CHAPTER XXVI.
Truly the banker of the old digging days was different to that curled darling, Montmorenci Fitz Jones, idol of the block and much invited out of Potts Point. A slab hut, roofed with galvanized iron, formed but a sorry contrast to the palatial buildings in the cities, or the comfortable residences in the towns of the present day. As will have been seen, in many instances a tent was deemed sufficient in which to transact business of thousands per diem. The manager, too, had to be “hail fellow well met,” by no means too proud to go out and have a nobbler with the lucky seller of a large parcel of gold. Clerks did their work on hot days with their coats off, and on cold wet ones, with hats, and greatcoats on, and often a lighted pipe was a welcome solace, whilst standing at the counter. What would a smug clerk of the Bank of England, who would probably faint at his counter or desk, without the regulation dress coat, think of this.
Scene—Country Bank.
Enter lucky digger loq.
“I say, boss, what are you giving for gold?”
Manager.—“Turn it out in this dish, and let me have a look at it.” Digger turns it out.
Manager.—“That’s Waimea gold; can’t give you more than £3 17s. an ounce.”
Digger.—“That be blowed! Why the Bank of New Zealand’s giving £3 18s.”
Manager.—“Not for Waimea gold.”
At last a price is agreed upon, and the cleaning process commences. The gold is placed in a small copper scoop, and is stirred round with a powerful magnet to clear it of any iron that may be amongst it. It is then carefully shaken up, until any sand that may be in it is brought to the front. This is blown out (a sort of careful winnowing in fact). By these means the
