At the Sign of the Silver Flagon. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

I haven't served my apprenticeship yet. Now, what brought you over these hills to-day?"

      Mr. Hart stammered and hesitated; no man on the goldfields liked to confess that he had been wasting hours and days in the wild hope of discovering a golden reef, simply by wandering about and chipping up stones, although every man did it at some time or other, in secret. However, Mr. Hart blurted out the truth.

      "Well," said the young man, "that's the way I and my mate discovered this reef. We found a vein of quartz with gold in it, cropping out on the surface, and we followed it down until we came to another vein about two feet thick, and this we are working now. We're down a hundred and two feet. You see we have about twenty tons of quartz up now; it will go about twelve ounces to the ton, I should say. But we're stuck for a machine to crush it."

      "There's one being put up in Iron Bark Gulley."

      "Yes; that's nine miles off," said the young man fretfully; "how are we to get the stone to the machine over the ranges, unless we carry it on our backs? A nice job that would be, and would cost as much as the stone's worth!"

      "When Mahomet found that the mountain wouldn't' come to him-" Mr. Hart said, and paused.

      "By Jove!" exclaimed the young quartz miner, "you're a gentleman. It does one good to talk to a man who can talk. Well, then Mahomet went to the mountain. That is to say, as we can't take the stone to a machine, we must bring a machine to the stone. But that would cost money, and we're on our beam ends."

      Many a gold-miner has been in the same strait-with wealth at his feet, staring him in the face, and no money in his pocket-a rich beggar.

      Mr. Hart considered. Should he offer his savings for a share in the claim? He had a hundred and twenty pounds in the corner of his trunk. The chance was a good one. He made the offer. The young man laughed at him.

      "We should want twenty times as much," he said.

      "I shall mark out a claim for myself, then," said Mr. Hart.

      "All right, mate; but you'll have to go a mile away for it. The reef is pegged, north and south, for quite that distance."

      This was true; Mr. Hart, with regret, gave up the idea. He looked at the sun, and saw that if he wished to get back to the theatre in time for the performance he must start at once. He bade the young man good-day.

      "What's your hurry?"

      Mr. Hart explained.

      "By Jove!" cried the young man, his face flushing scarlet. "I thought! recognised you. How I should like to go behind the scenes."

      "Come then; I shall be glad to see you. This will admit you." And he took a card from his pocket, and wrote some words in pencil upon it. "What name shall I say?"

      "Rowe."

      "Here is the open sesame. Admit Mr. Rowe by the stage-door. Hart's Star Dramatic Company. – Signed, John Hart.'"

      "You're a brick!" said the young fellow, looking at the card with a flushed face. If it had been an enchanted wand, it could not have made his heart beat more quickly. "I'll be there to-night."

      He was as good as his word. What made him so eager was that he had been to the theatre three times, and had fallen dead in love with the singing and dancing Chambermaid. Such an opportunity to make her acquaintance was not to be thrown away. At eight o'clock he stood by the wings, as handsome as Apollo, as strong as Hercules. When he was introduced to the singing and dancing Chambermaid, he was as shy as a sensitive plant, and would have looked foolish but that his beard prevented him. Many a man has to thank his beard for similar grace. The Chambermaid, as good a girl as she was beautiful, saw the state of affairs at once, and knew, by feminine instinct, that she could twist him round her little finger. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him. Nature will not be denied, and he was a man to be fallen in love with. Her name was Margaret. His was Philip.

      After the performance, John Hart and Philip Rowe had a glass together. They spoke of the old country.

      "I'll give you a toast," said Philip Rowe. "Here's to the Silver Flagon."

      "To the Silver Flagon," responded John Hart. Philip Rowe drank another toast, but did not utter it: To Margaret.

      He went to the back of the stage on the following night, and many nights after that, and made friends with the company. All the men liked him; he was free-hearted and free-handed. But the Leading Lady, after a night or two, looked upon him with displeasure, for he paid her less court than her state demanded. Her displeasure was the greater because she had shown that she was inclined to be gracious to him. It was incredible that a lady who enacted Pauline, and Juliet, and Lady Macbeth, should be overlooked for a chitling who played simple chambermaids, and could dance a little. But then Philip Rowe was blind-which was not a valid excuse for him. The Leading Lady-being a woman as well as a Leading Lady-would have been well pleased to receive the attentions of so handsome a young man, who was evidently a gentleman, and she snubbed Margaret one night, and was spiteful to her, because of her good fortune. Philip Rowe, going behind the scenes, found his Margaret in tears, in a convenient corner. She had a spare half-hour, and he coaxed her to tell him the cause of her distress.

      "Never mind, Margaret," he said tenderly. "Don't cry!"

      She looked up shyly at this. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. If brevity be the soul of wit, it is also frequently the soul of love. Margaret was comforted.

      When Philip Rowe came face to face with the Leading Lady, he glared at her. She glared at him in return. He felt awkward and hung down his head. Her glare was more potent than his; she had to glare often on the stage, and was an adept at it. Besides, her face was smooth; his was hairy.

      Margaret coaxed him to do something that night; she knew where and how to plant a dagger in her rival's bosom. She whispered to Philip and he ran out of the theatre in a glow of ecstatic delirium, for her lovely lips had almost touched his ear. Her warm breath on his neck made him tremble.

      She had asked him to get a bouquet of flowers, to throw on the stage to her in the last piece, in which both she and the Leading Lady appeared. Flowers have before now been used for purposes as sharp.

      But where to get the flowers? A bouquet of flowers was unheard of in Silver Creek township. Where to get them? Where?

      Could not love grow them?

      Where to get them? Ah, he knew! Six miles away on the main road to the metropolis, there was a-yes, call it so-a garden; a little plot of ground tended by a woman with country memories. In less than two minutes he was in the saddle, galloping in that direction, and right in front of him, all the way, shone Margaret's face and Margaret's eyes and hair. No will-o'-the-wisp was ever more alluring. Margaret lurked in the bushes, glided among the trees, shone in the open spaces, and Philip's heart beat fast and joyously. The six miles of bush road, so soft and pleasant to the horse's feet, were soon traversed, and there was the garden with a few-not many-flowers in it. Philip Rowe leaped off his horse, with joyous exclamations. A woman came to the door.

      "Here, Jim!" she cried, to her husband, running into the house, thinking that a bushranger (Anglicè, highwayman) was paying them a visit.

      Jim promptly appeared, with a gun in his hand. "Now then?" he demanded, nothing daunted.

      "Oh! it's all right, mate," said Philip; and in a few moments he explained the motive of his visit.

      "About a dozen flowers done up in a bunch are all I want. This for them."

      He held up two pieces of rich quartz, in which there were probably two ounces of gold.

      Jim was agreeable, coveting the specimen; his wife was not, loving her flowers. But when Philip pleaded, and told his story, she relented.

      "Oh, if it's for that!" she said with a sly smile, and took a good look at Philip, and thought that the woman was to be envied who had won so fine a young fellow.

      While she cut the flowers the two men had a nip of brandy each, which Philip paid for. The place really was a sly grog-shop.

      Soon Philip was galloping back to Silver Creek township in a glow of triumph. He arrived in time, and paid for admission into