Slivers was reputed rich, and Arabian-Night-like stories were told
of his boundless wealth, but no one ever knew the exact amount of
money he had, and as Slivers never volunteered any information on
the subject, no one ever did know. He was a small, wizen-looking
little man, who usually wore a suit of clothes a size too large for
him, wherein scandal-mongers averred his body rattled like a dried
pea in a pod. His hair was white, and fringed the lower portion of
his yellow little scalp in a most deceptive fashion. With his hat on
Slivers looked sixty; take it off and his bald head immediately
added ten years to his existence. His one eye was bright and sharp,
of a greyish colour, and the loss of the other was replaced by a
greasy black patch, which gave him a sinister appearance. He was
cleaned shaved, and had no teeth, but notwithstanding this want, his
lips gripped the stem of his long pipe in a wonderfully tenacious
and obstinate manner. He carried on the business of a mining agent,
and knowing all about the country and the intricacies of the mines,
he was one of the cleverest speculators in Ballarat.

The office of Slivers was in Sturt Street, in a dirty, tumble-down
cottage wedged between two handsome modern buildings. It was a
remnant of old Ballarat which had survived the rage for new houses
and highly ornamented terraces. Slivers had been offered money for
that ricketty little shanty, but he declined to sell it, averring
that as a snail grew to fit his house his house had grown to fit
him.

So there it stood--a dingy shingle roof overgrown with moss--a
quaint little porch and two numerously paned windows on each side.
On top of the porch a sign-board--done by Slivers in the early days,