WE "STRIKE" GOLD

For over a week sinking operations on the Five-Mile Flat were continued with unabated vigour, and then a hush of expectation seemed to fall over the community, for the miners in the shallow ground at the head of the lead were nearing bottom, and the vast array who had pegged along the supposed course of the auriferous wash ceased their labours and waited in tremulous eagerness for reports from Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7, below Discovery. There was good reason for anxiety. If these claims bottomed on pipe-clay deposits or other barren clayey formations, little hope could be entertained for those who had followed their line of guidance. The direction of the golden channel certainly could not be ascertained by judging the lie of the country on the surface, for it was almost absolutely flat, and bore not the slightest resemblance to the original country far beneath. Practical tracing from claim to claim was the only method by which a miner could safely calculate, and that meant that those a little way off the first proved shaft, and all following claim-holders, must either be possessed of a vast amount of hope and energy or an equal amount of patience. It is not unusual, also, to find a deep lead suddenly "fizzle" out with little warning; and again, it seldom fails to create consternation and disappointment at an anxious time by shooting off at right angles, or diverging into numerous infinitesimal leaderettes.

So it was that when the first flush of excitement had died away attention was turned to those claims mentioned, and for the time all work was suspended. We, at No. 7, were still several feet above the level at which we had calculated to find bottom. Since Stewart so peremptorily burst out the ironstone bar we had encountered nothing but a series of sand formations, which we managed to crash through at the rate of five feet each day, and now our shaft measured fully forty-one feet in depth.

My companions worked like Trojans in their efforts to reach gold-paying gravel before their neighbours. Neither Stewart nor Mac had the slightest fear of our shaft proving a duffer, and their extreme confidence was so infecting that Phil forswore many of his pet geological theories in order to fall into line with their ideas. "After all," he said to me, "geological rules seem to be flatly contradicted by the arrangement of the formations here, and only the old adage holds good, that an ounce of practice is worth a ton of theory."

"It looks that way," I answered, "yet I do not like the look of these enormous bodies of sandstone. If I were to go by my experience in other countries, I should promptly forsake this ground and look for more promising tracts."

We were standing by the windlass pulling up the heavy buckets of conglomerate material which Mac was picking below with much gusto. The glare of the sun reached barely half-way down the shaft, and the solitary worker was beyond our gaze, but well within hearing, nevertheless, for his voice rumbled up from the depths in strong protest.

"I'll no hae mae idees corrupted wi' sich fulish argiment. Naitur has wyes o' her ain, an' whaur golologists think gold is, ye may be sure there's nane; bit whaur it raelly is, there ignorant golologists insist it insna. There's nae pleasin' some fouk."

We kept silence, and, after waiting vainly for our comment, Mac again attacked the solid sandstone with sullen ferocity.

The air was close and sultry, and the dumps thrown up from the many shafts around glistened in the intense light and crumbled off into the heat haze as filmy clouds of dust. The entire landscape seemed as a biographic picture, and affected the eyes in similar degree. It was a typical Westralian day. Thud! thud! went Mac's pick, and now and then came a grunt of annoyance from that perspiring individual as an unusually refractory substance would temporarily defy his strength.

We leaned against the windlass barrel, awaiting his call of "Bucket!" which would intimate that further material was accumulated below, and ready for discharge into the outer air. Few men were about, unless at No. 2 shaft, where there was much activity. On the adjoining lot our friend of the leathery skin—who rejoiced in the title of "Emu Bill"—dozed under the shade of a rudely-erected wigwam.

"It's a bit warm," ventured Phil. He was not quite sure of his ground, and did not wish to exaggerate.

"It's d—d hot!" rolled a well-known voice from the depths, and Stewart within the tent sang gaily an adaption from "Greenland's icy mountains."

When quiet was restored I looked again towards No. 2, and at that moment a red handkerchief fluttered to the top of a tiny flagpole surmounting the windlass, and hung limp. A moment later a long, hoarse cheer swept the flat from end to end, and, as if by magic, each claim appeared fully manned, and a sea of faces turned in our direction. No. 2 had signalled, "On Gold."

"Staun by the windlass! I'm comin' up!" roared Mac, who had vaguely heard the sound-waves pass overhead and was wondering what had happened.

"Gold struck on No. 2, Mac!" I shouted, and Phil, who had not quite understood, staggered in amazement, loosening with his feet a quantity of sand and rubble which descended with much force on Mac's upturned face, and interrupted a second passionate appeal to "Staun by the windlass!"

"I'll hae yer life fur that, ye deevil!" he spluttered. "Ye did it on purpose."

Then Stewart came upon the scene in great haste. "I tell't ye sae! I tell't ye sae!" he cried, and for the especial benefit of his isolated companion he bellowed down, "They've got gold at number twa, Mac! Oceans o't!"

