Jim caught the object thrown up to him.  It was coated with clay, but the gold shone through, and Done handled his first nugget—­a plump one of about ten ounces.  A little later they set to work, puddling the best of the wash dug out in the course of sinking; and then the debris was put through the cradle, and Jim awoke at last to the full zest of the digger’s lust.  Pawing among the gravel in the hopper of the cradle, he picked out the gold too coarse to pass through the holes, and the gleaming yellow metal fired him with a passion that had in it all the frenzy the winning gambler feels, with an added sense of triumph and success.  When Mike lifted the slides out and sluiced water over them, showing the gold lying thick and deep, he felt a miser’s rapture, and yet had no great desire for wealth.  He did not fear work, and had no love of luxury, so that the hunger for riches never possessed him; but this joy was something apart from avarice.  The yearnings of untold generations after the precious gold have filtered the love of it into our blood, made the desire for it an instinct.  Jim went to bed that night richer by over one hundred pounds than he had been when he rose in the morning.

Done and Burton logged up their shaft and rigged the windlass, and set about the methodical working of the claim.  The second day’s cleaning up was not as good as the first, but it was highly satisfactory.  It was not usual for the miners to keep the gold about them for any length of time.  If it was not carried to the storekeepers at Forest Creek, there were gold-buyers—­buying for the Melbourne banks, as a rule—­who called regularly, eager to exchange bank-notes for the virgin gold.  On the afternoon of their third working day, Jim and his mate were leaning on the windlass, talking to two or three men who had gathered about, waiting for one of the gold-buyers then riding along the lead, when they were joined by a tall, fine-looking digger, with a remark ably handsome brown beard and bushy brows.

‘Good-day, mates!  Got a good thing here?’ he said, seating himself on one of the logs.

‘Oh, not so bad!’

The newcomer had dropped his revolver, apparently by accident.  He stooped and picked it up, but instead of returning it to his belt, toyed with it absently as he made inquiries about the lead and the yields on the field.  All eyes were attracted by the peculiar manner in which he handled the weapon, tossing it to and fro carelessly, and twirling it through his fingers with remarkable rapidity.

‘That’s a pretty clever trick,’ said Thorn.

‘This is no great shakes.’  The owner of the beautiful beard twirled his revolver more rapidly.  ‘Lend me another.’

Thorn threw his, and the stranger caught it smartly, and juggled with the two.

Brigalow Dick, the gold-buyer, rode up.  A particularly bright ex-trooper from Sydney, Brigalow Dick had a reputation as a safe man, and the horse he rode was one of the finest on the field.  On one side of the front of his saddle was strapped the stout leather case carrying the gold, on the other was a bag containing money.