hy,
there's some politician at the bottom of the whole business. Look at the
liquor permits--crude alcohol sent into the country by the thousand
gallons, diluted to six times its bulk, and sold to the poor prospector
for whisky at a dollar a drink. An' you can't pour your own drinks at
that."

"Well," I said, "I'm not going to be cheated out of my claim. If I've
got to move Heaven and earth----"

"You'll do nothing of the kind. If you get sassy there's the police to
put the lid on you. You can talk till you're purple round the gills. It
won't cut no figure. They've got us all cinched. We've just got to take
our medicine. It's no use goin' round bellyaching. You'd better go away
and sit down."

And I did.

CHAPTER XIV

I had to see Berna at once. Already I had paid a visit to the Paragon
Restaurant, that new and glittering place of resort run by the
Winklesteins, but she was not on duty. I saw Madam, resplendent in her
false jewellery, with her beetle-black hair elaborately coiffured, and
her large, bold face handsomely enamelled. She looked the picture of
fleshy prosperity, a big handsome Jewess, hawk-eyed and rapacious. In
the background hovered Winklestein, his little, squeezed-up, tallowy
face beaded with perspiration. But he was dressed quite superbly, and
his moustache was more wondrously waxed than ever.

I mingled with the crowd of miners, and in my rough garb, swarthy and
bearded as I was, the Jewish couple did not know me. As I paid her,
Madam gave me a sharp glance. But there was no recognisant gleam in her
eyes.

In the evening I returned. I took a seat in one of the curtained boxes.
At the long lunch-counter rough-necked fellows perched on tripod stools
were guzzling food. The place was brilliantly lit up, many-mirrored and
flashily ornate in gilt and white. The bill of fare was elaborate, the
prices exalted. In the box before me a white-haired lawyer was
entertaining a lady of easy virtue; in the box behind, a larrikin
quartette from the Pavilion Theatre were holding high revelry. There
was no mistaking the character of the place. In the heart of the city's
tenderloin it was a haunt of human riff-raff, a palace of gilt and
guilt, a first scene in the nightly comedy of "The Lobster."

I was feeling profoundly depressed, miserable, disgusted with
everything. For the first time I began to regret ever leaving home. Out
on the creeks I was happy. Here in the town the glaring corruption of
thi