"A tract. Go on. Start your boots."

While Smith was gone, Steelman paced the room with a strange,
worried, haunted expression. He divided the gold that was left
-- (Smith had taken four pounds) -- and put ten sovereigns in a pile
on the extreme corner of the table. Then he walked up and down,
up and down the room, arms tightly folded, and forehead knitted painfully,
pausing abruptly now and then by the table to stare at the gold,
until he heard Smith's step. Then his face cleared;
he sat down and counted flies.

Smith was undoing and inspecting the parcels, having placed
the syphon and fruit on the table. Behind his back Steelman hurriedly opened
a leather pocketbook and glanced at the portrait of a woman and child
and at the date of a post-office order receipt.

"Smith," said Steelman, "we're two honest, ignorant, green coves;
hard-working chaps from the bush."

"Yes."

"It doesn't matter whether we are or not -- we are as far
as the world is concerned. Now we've grafted like bullocks,
in heat and wet, for six months, and made a hundred and fifty,
and come down to have a bit of a holiday before going back to bullock
for another six months or a year. Isn't that so, Smith?"

"Yes."