Done’s opportunity of increasing his popularity came on the following Saturday.  The Saturday afternoon off was strictly observed on the rushes.  The miners were nearly all batchers—­that is, bachelors keeping house for themselves—­and the tidy men amongst them needed one half-day for washing and cleaning and putting their tents in order.  Only the more prodigal spirits cared to pay Mrs. Kyley’s exorbitant rates for laundry work, and for the others who cherished a respect for cleanliness—­the nearest the ordinary digger came to Godliness—­Saturday afternoon was washing day, and scores might have been seen after crib outside their tents performing the laundress’s office, usually astride a log, on which ‘the wash’ was spread to be alternately splashed and soaped and rubbed.  Saturday was the great ‘settling day,’ too.  If there were any differences to be fought out, or any disputes requiring the nice adjustment of the prize-ring, they were almost in variably made fixtures for Saturday afternoon.

For a month past Aurora had forcibly taken over the mates’ washing, and as they were well-disciplined batchers who performed their domestic duties effectually from day to day, for them Saturday afternoon was really a holiday; and on this particular afternoon they were sitting in the open, sunning themselves, and talking with the Prodigal of the latest news from Ballarat, where the leaders of the diggers’ cause were agitating resolutely for alterations in the mining laws and reform of the Constitution, when a party of about twenty men approached them from the direction of Forest Creek.  The party halted at a distance of about fifty yards, and after a short conference two of the men came on.

‘Hello!’ said Mike, ‘here’s trouble.’

’Five ounces to a bone button they are looking for fight, added the Prodigal.

‘Good day, mates!’ The foremost of the two strangers greeted them with marked civility, and the friends replied in kind.  ’One of you is the man that beat Pete Quigley, we’re told.’

‘This is Jim Done,’ said Mike, giving an informal introduction, indicating Jim with the toss of a pebble.

‘Glad to know you,’ the other said, with some show of deference.  ’Fact is, we’ve got a man here who’s willing to fight you for anything you care to mention up to fifty pounds.’

‘What!’ cried Done in amazement.

‘Oh, quite friendly, and all that.  He hasn’t anything against you.’

’Confound his cheek!  Does he—­do you think I’ve nothing better to do than to offer myself to be thumped by every blackguardly bruiser who comes along?’

’Softly, mate; no need for hard names.  We come here as sportsmen, making you a fair offer, thinking, perhaps, you’d be glad of a bit of a rough-up this fine day.’

‘Then you can go to the devil!’ said Jim, laughing in spite of himself.

‘You won’t fight?’

’I will not.  I’m no fighting man.  I only fight when forced, and then with a bad grace, I can assure you.’