“Known!  I believe you; why, they are more thought of than the governor.  Everybody runs to get a word with them, gentle or simple.  You will find them at the ‘Ship’ inn.”

To the “Ship” went Crawley.  He dared not be too direct in his queries, so he put them in form of a statement.

“You have got some lucky ones here, that found the great nugget?”

“Well, we had!  But they are gone—­been gone this two hours.  Do you know them?”

“Yes,” said Crawley, without fear, as they were gone.  “Where are they gone, do you know?”

“Why, home, I suppose; you chaps make your money out of us, but you all run home to spend it.”

“What, gone to England!” gasped Crawley.

“Ay, look! there is the ship just being towed out of the harbor.”

Crawley shambled, and tore, and ran, and was just in time to see the two friends standing with beaming faces on the vessel’s deck as she glided out on her voyage home.

He sat down half stupid; mephistopheles went on collecting his gang in the suburbs.

The steamer cast off and came wheeling back; the ship spread her huge white plumage, and went proudly off to sea, the blue waves breaking white under her bows.

Crawley sat glaring at all this in a state of mental collapse.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

THUS have I told in long and tedious strains how George Fielding went to Australia to make a thousand pounds, and how by industry, sobriety, and cattle, he did not make a thousand pounds, and how, aided with the help of a converted thief, this honest fellow did by gold digging, industry and sobriety, make several thousand pounds, and take them safe away home, spite of many wicked devices and wicked men.

Thus have I told how Mr. Meadows flung out his left hand into Australia to keep George from coming back to Susan with a thousand pounds, and how, spite of one stroke of success, his left hand eventually failed, and failed completely.

But his right?

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

Joyous as the first burst of summer were the months Susan passed after the receipt of George’s happy letter.  Many warm feelings combined in one stream of happiness in Susan’s heart.  Perhaps the keenest of all was pride at George’s success.  Nobody could laugh at George now, and insult her again there where she was most sensitive, by telling her that George was not good enough for her or any woman; and even those who set such store upon money-making would have to confess that George could do even that for love of her, as well as they could do it for love of themselves.  Next to this her joy was greatest at the prospect of his speedy return.

And now she became joyfully impatient for further news, but not disappointed at his silence till two months had passed without another letter.  Then, indeed, anxiety mingled now and then with her happiness.  Then it was that Meadows, slowly and hesitatingly to the last, raised his hand and struck the first direct blow at her heart.  He struck in the dark.  He winced for her both before and after.  Yet he struck.