Mac was then half-way to the surface, with one foot resting in the empty bucket attached to the cable, and both hands gripping the strong wire rope, which strained and rasped as it slowly coiled on the wooden drum. He was no light weight, and Phil and I felt our muscles twitch as we held against the windlass arm at each dead centre, for there was no ratchet arrangement attached to prevent a quick rush back, and our heavy bucket-load made the safety of his position somewhat doubtful by swaying the rope impatiently, and indulging in other restless antics.

However, when he came near the light and saw how matters stood he became quiet as a lamb; but the sight of his face smeared with the grime so recently deposited upon it, and wearing an intensely savage expression, was too much for our gravity, and our efforts faltered.

"Hang on, ye deevils!" pathetically implored he, as he felt himself tremble in the balance. Then seeing Stewart's face peering down upon him, he besought his aid. "Staun by the winlass, Stewart, ma man," he entreated, "or I'll never see auld Scotland again."

But Stewart was at that moment seized with a paroxysm of laughter. The appeal was vain, and his comrade, being now near terra firma, and comparatively safe, again addressed him.

"Git oot o' ma sicht, ye red-heided baboon!" said he. "Nae wuner they couldna work the winlass wi' you staunin' aside them."

It is an unwritten law on most goldfields throughout the world where the individual miner tries his luck that a flag be at once hoisted over every shaft that bottoms on paying gravel. It is a pretty custom, and a generous one to the less fortunate diggers, who judge by the progressing line of flags whether their own remote claims may have a chance of intercepting the golden channel. As it happened in this case, No. 2 shaft could hardly have failed to pick up the lead, which had been traced in its direction to the boundaries of Discovery claim. Still, there was much rejoicing when the red symbol went up, and for the rest of the day a renewed activity was in force to the uttermost end of the Flat. Even "Emu Bill," as our near neighbour was picturesquely styled, felt called upon to do a little work; but, as he took care to explain, he did it only to satisfy mining regulations, which demand that a certain amount of labour must be performed each day. "You'll notice," said he, "that 3, 4, and 5 hiv tacked on d'reckly in line—as they thought—an' you'll furrer notice thishyer propperty, No. 6, an' yer own, No. 7, hiv not exzactly played foller the leader." Which was true; for Emu Bill's claim had taken only a diagonal guidance from its predecessor, and ours continued the altered route, while those following varied considerably between the two angles thus given.

"When you sees a flag floatin' on No. 3, boys," continued he meditatively, "it's time to pack up your traps, an', as I said afore, I believe in waitin' events an' jedgin' accordin'."

"Hoo lang hae you been diggin' holes in this countrie, Leatherskin?" Stewart politely inquired. And he of the weary countenance chewed his quid reflectively for several minutes ere he made reply.

"I reckon over a dozen years," he said at length, "in which time I perspected Coolgardie an' Kalgoorlie wi' old Pat Hannan when there was nothin' but niggers within' a couple of hundred miles of us."

"A'm o' the opeenion," announced Mac, "that what Mr. Leatherskin disna ken aboot the vagaries o' his ain playgrun' is no worth menshun."

"Seven is supposed to be a lucky number," spoke Phil, "and I think it will prove so with us."

After which Emu Bill went back to slumber, and Phil went down to labour in the shaft. "You've got tae mind," instructed Mac, who manipulated his descent, "when you want the bucket jist lift up yer voice tae that effeck, and I'll drap it doon gently on the end o' the rope."

Phil promised, and was speedily lowered into the darkness, and Mac, neglecting his post at once, came round into the tent, where Stewart and myself were trying hard to find a half-hour's oblivion in the realms of dreamland, and the myriad flies buzzing everywhere were trying equally hard, and with greater success, to prevent our succumbing to the soft influence. Mac's entrance at this moment was particularly distasteful to his comrade, who was just on the verge of sweet unconsciousness, and whose essayed snores were beginning to alarm the flies besieging his face.

"Go awa' oot this meenit, Mac," said he, opening his eyes, "and tak' yer big feet aff ma stummick at aince."

Just then a far-away cry of "Bucket" was vaguely heard, and calmly ignored by the new-comer. "Stewart, ma man," he began, sitting down on a portion of the weary one's anatomy, "I wis wantin' tae get yer idees on one or twa maitters o' scienteefic interest."

"Get out, Mac!" I ordered. But he seemed not to hear, and another hoarse call for "Bucket" passed unobserved.

"I wis wantin', for instance," he continued earnestly, "tae speak wi' ye ser'usly on metapheesical quest-shuns——"

"Let me alane!" Stewart howled, writhing in torment. But his visitor was not to be shaken off.

