[60]
KEEPING SCHOOL AT ‘DEAD FINISH.’

A Reminiscence of ‘The Rivers.’

The people at Dead Finish had never applied for such a thing, nor dreamt of, nor wished for it, neither they nor their children. These latter were mostly of an age now to be of use about the house or in the field. They had imagined themselves, these half-a-dozen or so of scattered families hidden in the gloomy recesses of coastal scrubs, quite secure from any officious interference with their offspring by the Government. And, without exception, they took it as a most uncalled-for act of tyranny, this proposed establishment of a school and a teacher in their midst, and well within the two-mile radius from all.

Here was the corn just ready to be pulled and husked, and got ready for Tuberville, and who was to do it with Tom, Jack and Bill wasting their time at a school?

‘If Mr Gov’ment was here,’ growled ‘Brombee’ O’Brien, the largest selector of the lot, ‘I’d give ’im a bit o’ my mind. Wot bizness he got, comin’ an’ takin’ the kids just as they’re a-gittin’ handy? Why didn’t he come afore, when they was bits o’ crawlers, an’ no use to no one? Anyhow, me an’ the missis niver ’ad no schoolin’; [61] an’ why should they? Will learnin’ cut through a two-foot log? Will ’rethmetic split palin’s or shingles? Will readin’ an’ writin’ run brombees, or drive a team o’ bullocks, or ’elp to plough or ’arrer? No; it ain’t likely. Then wot’s the good of it? Garn? Wot they givin’ us?’

Thus Mr O’Brien, at a meeting of neighbours specially convened to confront the unlooked-for emergency, and whose own ideas he voices to the letter.

And when, later, the Inspector (taken at first for the ‘Gov’ment’) puts in an appearance, the case is set before him precisely as above. But, instead of listening to reason, he only rated them, told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and dilated largely on the beauty and advantage of a State education at only threepence per week each child, and one shilling for seven or over. A paternal Government, he said, had long mourned over their degraded and benighted condition; and, at last, having, after much trouble, and at great expense, secured a most accomplished gentleman as a teacher, resolved that one of his first tasks should be that of making Dead Finish an ornament, in place of a reproach, to the district.

This was, so the Inspector thought, putting the thing neatly indeed. But it was all of no avail. They not only unanimously refused to have anything to do with the erection of the school, but also to receive the teacher when he arrived. They swore, too, that their children should not leave work for education, and in the end, used language unrecordable here, and such as the Inspector had never in all his life heard before. But he [62] persevered; and, bringing a couple of men from the township fifty miles away, set them to work.

Dead Finish was situated at the extreme head of one of those short Australian coastal rivers whose existence begins in boggy swamps and ends in a big sand-bar.

The country was mountainous and scrubby, abounding in ‘falls,’ springs, morasses, giant timber, dingoes, ticks, leeches, and creeks. The wonder was, not that anybody should ever have settled on it, but that, once there, they should ever manage to get out of it, as they did once in six months.

But for these few families on Dead Finish Creek, the district was totally uninhabited. It was hard to say where they came from originally. They were not a communicative people; but they were a hard-working, hard-living one, whose only wish was to be left at peace on the little patches they had hewn for themselves out of the mighty primeval forest that, dark and solemn, walled them in on every side. The spot chosen by the Inspector as the site of the new school was on the extreme edge of one of the lesser falls that ran sloping swiftly down three hundred feet or more into a small valley, generally full of mist and the noise of running waters.

A mile away lived a settler named Brown, who, after an infinity of coaxing and persuasion, and to the utter disgust of his neighbours, had consented to receive and board the teacher on trial. As with the rest of the Dead Finishers, ready money was so rare that the thoughts of that proffered twelve shillings a week tempted him, and he fell, and became a Judas to his fellows, and a mark [63] for the finger of scorn—he and his wife and their ten children.

But the Inspector was jubilant; and after a last look around the little hut, smelling of fresh-cut wood, with its three forms, one stool, and bright, new blackboard, he departed, congratulating himself on the satisfactory finish of the campaign. Also he indited a minute and two memorandums to his Department with the intimation that ‘Provisional School No. 28,890, Parish of Dead Finish, County of Salamanca,’ was completed and ready for occupation. Whereupon, an animated correspondence took place, which, after lasting six months, was at last closed by the announcement that a teacher had been appointed. Then both sides rested from their labours, and the Inspector, feeling that his annual holiday had been well earned, took it.

