One evening Starlight and his two swell friends comes in, quite accidental like. They sat down at a small table by themselves and ordered a couple of bottles of foreign wine. There was plenty of that if you liked to pay a guinea a bottle. I remember when common brandy was that price at first, and I’ve seen it fetched out of a doctor’s tent as medicine. It paid him better than his salts and rhubarb. That was before the hotels opened, and while all the grog was sold on the sly. They marched in, dressed up as if they’d been in George Street, though everybody knew one of ‘em had been at the windlass all day with the wages man, and the other two below, working up to their knees in water; for they’d come on a drift in their claim, and were puddling back. However, that says nothing; we were all in good clothes and fancy shirts and ties. Miners don’t go about in their working suits. The two Honourables walked over to the bar first of all, and said a word or two to Kate, who was all smiles and as pleasant as you please. It was one of her good days. Starlight put up his eyeglass and stared round as if we were all a lot of queer animals out of a caravan. Then he sat down and took up the Turon Star. Kate hardly looked at him, she was so taken up with his two friends, and, woman-like, bent on drawing them on, knowing them to be big swells in their own country. We never looked his way, except on the sly, and no one could have thought we’d ever slept under one tree together, or seen the things we had.

When the waiter was opening their wine one of the camp officers comes in that they had letters to. So they asked him to join them, and Starlight sends for another bottle of Moselle—something like that, he called it.

“The last time I drank wine as good as this,” says Starlight,“was at the Caffy Troy, something or other, in Paris. I wouldn’t mind being there again, with the Variety Theatre to follow. Would you, Clifford?”

“Well, I don’t know,” says the other swell. “I find this amazing good fun for a bit. I never was in such grand condition since I left Oxford. This eight-hours shift business is just the right thing for training. I feel fit to go for a man’s life. Just feel this, Despard,” and he holds out his arm to the camp swell. “There’s muscle for you!”