Five minutes later a stentorian yell from the shaft intimated that Phil's patience was being unduly strained, and Mac reluctantly desisted from expounding further the intricacies of science, and rose to go. As may be understood, the bottom of a narrow and deep pit is not the most pleasant of places in which to idle away the time, and Phil, after digging as much as the limited area of operations would allow, was filled with wrath at the neglect of his associate, and cursed that worthy gentleman with fervour between his shouts. "Bucket!" he roared, for the twentieth time, and Mac, who was then scrambling towards the windlass, inwardly commented on the unusual savageness of the voice. "He's a wee bit annoyed," he murmured. "I'll better try an' propeetiate him." So he leaned his head over the shaft mouth and whispered in winning tones, "Are ye vera faur doon, Pheel-up?"

"Lower away the bucket, you flounder-faced mummy!" came the prompt reply, which penetrated the darkness in sharp staccato syllables.

Mac looked pained. "Noo, if that had been Stewart," he muttered grimly, "I wud a kent weel what tae dae, bit being the golologist——" He shook his head feebly, and reached for the hide bucket, which was lying near. Then, forgetting in the flurry of the moment to hitch it on to the rope, he let it descend at the fastest speed the law of gravity would permit.

"Staun frae under!" he yelled, realising too late what he had done; but in such a narrow space there was no room for dodging, and the leathern receptacle struck the unfortunate man below with more force than was agreeable. "Ye brocht it on yersel'," consolingly spoke Mac. "It's a veesitation o' Providence fur miscain' me sae sairly."

The words that greeted his ears were eloquent and emphatic, and he marched into the tent in high dudgeon. "Gang an' pull the golologist oot o' the shaft," said he to Stewart. "He's in the position o' a humourist, an' he canna see throo't."

Perhaps there are few who could have smiled and looked pleasant under similar circumstances; but the "golologist" was of a forgiving nature, and his enmity dissolved when he reached the surface.

"You'll admit, Mac," he said, after allowances had been made on both sides, "that I had some slight cause for grumbling, and in your magnanimity you might have spared me your last forcible addition to the argument."

"That wis a mistak'," Mac replied apologetically. "I had the baggie in ma haun, meanin' tae send it doon in orthodox manner; bit yer injudishus remarks made me nervish, and doon it drappit, sudden-like."

After these explanations peace reigned again; but Stewart's rest had been so rudely broken that he now thought to work off his lassitude by an hour's graft with the pick. We had arranged ourselves into shifts, which went on and off alternately, or otherwise, as we thought fit; but it was my plan to reach bedrock without delay, so the shaft was never allowed to remain long unoccupied. Leaving Mac and Phil to attend to culinary matters, I went out with Stewart, and, after lowering him into the Stygian gloom, kept watch by the windlass until the night closed over and Phil announced that tea was ready.

Two more days passed uneventfully. The hourly-expected bulletin of good news from No. 3 was being long deferred, and vague fears were beginning to be expressed that all was not satisfactory there. It was known that Nos. 3, 4, and 5 had put on extra shifts in the last few nights, and the depths of their sinkings must at this time have exceeded fifty feet. We at No. 7 awaited developments with keen interest. It was natural that we should hope for the worst at No. 3, for, as Emu Bill had said, we were on an entirely different tack, and might cease our labours when the gaudy emblem appeared over that claim. In these two days progress had been very slow with us, for a hard bar of conglomerate quartz had intervened at the 45-foot level, and we dared not use gelignite in case the heavy discharge might bring the upper walls inward and render our whole work useless.

It is always precarious to use blasting powder of any description at the deep levels of an alluvial shaft, and the more so when the upper formations have proved to be of non-cohesive nature. So we were compelled to laboriously pick the unyielding mass where we might, and otherwise drill and shatter it with hammers.

On the morning of the third day after the flag had been raised at No. 2 the Emu seemed to awake from his lethargy in earnest, and set to work with right good-will to make up for lost time.

"You wasn't wrong in takin' my advice arter all, mate," he said to me, when I appeared to inquire the reason of his unwonted activity.

"There's no flag up at No. 3 yet," I answered tentatively.

"No, nor won't be, nuther," he returned with evident satisfaction. "I tell you what, mate," he continued impressively, "the first flag that goes up will be at your own shaft, No. 7, so you'd better get your flagpole ready. The man what says I don't know this country is a liar, every time."

Yet still the men at the shafts in question continued to dig deeper and deeper. "We hasn't reached bottom yet," they said, in answer to all questions, and on that point they appeared decided.

"I'll go up and pint out the evil o' their ways," Emu Bill said, coming over to us after midday. "I don't believe in no man exartin' hissel' to no good." Then he addressed himself to Mac far below: "I say, Scottie, you're going to strike it first, and good luck to you, you hard-working sinner."