Meanwhile, the little building perched on the brink of the gulf grew bleached and weather-beaten with wind and rain and fog, and the Dead Finishers derided ‘ole Gov’ment,’ and the Brown family emerged from Coventry, and all was once more peace along the creek.

The winter passed, and a young man with thin legs and body, red hair, and freckled face, appeared in Tuberville and remarked to the residents generally that he would like to get to Dead Finish. He also added that he was the ‘new teacher’ for that place. He at once became an object of interest. People stared at him in much the same way as did those others, of whom we read, at Martin Chuzzlewit and the faithful Mark Tapley on their departure for Eden. [64] The Tuberville people—the majority of them at least—knew of the Dead Finishers only by repute. These latter came in but twice a year to exchange corn and hardwood for stores, potatoes, and a little cash. At these times the programme was invariably the same. Their business done, the long-haired, touzly-bearded men drove their teams outside the town, and, leaving the bullocks in charge of the wild, bare-footed, half-clad boys, returned, and, clubbing their money, drank solidly as long as it lasted—generally two days.

They kept well together, and no one molested or interfered with them. It was not worth while. Their especial house was a short distance out, and when, borne up on the wind, came the roar of bush revelry, strange and uncouth, the townspeople merely remarked one to the other that ‘Them Dead Finishers must be in again down at Duffy’s.’

Hence the interest taken in Mr Cruppy.

The Dead Finishers all drank ‘rum straight,’ and about two gallons was their respective allowance. That safely stowed away, they took their long whips out of the corner of the bar, called their rough cattle-dogs, lying beside them, and made off to the wilderness again for another fight with fire and axe against the stubborn forest, and to raise corn enough for the next trip to market.

That half-yearly or so excursion was their one treat, such as it was; and the toiling, hard-featured women at home, who never got away, acquiesced tacitly in the liquid wind-up of it. They never looked for any money on their men’s return. What was the good of money at [65] Dead Finish? No wonder the people laughed when the Inspector talked to them of ‘school fees.’

At last Mr Cruppy drifted into the ‘Bushman’s Home’ in search of information. Could Mr Duffy tell him how to get to a place called Dead Finish? No; Mr Duffy was sorry, but he really couldn’t. All he knew about it was that it was up in the mountains, and a rough, long road to travel. The new teacher, was he? Well, he was pleased to hear it, but opined that he’d find some pretty hard cases amongst the kids up there. Did he know Mr Brown at Dead Finish? Yes, he thought he did, and a very strong cup of tea he was. Going to stay there, was he? Well, he hoped that Mr Brown would make him comfortable. But, somehow, he was doubtful. As to getting there, he would have to trust to Providence. After a little more talk, however, Mr Cruppy discovered that Providence, in this case, meant the sum of £4 sterling, for which the publican expressed his willingness to do his best to find the Dead Finish.

They were four days on the road, got bogged twice, capsized twice, and broke the pole of the buggy before they found Brown, who received them with more surprise than cordiality. Foreseeing ostracism again, he wished to go back from his agreement, and was surly to a degree.

He said he should get his head caved in. If no one else did it, ‘Brombee’ O’Brien would. A week’s payment in advance mollified him somewhat. But, if Mr Cruppy had not been an orphan, friendless, and on his first appointment, he would have returned with [66] Mr Duffy, who, very much to his surprise, had by the time he reached home, fairly earned his money.

The teacher’s bedroom was a bark lean-to; his bed sacks stuffed with corn husks—and cobs. The food was hominy and pork, washed down with coffee made from corn roasted and ground. He ventured to remark that the accommodation was rough.

‘It are,’ replied Mr Brown. ‘We’s rough. Take it or leave it. We niver arst fer no schoolin’. I’ll get stoushed over this job yet. Brombee’s got it in for me. So’s the Simmses, an’ all the rest ov ’em.’

With much difficulty the teacher got one of the boys to show him the way to the school. They had to cross Dead Finish Creek fourteen times to get there. Regarding the youngster as his first scholar, Mr Cruppy endeavoured to detain him, but with a yell he fled down the mountain; and, figuratively, the fiery cross was sent round.

