Captain Evan peered at the youth closely, and not without a hint of suspicion.  ‘Your name’s Done, isn’t it?’ he said.

The Hermit nodded shortly.

‘How did all this happen, my man?’

’I was leaning on the gunnel by the main-chains when I heard a cry and a splash, and saw the girl’s body past.  I dropped in after her.’

‘You saved her life, then?’

‘I helped her to keep afloat till the boat reached us.’

‘Good boy!’ Captain Evan put out his hand as if with the intention of giving Done an approving pat on the shoulder, but the young man turned away abruptly, thrusting himself through the men, who had clustered around him muttering diffident compliments, and endeavouring to shake him by the hand.

‘Blast it all, don’t maul a man about!’ said the hero sulkily, and the crowd made way for him.

Below Jim Done stripped hastily, wrung out his wet clothes upon the littered floors and climbed into his bunk, threatening to tear down a whole terrace of the crazy structures as he did so.

The Francis Cadman was not ordinarily a passenger boat:  she was commissioned to carry two hundred and fifty sailors to the ships left helpless in Corio Bay and Hobson’s Bay, deserted by their crews, who, in spite of official strategies, had fled to the diggings immediately after anchors were dropped in Victorian waters.

The accommodation for the men was the roughest imaginable.  Bunks of unplaned timber were strung up in tiers under the forecastle, and wherever space could be found for them in the dark and musty depths of the ship.  A few second-class male passengers shared these delectable quarters with the sailors, and the Francis Cadman had secured a complement of first-class patrons willing to pay exorbitant prices for the dubious comforts and plain fare of the ‘cabin’ passage.

The gold lust was burning in the blood of Europe.  Fabulous stories of Australian treasures were flying about the nations; greedy ears drank them in, and the wildest yarns were never doubted.  In their frantic eagerness to share in the golden harvests being reaped at Buninyong, Clunes, Bendigo, and Ballarat, the people wasted no thought on the hardships of the journey; there was not a ship too crazy or a doghole too dark to carry the desperate adventurers.

Jim Done’s bunk was in a third story.  The den it was built in was like a steam-warm pest-house in the hot latitudes, and in the cold a clammy tomb; but he had no thought of complaints.  A new country and a new life lay before him; he cared little for the troubles and privations by the way.  To-night his mind was given over to reflections arising out of the incidents of the last few hours.  They were not pleasant reflections.  The adventure loomed like a misfortune.  He hated the idea of the notoriety it would bring him; and, picturing himself the object of the sentimental admiration of a score of simpering busybodies of both sexes, fumed fiercely, and framed biting invectives.  A voice close to his ear startled him.  Turning sharply, he saw the head of Phil Ryan on a level with his own.  Phil was standing on the lowermost bunk, offering the first tribute, a pint pannikin of steaming hot grog.