"Same to you, Leatherskin, an mony o' them," a voice from the depths replied gruffly, for the "hard-working sinner" had but imperfectly understood.

Leaving Phil in charge of the windlass, I accompanied Emu Bill to the shafts he now considered doomed. "Look at the stuff they're takin' out," said he, drawing my attention to a heap of white and yellow cement-like substance; "the beggars have gone clean through the bedrock and don't know it."

The men at the windlass eyed us savagely as we came near, and I experienced for a moment a malicious joy when I noticed our uncommunicative visitor among them. "We don't want no more opinions," one of their number cried; "we knows we hasn't struck bottom yet."

"Mates," said Emu Bill, with dignity, "I hiv sunk more duffers than thar be years in my life—an' I'm no chicken—an' I tells ye straight, you've not only struck bottom, but you've gone three or four feet past it. If you means to tunnel through to Ole England, that's your business, but if not, you'd better give it best."

Without further words, we retraced our steps, my companion fuming inwardly because of his brusque reception. Yet his advice must have had due effect, for that evening the unfortunately-placed shafts were being dismantled and late in the night the all too sanguine owners struck their camps and departed for other fields. Their disappointment was keen. They had missed fortune by only a few yards.

Next morning all the Flat knew that Nos. 3, 4, and 5 had duffered out, and, as a result, there was a great exodus of those who had been guided by these locations; but, on the other hand, rejoicings were the order of the day with the miners who believed Nos. 6 and 7 to mark the true continuation of the lead, which had last been proved at the second workings.

Our claim was then the cynosure of all eyes, for the Emu's shaft was yet barely six feet deep, and we were supposed to be close on the dreaded bottom. I was convinced that we should know our luck immediately the ironstone bar was penetrated, and that obstruction was not likely to hinder us much longer.

"I'll be the man that'll see gold first," Mac announced confidently, as he shouldered his pick after breakfast and prepared to take first shift.

"I've got a rale bonnie flag to pit up when ye're ready," said Stewart, displaying an imposing-looking Union Jack which had done service at Klondike, and which he had been surreptitiously repairing for some days past.

Phil was silent. "I sincerely hope we may not be disappointed," he said at length. Like me, he could not understand the presence of the refractory formation so close upon auriferous wash—if the latter really existed in our claim.

"Geological rules don't count in this country, Phil," I suggested hopefully; then Mac departed, grumbling loudly at what he was pleased to call my "Job's comfortings."

For the best part of the forenoon I listened to the thudding of the pick with an anxious interest, for any stroke now might penetrate to the mysterious compound known as the cement wash; but the blows still rung hard and clear, and I grew weary waiting. It was not necessary to send the bucket below often. Though Mac smote the flinty rock with all his strength, and a vigour which few could have sustained, the result of his labours was almost infinitesimal. Every half-hour Stewart would receive from his perspiring companion a blunted pick, hoisted up on the end of the cable, while a fresh one was provided to continue the onslaught. Mac seemed tireless, and Stewart above, at a blazing fire, practised all his smithy art to keep the sorely-used tools in order; while ever and anon a hoarse voice would bellow from the underground, "Mak' them hard, Stewart, ma man. Mind that it is no butter A'm diggin'."

"You must come up, Mac," I said, when one o'clock drew near, but he would not hear of it. "I ken I hivna faur tae gang noo," he cried. "I can hear the sound gettin' hollow."

Another ten minutes passed, and now I could distinctly note a difference in the tone of the echoes ringing upwards. Thud! Thud! Thud! went the pick, and Mac's breath came in long deep gasps, that made Stewart rave wildly at the severe nature of his comrade's exertions.

Then suddenly there was a crash, followed by a shout of joy. Mac had bottomed at last.

For several moments complete silence reigned; then a subdued scraping below indicated that Mac was collecting some of the newly-exposed stratum for analysis.

"What does it look like?" I whispered down. There are few indeed who could withstand a touch of the gold fever at such a critical time, and I was impatient to know the best or the worst; either report would have allayed the indescribable feeling that possessed me then. The most hardened goldseeker is not immune from the thrill created when bottom has been reached; at that moment he is at one with the veriest novice who eagerly expects to view gold in its rough state for the first time.

My companion did not at once gratify my longing for knowledge, and when he replied, Phil, Stewart, and myself were peering down into the shaft awaiting intelligence with breathless interest.

"I think," he muttered, in tones that struck upon our ears as a knell of doom, "I raelly think—ye micht keep yer heids oot o' the licht."

"Mac!" I admonished, "remember this is no time for pleasantries."

"Weel, weel," he responded apologetically, "I wis wantin' tae gie correct infurmashun, bit the glint aff Stewart's pow mak's a' thing coloured." Stewart promptly drew back his head with a howl of rage.