Each day the teacher went up and waited in vain. No one came near the school. Then he essayed a journey of remonstrance from farm to farm, got bushed, was out for two nights, and would have been left out altogether only that Mandy Brown, who pitied him, went away and brought him in after running his tracks for a whole day. Then he simply sat down and waited despairingly. Then the Inspector came back from his holiday and visited Dead Finish, expecting to find everything in full swing. In his wrath he took out summonses against the whole settlement. No notice was taken of these until four troopers paid it a visit. Then it went into [67] Tuberville in a body, and was promptly fined and admonished. Returning, it sent its children to school—a horde of young barbarians, unkempt, unwashed, almost unclad, but stout and sturdy. And it was the time of the pulling of the corn! Therefore the elders had to work double tides to make up for the lost labour of their offspring, stolidly glaring at poor Cruppy as he tried to beat into their shock heads the mystery of A B C.

Amanda Brown was eighteen, buxom, bare-footed, curly-haired, red-cheeked, could ride as she put it ‘anythin’ with hair on,’ use an axe like a Canadian, and was reckoned the best hand at breaking in a young bullock to the team of anyone about. And she, since her finding of Cruppy in the ranges, leech-infested and draggled, had taken him under her protection. But even she was powerless to influence the feeling of public indignation, daily growing stronger, against the Inspector, the teacher, and the ‘Gov’ment,’ and which ended in Cruppy being requested to clear out from Brown’s. As the latter put it, ‘Mister,’ said he, ‘it ain’t no good shenaneckin’! I dussent keep you no longer. It’s as much ’s our lives is wuth. Brombee an’ them’s gittin’ madder an’ madder. Ef you won’t slither complete, you’ll ’ave to go an’ camp in the schoolhouse up yonder. We’ll sell you a pot an’ a bit o’ ration, an’ ye’ll have to do the best ye can.’ So Cruppy went, seeing nothing else for it, and Mr Brown once more held up his head amongst his fellows.

Despite his lack of physique, Cruppy had a certain amount of stubborn resistance and endurance within [68] him, often observable in red-headed people. He was, in short, plucky, and unwilling to give in. And Mandy, out of the largeness of her heart, helped him all she knew how.

For instance, when Tom O’Brien (eldest son of ‘Brombee’) made his intention known of scaring the teacher out of Dead Finish, from Mandy came the few words of warning and the present of the old gun and some ammunition. Thus it happened that one night, when awakened by eerie yells from his lonely slumber, the teacher looked out and saw a wild figure clad in skins, and with a pair of bullock’s horns spreading from its head, he felt no whit dismayed. Capering and shouting round the hut under the dim moonlight went the weird thing, enough in that desolate spot to make even a brave man shudder with the uncanny grotesqueness of it.

But presently there was a report—a cloud of smoke, and a flash out of the little window, and with a scream the thing dropped, then got up again, and ran swiftly out of sight.

‘Caught him fair smack, ye did,’ said Mandy, afterwards. ‘Them pellets o’ coarse salt touched ’im up properly. He don’t set down now without lookin’ fer pillers. Tom won’t try no more gammonin’ to be a yahoo. He’s full ’s a tick ov sich sport, he is.’

Other attempts were from time to time made to frighten Cruppy out of the district, but they were of no avail. The holidays were approaching, and he had made [69] up his mind to hold out at least until then in hopes of getting a shift from Dead Finish.

But one night, in melancholy mood, watching a piece of salt beef boil, and leaning over every now and again to take the scum off the pot, he heard the tramp of horses outside. Opening the door cautiously, he saw Mandy riding her own pony en cavalier, and leading another one ready saddled.

‘Come along,’ she said, without dismounting. ‘They’re on their tails proper now. Wanter git the corn shelled for Tuberville. No more schoolin’ fer the kids. They’re a-goin’ to put the set on ye to-night, hut an’ all. Pap, and Brombee, an’ the Simmses, an’ Pringles, an’ the whole push is out. They got four teams o’ bullocks an’ all the ropes an’ chains in the country, an’ they’re a-goin’ to hyste school an’ you over the sidin’. It’ll be just one! two! three! an’ wallop ye all goes! Roll up yer swag slippy an’ come along.’

Cruppy, seeing at once that a crisis, not altogether unexpected, had arrived, did as he was told.

