Considine

"Here you are," he said, opening one, and showing it to Gordon.
"Those are the names, Patrick Henry Considine, son of William Patrick
Considine. Entitled under his grandfather's will--by Jove, do you
know there's a lot of money waiting for you in England?"

"There's what?"

"A lot of money left you. In England. Any amount of it. If you are
the right man, you're rich, don't you know. Quite a wealthy man."

"How much money d'you say, Mister?"

"Oh, a great deal. Thousands and thousands. Your grandfather left
it. No one knew for certain where you were, or if you were alive."

"I'm alive all right, I believe," said Considine, staring hard at
them. "But look, Mister--you aren't trying to take the loan of me?
Is this straight?"

"Yes, it's straight," said Charlie. "You'll have to go to England
to make your claim good, I expect. It's straight enough. That's
what brought Mr. Carew out here, to try and find you."

For some time the bushman smoked in silence, looking at each man
in turn, perhaps expecting them to laugh. He muttered once or twice
to himself under his breath. Then he turned on Gordon again.

"Now, look here, Mr. Gordon, is this square? Because, if it ain't,
it'll be a poor joke for some of you!"

"Man alive, why should we want to fool you? What good could it do
us? It's all right."

"Well, if it's all right, we'll all have a drink on it. Here,
Maggie, Lucy, Billy, come here. Get it pannikin. You won't mind me
treatin' 'em with your rum, I suppose, Mister?" he said, turning
to Gordon. "I don't come in for a fortune every day, you know, and
there ain't a drop of lush in the place, only yours."