"Mak' nae mair refleckshuns!" he cried indignantly.

There came a creak at the windlass rope as Mac put his foot into the half-filled bucket and prepared to ascend; then his voice rolled up to us again. "Wha's makin' refleckshuns? I was only makin' menshun o' the bonnie auburn——"

"Shut up, Mac," Phil interrupted, and Mac obligingly cut short his soliloquy and roared—

"Staun by the windlass, ye deevils, I'm comin' up wi' specimens!"

If he had had cause at one time to comment on the slow and uncertain nature of his upward flight, he assuredly had no room for complaint in that direction on this occasion. All three of us went to the windlass and yanked our comrade to the surface at a rate that caused him much consternation. Then I seized the bucket, which contained a few pounds of an alarmingly white-looking deposit, and hurried with it into the tent, where the gold-pan, freshly scrubbed, lay waiting beside a kerosene tin half filled with muddy water. On closer examination the samples looked decidedly more promising; little granules of quartz were interspersed with the white cement, and a sprinkling of ironshot particles were also in evidence. We had struck an alluvial wash: that was clear enough, and now the question was—would it prove to be auriferous? Without speaking we commenced to crush the matrix into as fine a powder as possible, and when that operation was completed, the whole was emptied into the gold-pan.

"It looks just like sugar," Stewart broke out, "an' no near so dirty as Klonduk gravel."

"Get your flag ready," I said, "we'll know our luck in a few minutes." I now filled the pan with water, and began to give it that concentric motion so familiar to those who search for the yellow metal. Gradually, very gradually, the water was canted off, carrying with it the bulk of the lighter sands, and finally the residue was left in the form of some ounces of black ironstone powder, which, because of its weight, had remained, and about an equal amount of coarse quartz grains that had escaped crushing.

"But I don't see any gold," said Phil despondingly.

"Ye're faur too impatient," Mac reproved. "Ye didna expec' tae see it floatin' on tap o' a' that stuff surely?"

I tilted the pan obliquely several times in order to make the contents slide round in the circular groove provided, and as it slowly moved under the gentle pressure of the little water remaining, it left a glittering trail in its wake, which caused my three companions to break out in a whoop of delight.

Some sixty seconds later the Union Jack floated bravely above our windlass, and was hailed with a thunder of applause.

CAMP-FIRE REMINISCENCES

For many weeks work went on merrily. One after another the various claims reached paying gravel, and flags of all designs and colours soon marked the course of the lead for fully half a mile, after which distance the golden vein effectually eluded discovery; it had apparently disappeared into the bowels of the earth. For the first few days succeeding our location of the auriferous wash we contented ourselves in dollying the more easily disintegrated parts of the white conglomerate, and collecting the solid and cumbrous blocks excavated into sacks, each of which when filled weighed over a hundred pounds. These I meant to send to some crushing battery when several tons had been raised.

The water for dollying as well as for all other purposes was obtained from a deep shaft sunk near at hand by a speculative individual, who considered that water might ultimately pay him as generously as gold, and as he charged eightpence a gallon for the brackish fluid, and had an unlimited demand for it at that, he probably found it a less troublesome and much more lucrative commodity than even a moderately wealthy claim on the Five-Mile Lead. As it so happened, however, when other claims began to copy our tactics and dolly portions of their wash, it was made evident that the water bore was not equal to the strain, and once or twice it ran dry at a most critical time. After a careful computation of its capacity we saw that it could only be drawn upon for domestic purposes in future, and even then there was every probability of the supply giving out if a good rainfall did not soon occur to moisten the land and percolate to the impervious basin tapped by the bore in question.

At this time a public battery, owned by a limited company, was doing yeoman service to the dwellers on an alluvial field some five miles south of us; and after much consideration we, in common with the most of the miners, arranged to despatch our golden gravel thither, as being the only way out of a difficulty. Public batteries exist all over those goldfields, for, owing to the absence of water, a prospector can rarely do more than test samples of his find, and thereby estimate its value; and these public crushing plants are, therefore, a very necessary adjunct to his success.

The time passed pleasantly enough now that the trying uncertainty of the first fortnight was no longer with us, and the auriferous channel was being slowly and surely tunnelled and cut in every conceivable direction. Work was pursued in matter-of-fact fashion. The glamour of the goldseeker's life had departed with the risk.