‘Now,’ said Mandy, leading the way into a dense clump of peppermint suckers, ‘le’s wait an’ see the fun. They reckoned as how, sleepin’ so sound, you wouldn’t know nothin’ till you struck bottom in the crik. But they’re euchred agin.’

As the night wore on noises broke its stillness, and dark forms moved athwart the little open space, whilst from far below in the gully came the faint clank of chains and the muffled tramp of cattle.

‘Look,’ whispered Mandy admiringly, ‘ain’t they [70] cunnin’? There’s Pap, an’ ole Brombee, an’ young Tom, a-sneakin’ the big rope roun’ the hut. You’d niver ha’ woke, sleepin’ sound as ye does.’

Even as she spoke a shrill whistle was heard. Then from below came a tremendous volleying of whips, accompanied by hoarse yells of ‘Gee, Brusher! Darling up! Wah Rowdy! Spanker! Redman!’ As the noose tightened, the school first cracked, then toppled. The din below redoubled, and with a crash the building disappeared bodily over the brow of the hill.

‘That’s domino!’ remarked Mandy calmly. ‘There won’t be no more schoolin’ at Dead Finish. Come along; I’ll set ye on the track. Ye kin leave the horse an’ saddle at Duffy’s when you gits to the township. I shook ’em from ole Brombee. Won’t he bite when he finds it out. But you,’ she went on, ‘needn’t be scared. You seen him to-night doin’ his best to break your neck. Well, so long! Give us a cheeker afore ye goes; an’ don’t forget Mandy Brown o’ Dead Finish.’

[71]
‘NUMBER ONE NORTH RAINBOW.’

‘Another duffer!’

‘Rank as ever was bottomed!’

‘Seventy-five feet hard delving, and not a colour!’

The speakers were myself, the teller of this story, and my mate, Harry Treloar.

We were sitting on a heap of earth and stones representing a month’s fruitless, dreary labour. The last remark was Harry’s.

‘That makes, I think,’ continued he, ‘as nearly as I can guess, about a dozen of the same species. And people have the cheek to call this a poor man’s diggings!’

‘The prospectors are on good gold,’ I hazard.

‘So are the publicans,’ retorts he, ‘and the speculators, and the storekeepers, and, apparently, everybody but the poor men—ourselves, to wit. This place is evidently for capitalists. We’re nearly “dead-brokers,” as they say out here. Let’s harness up Eclipse and go over to old Yamnibar. We may make a rise there. It’s undignified, I allow, scratching amongst the leavings of other men and other years; dangerous, also, but that’s nothing. And many a good man has had to do the same before us.’

No life can equal that of a digger’s if he be ‘on gold,’ [72] even moderately so; if not, none so weary and heart-breaking.

It’s all very well to talk, as some street-bred novelists do, of ‘hope following every stroke of the pick, making the heaviest toil as nought,’ and all that kind of thing; but when one has been pick-stroking for months without seeing a colour; when one’s boots are sticking together by suasion of string or greenhide; when every meal is eaten on grudged credit; when one works late and early, wet and dry, and all in vain, then hope becomes of that description which maketh the heart sick, very sick, indeed. Treloar was, in general, a regular Mark Tapley and Micawber rolled into one. But for once, fate, so adverse, had proved too much for even his serenely hopeful temper.

He was an Anglo-Indian. Now he is Assistant Commissioner at Bhurtpore, also a C.S.I.; and, when he reads this, will recollect and perhaps sigh for the days when he possessed a liver and an appetite, and was penniless.

Our turnout was rather a curious one. The season was dry, and, feed being scarce, Treloar had concluded that, at such a time, a bullock would be better able to eke out a living than a horse. Therefore, a working bullock drew our tilted cart about the country.

‘You see, my boy,’ said Treloar, when deciding on the purchase, ‘an ox is a beggar that always seems to have something to chew. Turn a horse out where there’s no grass, and he’ll probably go to the deuce before morning. But your ox, now, after a good look around, seeing he’s [73] struck a barren patch, ’ll draw on his reserves, bring up something from somewhere, and start chewing away like one o’clock. That comforts his owner. I vote for the ox. He may be slow, but he generally appears to have enough in his stomach to keep his jaws going; and, in a dry time, that is a distinct advantage.’

So Eclipse was bought, I merely stipulating that Treloar should always drive.

