We could not resist such a plea, and, followed by about half a thousand miners, teamsters, and idlers, we gained the saloon owned by our friend, which proved to be the much vaunted “Californian Retreat.”

The saloon was made of sail cloth, not exactly in the form of a tent, for a slight frame was visible of a square order, and to the joist was the cloth tacked.  A few rough boards, evidently taken from boxes, formed the bar, or counter, and half a dozen shelves were nailed up behind it, composed of the same material.

On the shelves were a dozen or more black bottles, and three cracked tumblers stood upon the bar ready to use.  A pitcher of water, that almost steamed with heat, was arrayed before the tumblers; but that, I imagine, was intended as an ornament, and not for use, for I did not observe, while I was at the mines, a man make use of such liquid to qualify his liquor.  The merchants of Melbourne and the carriers of freight between the city and the mines saved them the trouble.

In the rear part of the saloon was a good sized Yankee stove, black with dirt, and rust, the accumulation of many days’ cooking, during which fried pork was the staple article; and it was evident that the presiding genius of the cuisine department had been regardless of how much fat was spilled, and how much dirt his patrons consumed.

Three or four berths, near the stove, shaped like those found in the steerage of a ship, completes a description of every thing in the Californian Retreat worthy of notice.  In one of the berths I noticed a man who appeared to be very sick, for he hardly opened his eyes when the crowd which followed us to the saloon rushed in in a disorderly manner.

“Well,” said our friend Charley, rubbing his hands with an air of great satisfaction, and glancing around his premises, “this looks snug, don’t it?”

“Very,” I answered, rather dryly.

“You won’t find in all Ballarat a saloon that can begin to compare with this in point of neatness, and a supply of all the luxuries of the season.  Our liquors are first rate, and no mistake; and although we is out of cigars, we have got some of the juiciest nigger-head that you ever seed.”

The miner, who appeared to exercise such sway over his comrades, edged his way through the crowd.

“I came here,” he said, “thinking that the duel feller had axed us to wet our whistles, but it ’pears that I am mistaken.”

The speaker, now that I had time to study his countenance and appearance, I found was a man nearly six feet, six inches high, broad across the shoulders, with a face massive and determined, yet not wanting indications of good nature.

“Don’t be in such a stew, Ben,” cried Charley, rushing towards him, and preventing his leaving the saloon.  “The thing is all right.  The dueller feller pays for all, and we’re only waiting for my partner to roll in a keg of some of the slickest Yankee whiskey that was ever made in York State, I tell you.”