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, as he advanced with caution and outstretched hands to prevent coming against obstructions.
”Yes; who are you?” replied Tom Brixton, in a stern voice.
”Whist, now, or ye'll git me into throuble. Sure, I'm yer sintry, no less, an' yer chum Pat Flinders.”
”Indeed, Paddy! I'm surprised that they should select you to be my jailer.”
”Humph! well, they didn't let me have the place for nothing--och!
musha!”
The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table.
”Not hurt, I hope,” said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident.
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