I have an idea, that, after a while, as the old ‘worker’ sauntered along, regarding the perspiring Harry, and his exhortations and exclamations, often in Hindustani, with a mild stare of surprise, as he slowly stooped for a dry tussock, or reached aloft for an overhanging branch, the latter somewhat repented him of his experiment. But he never said so. And, to do him justice, Eclipse was not a bad ‘ox’; and, when he could get nothing better, justified Harry’s expectations by seeming able to chew stones. But his motto was decidedly festina lente.

Yamnibar, ‘Old Yamnibar,’ at last. Behind us, on the far inland river, we had left a busy scene of activity. Hurrying crowds of men, the whirr of a thousand windlasses, the swish of countless cradles, and the ceaseless pounding by night and by day of the battery stamps. And now what a contrast!

A wide, trackless valley, covered with grave-like mounds, on which grass grew rankly; with ruined buildings and rotting machinery, and, here and there, pools of stagnant water, whilst the only thing save the sweep of the wind that reached our ears was a distant rhythmical moaning, coming very sadly in that desolate place—the [74] sounding of the sea on the rock-bound coast not far away.

The only signs of life, as Eclipse, pausing now and again, and taking a ruminative survey of the valley, drew us by degrees down the sloping hills, were the buglings of a squad of native companions flying heavily towards the setting sun.

‘What a dismal hole!’ I muttered, as the ‘ox,’ spying some green rushes, bolted at top speed—about a mile an hour—towards them.

‘Let’s try and find a golden one,’ laughed my mercurial friend. ‘Here we have a whole gold-field to ourselves. Just think of it! “Lords of the fowl and the brute”—Eclipse and Kálee and the bralgas. Take the old chap out of the gharri, and we’ll pitch our camp.’

I ought to have spoken of Kálee long ago. Indeed, when one comes to think of it, I ought to have called this story after her. But man is an ungrateful animal—worse than most dogs. Not that the great deerhound with the faithful eyes, who might have stepped out of one of Landseer’s pictures, was forgotten—far from it. But for her we should possibly now, both of us, be bundles of dry bones, with all sorts of underground small deer making merry amongst them.

She ought, according to her merits, to hold pride of place here. But she was quiet and unobtrusive as she was faithful and affectionate, whereas Eclipse was nothing of the kind, only a noisy blusterer, thinking of no one but himself. Therefore, as happens so often with us, has he stolen a march on a failing memory for prior [75] recognition. But the ‘ox’ is grass, and Kálee still lives in the great Eastern Empire, and has two servants to wait upon her. O Dea certe!

‘Behold!’ said Treloar, as we lay and smoked in the moonlight, after supper, in front of our tent, which we had pitched between the door-posts of what had evidently been a building of some size, but of which they were the sole remains. ‘Behold, my friend, the end of it all! But a few years are passed, and where, now, are the busy thousands that toiled and strove and jostled each other, below there, in earth’s bowels, in the fierce race for gold? Look at it now! Think of the great waves of human hopes and disappointments and joys that have rolled to and fro across this miserable patch of earth! Think of the brave hearts that came hot with the excitement of the quest, and departed broken with the emptiness of it. Also, of those others, who never departed, but lie at rest beneath that yellow clay. Just a little while, in the new-born one, is centred alike the glow of success and the cold chill of failure; all the might of swift fierce endeavour, every passion, good and bad, that convulses our wretched souls. And then, after a brief season, its pristine form defaced and scarred, comes the rotting solitude of the tomb! Why ’tis, in some sort, the story of our corporal life and death!

[76]
Behold, my friend, the Valley of the Shadow that has passed, wherein many a bold soul has gone down to Hades, “unhouselled, disappointed, unaneled.” Do their ghosts wander yet, I ask?’

‘O, bother!’ I mutter sleepily. ‘I’m tired. Let’s turn in.’

Fortunately such outbursts were rare. But when the fit came on, I knew too well the uselessness of attempting to stop it.

Awakened towards the small hours by the roarings of Eclipse, triumphantly apprising the world at large that his belly was full, I found the lantern still burning, and could see Treloar’s eye ‘in a fine phrenzy rolling,’ as he scribbled rapidly. Years afterwards I read in the Bombay Pioneer ‘How the Night Falls on Yamnibar,’ and thought it passable.

It was anything but pleasant work, this groping about old workings. It was also very dangerous. Many were the close shaves we had of being buried, sometimes alive, at others flattened out.