Yet when the practical and perhaps sordid work of the day was done, and we gathered together around one or other of the numerous camp fires, it seemed as if a new world had descended upon us when daylight gave place to the mystic glimmer of the lesser stars and the steadfast radiance of the glorious Southern Cross. Only the world-wanderer who has slept beneath all skies can truly appreciate the grandeur of the southern constellations. The bushman has grown to love them from his infancy; they have been his companions on many a weary journey, and he regards them with an almost sacrilegious familiarity. But to the traveller from other lands these shining guide-posts in the heavens arouse a feeling akin to reverence, and later, when he ventures into his grim desert land and trusts his life to their constancy, his admiration, were it possible, increases tenfold. There is, of course, one great reason for the stranger's attachment to the sky sentinels of an Australian night other than their calm, clear brilliance. In no other country is the wanderer brought so close, as it were, to the luminaries of night. In Canada, Alaska, America, India, or China, or, indeed, in any portion of the globe, by reason of climatic or other conditions, one must perforce sleep under canvas, and in some cases where the cold is severe—as in Alaska—the shelter of a heavily-logged hut is almost a necessity. But in the inland parts of Australia, where rain seldom falls, and where no pestilence taints the atmosphere, the sky alone usually forms the traveller's roof. Many times have I gone to sleep in the great silent interior with only my coat for a pillow, and coaxed myself into slumber while watching for the advent of a favourite star, or tracing the gradual course of the Southern Cross.

To me the stars of the south have a peculiar significance. When I gazed at them, even while divided from civilisation by over a thousand miles of dreary arid sand plains, I felt comforted, for though compass and sextant may fail, the stars will still show the way.

I recall our evenings spent at the Five-Mile Camp with deepest pleasure. There only did I meet and talk with the typical men of the West, and the simple, true-hearted, restless spirits of the Island Continent who have pushed the outposts of their country far into the desert. It was my one experience of a Western Australian mining camp, and afterwards, during our weary wanderings in the far interior, we often longed for the company of the generous-minded men who used to gather round our fire and review their early experiences with such vivid effect.

Emu Bill, I have already mentioned, but there were several others whom we came to know during the later days of our sojourn at the golden flat, and they had all their own peculiar characteristics, with a sterling honesty of purpose as the keynote of their lives.

"Old Tom," I remember, possessed an interest in the claim next to ours; not much of an interest it was, either, for he was too old a man to have come in nearly first in the rush. He had simply been promised a percentage of returns in No. 8 for doing all the work thereon; and as at first the presence of gold there was much doubted, it was no great generosity on the part of the owner of the lot to promise slight reward and no wages for labour done. Yet for once Old Tom scored in a bargain, and his labours were not, as he cheerfully said they had ever been, wholly vain.

Old Tom must have been a splendid specimen of manhood in his day; now he was nearly seventy years of age, and his bent shoulders detracted somewhat from his great stature, while his slightly-bowed legs—whose deviation from the perpendicular, he insisted, had been caused by much walking—gave to him a more frail appearance than was justified.

His knowledge of his own country was extensive, but he had fallen into the strange belief that the world began at Australia, and that Europe, Asia, and other portions of the globe were merely remote colonies or dependencies of his own land. "I hiv walked all over Australia, mates," he used to say; "I know the world well."

"You ought to see London, Tom," I said, one night, after he had been recounting his travelling experiences; but he shook his head.

"It's too far to walk," he replied sadly; "Old Tom's walking days are nearly over. But," and he brightened considerably, "I've heard tell that Lunnon is full o' people, an' there wouldn't be no room for an old man like me to peg his claim."

It was one of his fixed ideas that the whole world was but a goldfield on which all men had to try their luck. And the sea had its terrors for him, as it has for nearly all bushmen, although most of them get accustomed to it sooner or later. With Old Tom it would be never. "I went on a ship once," he admitted, "when I was a young 'un, an' the mem'ry o't will never leave me." He shuddered at the recollection of his sufferings. "I kin walk 'bout as fast as a ship, anyway," he added with much satisfaction, "an' a hundred miles more or less don't make much difference when Old Tom is on the wallaby."

At another time, when news of Kitchener's brilliant successes in the Soudan had reached us, I read out to him from an old home newspaper details of the capture of Omdurman. There were many around the fire that night, and all listened eagerly to the thrilling narrative except Old Tom; he gazed listlessly into the glowing fire, and smoked his pipe unmoved.

"Have you no interest in these things, Tom?" I asked.

"It's a long time since I've been in the Eastern Colonies," he answered slowly, "an' I hiv lost my bearin's among them names. Soudan is in Queensland, isn't it? Or mebbe it is west'ard in Noo South Wales?" Poor Old Tom! he had fought the aborigines times without number, and taken his life in his hands on many a lone trail, yet he would have been surprised had anyone said that he was more than usually venturesome. He knew no fear, and acted his weary part in life nobly and well.

