thin digger, perched on an up-ended barrel, drinking porter. The man was
watching him narrowly, and at length, as if to leave no doubt of his
attentions, he stepped down, and, standing squarely in front of Done,
looked him closely in the face. Jim returned the stare, finding curiosity
deepen into surprise, and surprise into conviction, in the countenance
confronting him.

'Solo!' cried the man. 'Solo, by all that's holy!' As he spoke he sprang
between Jim and the door way, as if to cut off escape. 'Bail up!' he
said; 'we've got you tight this trip.'

'You're making a mistake, I think, mate,' said Jim. 'Anyhow, my name is
not Solo.'

'That's a bluff! I know you too damn well! Boys,' continued the miner,
addressing the crowd, 'it's Solo. I'll wager my soul on it. Get at him!
There's five hundred cold guineas on his head!'

'I tell you you're wrong!' blurted Done.

The tall man waited for no further argument, but jumped at Done, and they
closed. There was a short struggle, and Jim put his opponent down with an
old Cousin-Jack trick that he had often tried on better men.

'The man's drunk!' said Jim, as the crowd narrowed in on him. He set his
back against the counter, prepared to make a good fight.

A raw-boned, brown-faced native of about twenty-six grappled with him, but
only as a pretence, as Done speedily found.