The soil, for the first twenty or thirty feet, was of a loose, friable description. Thence to the bottom, averaging eighty feet, was ‘standing ground,’ i.e., needed no timbering. But, in many cases, the slabbing from the upper parts had rotted away and fallen down, followed by big masses of earth, which blocked up the entrance to the drives where our work lay.

Then after, with great trouble, clearing the bottom, generally yellow pipeclay, and exploring the dark, cramped passages for pillars, we had, before beginning [77] to displace these, to support the roof by artificial ones. Timber had at the time of the rush been plentiful; as a consequence pillars were scarce. Also, the field, having in its prime been a wonderfully rich one, it had been repeatedly fossicked over. This made them scarcer still.

Often after a heavy job of clearing out and heaving-up mullock, water, and slabs, all the time in imminent peril of a ‘fall’ from some part of the shaft, would we discover, on exploring the drives, that they were simply groves of props—not a natural support left standing.

Such a network of holes and burrows as the place was! I can compare it to nothing but a Brobdingnagian rabbit-warren.

The flat had been undermined, claim breaking into claim, until the wonder was that the whole top crust didn’t cave in. In some places this had happened, and one looked down into a dismal chaos of soil, rotten timber, and surface water.

As I have remarked, it was risky work this hunting for the few solitary grains amongst the rotten treasure-husks left by others, especially without a local knowledge of the past, which would have been so invaluable to us. But there came to be, nevertheless, a sort of dreary fascination in it.

We had heard that, on this same field, years after its total abandonment, a two hundred ounce nugget had been found by a solitary fossicker in a pillar left in an old claim.

Very often, I believe, did the picture of that big lump [78] rise before us as we crawled and twisted and wriggled about like a pair of great subterranean yellow eels, not knowing the moment a few odd tons of earth might fall and bury us.

One day an incident rather out of the common befell. Lowering Treloar cautiously down an old shaft to, as usual, make a preliminary survey, I presently heard a splash and a cry of ‘Heave-up!’ Up he came, a regular Laocoon, in the close embraces of a thumping, lively carpet snake, whose frogging ground he had intruded upon.

He had, by luck, got a firm grip of the reptile round the neck, and was not bitten. He was, however, badly scared.

Doubtfully he listened as, while releasing him from the coils, I assured him that the thing was perfectly harmless.

Was I quite certain on this point? he wished to know. Of course I was; and I quoted all the authorities I could think of.

Then, before despatching it, would I let it bite me? As an ardent ophiologist, he took the utmost interest in such a fact, and would like to become as confident as myself of it.

But I pointed out earnestly that this was simply trifling, and that we had no time to spare. Practical demonstration is a very capital thing in many cases. But ver non semper viret, and our friend of the curiously-patterned skin might not be always innocuous.

We took three ounces out of a pillar in Snake Shaft. That night, on returning to our camp, we found an old man there. He was the first person we had seen for a [79] month; and so were inclined to be cordial. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the new-comer, except that he had a habit of tightly shutting one eye as he looked at you.

I have called him old because his hair was grey; but he was still a very powerful man, and likely to prove a tough one at close quarters.

‘Come and have some supper, mate,’ said Treloar.

‘Call me Brummy, an’ keep yer dorg orf,’ replied the other, as he poured out a pannikin of tea. ‘I don’t fancy a big beast like yon a-breathin’ inter the back o’ a feller’s neck.’

And, indeed, Kálee’s attentions were marked. She sniffed around and around the new-comer, bristled all her hair up, and carried on a monologue which sounded unpleasant.

‘No,’ he resumed in answer to a question, as Treloar sent Kálee to her kennel. ‘I was never on this here field before. Down about the Lachlan’s my towri. Everybody theer knows Brummy. I’m goin’ to do a bit of fossickin’ now I got this far. Ain’t a-thinkin’ o’ interferin’ wi’ you. Surfiss is my dart—roun’ about the old tailin’s and puddlers. Down below’s too risky in a rotten shop like this. I leaves that game to the young ’uns. An’’ (with a sly grin) ‘old Brum does as well as the best on ’em in the long run.’

Soon after this he went away and pitched a ragged fly further along the flat.