"Silent Ted" was another of our camp-fire comrades; he was, as his name implied, not a talkative individual. Long years spent in the bush had served to dry up the vials of his speech. Yet he was not morose or taciturn by nature; he simply seemed too tired to give expression to his thoughts. His eyes were ever fixed and emotionless as the desert sands—sure evidence of the bushman who has lived in the dreary wilderness beyond the Darling. He had been a long time in striking gold, and we all thought his shaft was likely to prove a duffer; but despite our gloomy prophecies he joined our evening circle night after night, and smoked his pipe cheerful as usual, though that was not saying much.

"I forgot to tell you, mates," he broke out one evening, to our great surprise, "that I struck bottom yesterday."

He meant to say more, but his mouth closed with a click in spite of himself, and in reply to our congratulations he handed round for examination two fine specimens of alluvial gold which he had taken from his first day's tests, and when they had been inspected by the community and returned to him, he passed them on to his neighbour with a sigh; he had apparently already forgotten their existence.

The devil-may-care fossicker, also, was well represented, and his species rejoiced in cognomens so euphonious and varied that I could never remember the correct titles to bestow upon their several owners, and only realised my mistakes when greeted with reproachful glances. Among our acquaintances were, "Dead Broke Sam," a proverbially unfortunate miner in a perpetual state of pecuniary embarrassment; "Lucky Dave," who always "came out on top;" "Happy Jack," who seemed to find much cause for merriment in his rather commonplace existence; and "Nuggety Dick," who at all times could unearth one or two specimens from some secret place in his meagre wardrobe, and describe minutely where they had been obtained—usually some place comprehensively indicated as "away out back."

These gaunt, bearded men had many strange stories to tell, and in the ruddy firelight they would trace on the sand intricate charts emblematic of their wanderings. They were those whose roving natures compelled them to follow up every gold rush, with the firm belief that extraordinary fortune would one day crown their efforts. "It's a durned hard life, boys," Dead Broke Sam, who worked with Old Tom on similar terms of remuneration, would often say, looking round for the sympathetic chorus that was always forthcoming, "but if we doesn't peg out, we is bound to strike it some day."

There is no blasphemy in the speech of the Australian miner. The most rugged-looking fossicker is gentle as a lamb, save when undue presumption on the part of some new chum, or "furriner," arouses his ire, and then he makes things hum generally; but his forcible words are merely forcible, and perhaps "picturesque," but nothing more; the inane profanity of the Yankee fortune-seeker finds no exponent in the Australian back-blocker.

Many were the tales "pitched" on these long starlit nights, and narratives of adventure in search of gold, and hairbreadth escapes from the aborigines succeeded each other until the evening was far spent, and the Southern Cross had sunk beyond the horizon. Then we would disperse with a monosyllabic "night, boys," all round, and seek our separate sandy couches.

My comrades, Mac and Stewart, were shining satellites at these meetings, and weird stories from the Pampas plains and the Klondike valley formed at intervals a pleasing change—from the miners' point of view—to the accounts of gold-finds, and rushes, and hostile natives, so fluently described by Nuggety Dick and Co. And now and then a whaling anecdote would lend zest to the gathering, faithfully told by Stewart with much dramatic effect; he was, indeed, a past master at the art, and never failed to hold his audience spellbound.

Emu Bill, though recognised by all as the most experienced miner present, rarely condescended to spin a yarn, and he listened to his confrères' tales with ill-concealed impatience, but showed a decided liking for my two warriors' romances. One evening, however, he broke his reserve and proceeded to give a rambling survey of his wanderings, and as he warmed to his subject his eyes began to glow, and his gestures became eloquent and impassioned.

"Yes, boys," said he, winding up a resumé of his exploits in various parts of Australia, "I calc'late I hev had a fair-sized experience o' gold mining in my time, an' as ye may guess, I hevn't allus come out right end up, nuther, else I shouldn't be here. Thank the Lord! I've struck something at last."

"I'm wi' ye thar, mate," grunted Old Tom in sympathy. "I guess this is Old Tom's last rise."

Then a silence fell over the little assembly, during which Emu Bill drew fanciful diagrams in the sand with an improvised camp poker, and Silent Ted almost went to sleep. The rest of us gazed at Emu Bill with a show of interest, expecting him to proceed with his reminiscences, and soon he started again.

"Yes, boys, I've had my disappintments, as we've all had, I opine, but I had an un-common disappintment at the time o' the Kalgoorlie Rush——"

"Kalgoorlie Rush, Bill?" I exclaimed. "Were you in that?"

"Wur I in that?" he echoed dismally. "I wur, an' I wurn't, which is not mebbe a very plain statement, but you kin jedge fur yourself if you care to hear my yarn."

"Let her go, Bill," said Nuggety Dick.

"I'm listenin' wi' vera great interest," Mac spoke slowly. "Ye've been a man o' pairts, Emoo."

After sundry expressions of approval had been elicited, Bill again picked up the thread of his narrative.

