Barry Tuxford was one of those clever, shrewd colonials who can turn their hands to almost anything, and make it pay. He would tackle any business or job with no fear of failure, and in his time he had followed many occupations. A hard worker himself, he expected the men in his employ to follow his example, and he was not at all slow at reminding them of their faults, when they had any that particularly annoyed him. He had travelled in many parts of Australia and seen life on the gold fields when the miners' camps were rough and dangerous, and men sought for the precious metal with their lives in their hands. He had tried station life, and found it too slow, accordingly he changed it, and took an hotel in a mining township. Here, much to his credit be it said, he held his own, conducted his house as respectably and orderly as could be expected in a community where customers pitched nuggets into a bucket in payment for "quenchers," and where the women caused even more trouble than the miners. The police respected Barry, and he was wise enough to keep in their good books. He had a bullet wound in his arm, caused by a shot from an angry miner, at close quarters, across his counter; but he made light of it at the time, and went on with his business without interruption. His coolness and courage were unquestionable, and he might have been in more than one big thing in his time had his restless spirit not led him to seek new sources of labour.