Done protested that he could not dance, but the laughing girl dragged him into the thick of it.

‘Come along!’ she cried, dropping the brogue.  ’I’m a patriot, and I love you for the green in your eye.’

Jim danced.  He was literally forced into it, and presently found himself getting along quite decently in a barbaric sort of polka.  When the music ceased he followed the custom of the country, and shouted for his partner.  She drank sherry.  He left the hall a few minutes later, with the girl’s kiss, lightly given, tingling on his lips, and walked away quickly, treading on air.  Presently he began to question himself.  Why this growing exuberance?  Was it drink?  Never before had he felt its influence.  He pulled himself together.  He was crowding his sensation:  it was time to cry a halt.

The young man returned to the hotel where he had left his belongings.  The long bar was crowded with men.  The hotel was little more than a large tent with a pretentious wooden front.  It was illumined by a single lamp suspended above the counter.  This lamp lit up the faces of the men gathered under it, but beyond the countenances of the customers faded into a mist of tobacco-smoke, deepening into darkness in the corners.

Done leant against the bar, watching the scene, still curious, content to wait till the busy barman had leisure to attend to him.  After a few moments he found himself an object of most marked interest to a tall, thin digger, perched on an up-ended barrel, drinking porter.  The man was watching him narrowly, and at length, as if to leave no doubt of his attentions, he stepped down, and, standing squarely in front of Done, looked him closely in the face.  Jim returned the stare, finding curiosity deepen into surprise, and surprise into conviction, in the countenance confronting him.

‘Solo!’ cried the man.  ‘Solo, by all that’s holy!’ As he spoke he sprang between Jim and the door way, as if to cut off escape.  ‘Bail up!’ he said; ‘we’ve got you tight this trip.’

‘You’re making a mistake, I think, mate,’ said Jim.  ’Anyhow, my name is not Solo.’

‘That’s a bluff!  I know you too damn well!  Boys,’ continued the miner, addressing the crowd, ’it’s Solo.  I’ll wager my soul on it.  Get at him!  There’s five hundred cold guineas on his head!’

‘I tell you you’re wrong!’ blurted Done.

The tall man waited for no further argument, but jumped at Done, and they closed.  There was a short struggle, and Jim put his opponent down with an old Cousin-Jack trick that he had often tried on better men.

‘The man’s drunk!’ said Jim, as the crowd narrowed in on him.  He set his back against the counter, prepared to make a good fight.

A raw-boned, brown-faced native of about twenty-six grappled with him, but only as a pretence, as Done speedily found.

‘Bolt, or you’re a done man!’ whispered the Australian at his ear.  ’When I smash the lamp, over the counter and under the tent, and skedaddle for your life!’