and looking like it--bore the legend 'Slivers, mining agent.' The
door did not shut--something was wrong with it, so it always stood
ajar in a hospitable sort of manner. Entering this, a stranger would
find himself in a dark low-roofed passage, with a door at the end
leading to the kitchen, another on the right leading to the bedroom,
and a third on the left leading to the office, where most of
Slivers' indoor life was spent. He used to stop here nearly all day
doing business, with the small table before him covered with scrip,
and the mantelpiece behind him covered with specimens of quartz, all
labelled with the name of the place whence they came. The inkstand
was dirty, the ink thick and the pens rusty; yet, in spite of all
these disadvantages, Slivers managed to do well and make money. He
used to recommend men to different mines round about, and whenever a
manager wanted men, or new hands wanted work, they took themselves
off to Slivers, and were sure to be satisfied there. Consequently,
his office was nearly always full; either of people on business or
casual acquaintances dropping in to have a drink--Slivers was
generous in the whisky line--or to pump the old man about some new
mine, a thing which no one ever managed to do. When the office was
empty, Slivers would go on sorting the scrip on his table, drinking
his whisky, or talking to Billy. Now Billy was about as well known
in Ballarat as Slivers, and was equally as old and garrulous in his
own way. He was one of those large white yellow-crested cockatoos
who, in their captivity, pass their time like galley-slaves, chained
by one leg. Billy, however, never submitted to the indignity of a
chain--he mostly sat on Slivers' table or on his shoulder,
scratching his poll with his black claw, or chattering to Slivers in
a communicative manner. People said Billy was Slivers' evil spirit,
and as a matter of fact, there was something uncanny in the wisdom
of the bird. He could converse fluently on all occasions, and needed