Next day, as we were having a smoke and a spell after rigging two new windlass standards, he came up to us, [80] and in a furtive sort of manner, began to try and discover the position of those claims which we had already prospected. Having no motive for concealment, we told him as well as we could, also pointing out most of them from where we sat.

He appeared quite pleased as we finished, and marched off with his old tin dish banging and rattling against the pick on his shoulder.

‘That old man,’ remarked Harry presently, ‘is a dangerous old man. Moreover, he is a liar.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘The first,’ he replied, ‘I feel—as Kálee did. Now for the second count in the indictment. Did you not hear him tell us that this was his first visit to Yamnibar? Well, when he asked so carelessly if we had tried the big shaft over yonder—the one where you can see the remains of a horse-whim—and you said that we had not, a momentary gleam of satisfaction passed across his face. We’ll try that hole to-morrow morning. Luckily, our new standards are finished.’

‘Pooh!’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, your legal training has made you too suspicious. The poor old beggar may have an idea of prospecting that very shaft himself.’

‘He probably has,’ replied Treloar quietly. ‘Only don’t forget that he doesn’t like underground work.’

However, my companion had his own way, which, except in such matters as that of the snake-test, he generally did; and next morning saw us fixing our windlass at the summit of the big heap of mullock which towered above its fellows.

[81]
We seldom got anything in such claims. They had mostly been worked by rich companies, and every ounce of wash-dirt removed.

It was pretty late by the time we had removed sufficient of the débris from the bottom of the shaft—too late to do more that night.

As we walked over to our camp, we caught a glimpse of ‘Brummy’ following us.

‘He’s been watching,’ said Treloar.

‘Nonsense!’ I replied impatiently. ‘You’re becoming a monomaniac.’

That evening our neighbour came over to our fire; and in consequence Kálee, in low threatening communion with herself, had to be put upon the chain.

‘Goin’ to try the big un?’ he asked presently.

‘Yes,’ said Harry; ‘there may be something there. One can never tell.’

‘Not much danger!’ he blurted out. ‘The coves as worked Number One North Rainbow weren’t the chaps to leave much behind ’em. Leastways’—he quickly added, seeing his mistake, ‘so I’ve heerd say.’

Treloar gave me a look which meant ‘How now?’ but neither of us took further notice.

‘I’ve heard tell, too,’ he continued, ‘as that claim’s häänted.’

‘Oh!’ said Treloar airily, and as if in constant association with them, ‘we don’t mind ghosts. It’s the living, not the dead, that force us betimes to keep a sharp look-out.’

‘Well, mates,’ retorted Brummy, rather sulkily, ‘I [82] ain’t quite cunnin’ enuff yet to chew tacks, but I ain’t not altogether a born hidjiot; an’ if anybody was to offer me a thousand poun’ to go down that ’ere shaft, where you got your win’less rigged, an’ up them drives, I wouldn’t do it.’

‘I was down it to-day,’ I remarked, ‘and didn’t notice anything out of the common.’

‘Mebbe not, mebbe not—yet,’ said he. ‘But the yarns I’ve listened to—on the Lachlan, over yander—consarning that ’ere Rainbow claim ’d make your ’air stick up stiff.’

During the night, feeling restless and unable to sleep, I got up and went outside. The weather was very hot, and, for some time, I sat and listened to the faint wash of the sea, longing for a plunge in its cool depths. Suddenly, in the great expanse of gloom, my eyes caught the glimmer of a light. As nearly as I could guess, it was moving slowly towards the shaft we were to descend in the morning.

‘There goes your aged friend,’ said a voice at my shoulder, which made me start with the unexpectedness of it.

‘Too hot and close to sleep,’ explained Treloar. ‘Come out for a breath of air.’

‘Let’s shepherd the old chap, and see what his little game is. Bring the lantern. Needn’t show a light. We know the way well enough. I expect he’s after ghosts.’

As, breathless, we arrived at our windlass, Treloar gave a grunt of disappointment on seeing that [83] everything was exactly as we had left it—rope coiled neatly round the barrel, green-hide bucket hanging over the mouth.

‘It must have been a Jack-o’-lantern,’ said he; ‘or perhaps the old sinner’s gone down some other shaft. Yes, by Jingo! look there!’ he exclaimed, pointing to where, a couple of hundred of yards distant, a flash of light was visible for a moment. ‘He’s gone down the Snake Shaft! Those ladders are as rotten as pears; and he’ll break his wicked old neck if he isn’t careful. I wish him joy of all he’ll find there, even if he gets to the bottom safely. What came we out for to see? Let’s make back.’

