of the world. With these thoughts in his mind, he drew a sheet of
paper towards him, and dipping the rusty pen in the thick ink,
prepared to question his visitors as to what they could do, with a
view to sending them out to the Pactolus claim.

'Names?' he asked, grasping his pen firmly in his left hand.

'Mine,' said the stranger, bowing, 'is Gaston Vandeloup, my friend's
Pierre Lemaire--both French.'

Slivers scrawled this down in the series of black scratches, which
did duty with him for writing.

'Where do you come from?' was his next question.

'The story,' said M. Vandeloup, with suavity, 'is too long to repeat
at present; but we came to-day from Melbourne.'

'What kind of work can you do?' asked Slivers, sharply.

'Anything that turns up,' retorted the Frenchman.

'I was addressing your companion, sir; not you,' snarled Slivers,
turning viciously on him.

'I have to answer for both,' replied the young man, coolly, slipping
one hand into his pocket and leaning up against the door in a
negligent attitude, 'my friend is dumb.'

'Poor devil!' said Slivers, harshly.