‘We got these the last shot knocking off to-night,’ said the owner of the pretty things as I asked him to sit down. ‘You might remember me tellin’ you as I didn’t think we was very far from the main reef. I believe we got it now in good earnest. Same lead as is in “Dot’s Claim.” Same sort o’ country. Reef runnin’ with the same dip. An’ you knows yourself, sir, as they took forty-five pound weight o’ specimens richer than them out o’ “Dot’s” this mornin’.’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said after a hasty glance at my note-book, ‘but I don’t remember any such name. I thought, too, that I had seen all the most important claims.’ ‘Why, of course,’ he replied, ‘I forgot! It’s only a few of us old hands as knows the story as calls it Dot’s now. When the big company took it from Fairleigh they names it the “El Dorado.” I reckon t’other was too short—didn’t sound high enough for ’em. But if it hasn’t the best right to the old name I’d like to know the reason why.’ ‘El Dorado,’ I remarked; ‘why that’s the original prospector’s claim.’ My visitor nodded, saying, ‘An’ I’m No. 2 South.’ ‘Ward and party?’ I inquired, referring again to my memos. ‘That’s it. I’m Ward.’ ‘Well, then, Mr Ward, I want to hear that story you hinted at just now. Kindly touch that bell at your elbow. Thanks.’ It may have been only fancy, but I thought that between blooming Gretchen journeying to and fro with hot water, tumblers, sugar, etc., etc., and my lucky reefer glances passed betokening a more than casual acquaintance. ‘Yes, Gretchen, you may as well leave the kettle.’ I am trying to air my German, but fail lamentably, judging from the expression on the girl’s full, fresh-coloured features as she struggles to avoid laughing. Even my visitor smiles. Everything is German here—bar, luckily, the beds. Outside the wind howled and beat against the curtained windows, and the rain fell dully on the shingled roof, and the roar of the Broken River came to our ears between the storm gusts. Inside, the fire flickered and fell, sending deep shadows over the pine-panelled walls and the grave handsome face of my companion, the first fruits of whose labour shone sullenly under the shaded lamplight. From a distant room rose and died away faintly the chorus of some song of the Fatherland. ‘Now,’ said I, as Gretchen finally closed the door, ‘now for the story.’ ‘Well,’ commenced Ward, after getting his pipe into good going order, ‘it’s over eight years ago since I came here from the West Coast—Hokitika. I’d been diggin’ there. But my luck was clean out, so I chucked it up, an’, after a lot of knockin’ about, settles down here—would you believe it?—farmin’! ‘Now I know’d as much about farmin’ as a cow does o’ reefin’. Cert’nly my mate—for there was a pair of us—had been scarin’ crows for a farmer in the Old Country when he was a boy. That wasn’t much. Still, on the strength o’ that experience, he used to give himself airs.