"You've heard o' old Hannan, of course," he began, "the diskiverer o' Kalgoorlie? The diskiverer o' Kalgoorlie!" he repeated, mimicking a general expression often heard on the fields. "Well, boys, I kin tell you how Kalgoorlie was diskivered.... Pat Hannan an' me had been mates for a considerable time. We walked from South'ron Cross together afore the railway, an' we 'specked around Coolgardie camp wi' fairish success. There was no township at Coolgardie then, boys, though that jumped up quick enough. One day we thought we'd jine a party as was going out eastward to 'speck for gold furrer back in the nigger country; an' after gettin' our water-bags filled an' provisions for a month rolled up in our swags, we all cleared out. In two days we camped at Kalgoorlie well. You know where that is, boys; but there was nary a shanty within twenty-five miles of it then, nothin' but sand an' black boys, an' hosts o' nigs. But we never thought o' lookin' for gold there, worse luck; at least, none o' the rest did; but old Hannan had a skirmish round' an' reported nary sign o't, so we struck camp at oncet. But jest as we wur movin' off, Hannan comes to me with a twist on his mug an' snickers, 'Bill, me bhoy, phwat can I do? Me water-bag's bust!' Now that wur a ser'us matter, for we needed all the water we could carry, not knowin' when another well might turn up, so I voted we shid all camp again until Pat's water-bag had been repaired, an' the rest o' the boys of course agreed, unan'mous. But that wouldn't suit old Hannan, 'Ye'd better go on, boys,' said he, 'an' I'll come after yez in half an hour.' So we went on; but though we went slow, and arterards waited fur half a day, no Hannan turned up, an' we had to continue our journey without him. Well, boys, we came back in less'n a fortnight, arter trampin' about in the durnedest country on God's earth in search o' water an' findin' none. We hadn't time to look fur gold, so ye kin guess we wur mighty miserable when we drew near to the place where old Hannan's water-bag had busted; but the appearance o' the camp sort o' mystified us, thar wur rows an' rows o' tents, an' the ground was pegged fur miles. 'Howlin' tarnation!' I yelled at the first man we came across. 'Is this a mir-adge, or what has we struck?' 'Nary mir-adge, mate,' said he, 'this is Hannan's Find, or Kalgoorlie if yous like that name better.' ... An' it wur a bitter fack, boys. Old Hannan must have notised an outcrop somewheres around, an' being allfired afeared that we, his mates, might get too much benefit, he had ripped the water-bag on purpose so as to get an excoose fur waitin' behind. Then, of course, he had gone back to Coolgardie an' got the Government diskivery reward, which otherwise would have been divided atween us. But we got nothin', boys, nary cent, an' nary square inch o' ground. The camp had been rushed when we wur sufferin' howlin' terrors out back.... There's wan favour I'd ask of you, boys, don't none of you start 'God blessin'' old Hannan for diskivering Kalgoorlie in my hearing. I can't stand it, boys, an' you know why."

Bill ceased, and a murmur of sympathy ran round the little group. The Kalgoorlie rush was fresh in the minds of nearly all present, many of whom had taken part in it. Every one knew Hannan, but who better than his one-time partner? and if his tale showed the much-honoured finder of Kalgoorlie in a less favourable light than that in which he was usually regarded, no one doubted Emu Bill's version of the story; yet it was hard to dispel from the mind the glamour of romance associated with the event from the first. One more illustration of the difference between the real and the ideal, but it seems almost a pity to destroy the illusions, they lend so much colour and interest to otherwise sordid episodes.

The night was unusually dark, fleeting clouds constantly obscured the feeble light of a slender crescent moon, and the myriad stars glimmered fitfully. Our fire was the only cheerful object in the darkness, and it blazed and crackled, lighting up the weather-beaten faces of the circle around it, and illuminating our tent in the background. For a long time no one spoke, every man seemed gloomily affected by Bill's story, and with chins resting on their hands they gazed into the vortex of the flaming logs long and earnestly.

Then a familiar voice interrupted their reveries. "When Stewart an' me discovered Gold Bottom Creek——"

"Go slow, Mac," I objected wearily; "it's getting late and we'd better turn in."

"It is wearin' on fur midnight," grunted Dead Broke Sam, surveying the heavens for the position of his favourite reckoning star.

"What was your last battery returns, mate?" asked Emu Bill, turning to me with a revival of practical interest.

"Fifty tons for 150 ounces," I replied.

"Not too bad," commented Nuggety Dick.

"I'm 20 tons fur 60 ounces," said my interrogator, "which is the same ratio. I guess Nos. 6 and 7 are the best properties on the Five Mile."

"I'm 25 for 51," announced Happy Jack cheerfully.

"Thank the Lord, we've all got somethin'," Old Tom muttered devoutly, as he rose to his feet. Then we went our several ways.