It was my turn down next morning, and when I got to the end of the hundred and odd feet of the häänted shaft, I lit my candle, and, at random, entered one of the four roomy drives that had been put in so many long years ago.

So extensively had it been quarried, that I was only obliged to stoop slightly. Not a trace of earthen pillar here. A valuable property this, and a clean-swept one. Travelling warily along, I suddenly stumbled over a ridge of mullock, into what was evidently another drive altogether.

My course, so far, had been downwards. The new tunnel sloped slightly upwards.

Evidently both claims had been driving for a ‘gutter.’ One of them had got to the end of its tether before reaching it. The surface limits of ‘golden holes’ are pretty strictly defined; but roguery, as well as miscalculation, [84] has been known to produce curious effects in adjoining claims. Not that, just then, I bothered myself with any such speculations. I was on the look-out for a lump of that rich water-worn conglomerate which had made Yamnibar, in the days of its youth, the talk of the world. Sitting down to rest a minute, the candlelight fell brightly on the shining steel of a pick.

I had noticed how freshly the earth smelled, and wondered thereat. The pick was fresh too. One could swear that it had not left its owner’s grip five minutes. Without a doubt it had been used to remove the thin curtain of earth between the rival drives.

Looking more closely, fresh knee and footprints were plentiful.

What the deuce did it mean?

Crawling along the new drive, which was much smaller than the Rainbow’s, I at length emerged into a shaft that struck me as familiar.

The ‘Snake,’ or I was a Dutchman!

I knew it by the ladders, for one thing; for another, by a piece of timber at the entrance to the opposite drive—the one in which we had made our three-ounce rise.

I tried the rungs of the rude ladders. Not half so rotten as we had taken them to be. Also covered with fresh earth left by recent boots.

Only fifty feet to the top, and up I went safely enough. Treloar was sitting smoking, with his back towards me as I approached.

I startled him finely when I spoke.

[85]
‘This is the hole the old man wants,’ he remarked, after hearing my story. ‘He knew he couldn’t very well get down our rope and climb up it again. But he knew that one of the ‘Snake’ drives ran nearly into one of these. I suspect he must once have been employed in one or other of the claims. Either that, or he’s been fossicking here before. You know we’ve come across plenty of traces of such. Cunning old dodger! But what can he be after? I tell you what. We’ll both go down and try another of the drives. We’ll leave Kálee on top to watch. I’ll bet you she’ll sing out pretty soon.’

I said nothing, for I was beginning to have doubts respecting ‘Brummy’s’ veracity.

This time I lowered Treloar first. Then, whilst he held the rope taut, I slipped comfortably down.

We chose the opposite drive to the one I had explored, and moved in, Treloar leading.

‘Hello!’ said he presently, ‘someone’s been here before us. See, there’s been a good-sized pillar taken out. Why, here’s some of the dirt left yet! And—good God!’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘what’s this?’

Pushing up alongside him, and holding my candle forward, I saw, lying at full length, a human skeleton. And yet it was not a complete skeleton. Here and there, rags and tatters of flesh, dry and hard as leather, stuck to the frame. A pair of heavy boots, with the ankle bones protruding, lay detached, and remnants of clothing were still visible. But the head was what fixed our gaze, the first horror of the thing over. The fore part [86] of the skull had been smashed completely in. Near by lay a small driving-pick, thickly encrusted as with rust.

‘Neither rats, nor mice, nor snakes did that,’ whispered Treloar, pointing to the awful fracture.

‘Surely,’ I replied, with a shiver, ‘this can’t be the thing old Brummy’s searching for. No wonder he insisted on the place being haunted.’

‘Not that poor valueless shell,’ answered my friend, who was now kneeling, ‘but this! and this! and this!’ holding up, as he spoke, three fine nuggets, whose dull gleam had caught his eye in the heap of loose drift on which the skeleton partially lay.

‘Never!’ I exclaimed. ‘He never would have had the pluck to face back again if that is some of his work.’

‘If it is,’ said Treloar, quickly springing to his feet, thereby bumping the roof with his head, ‘we shall soon hear of it. Back, man! Back for your life! Hark! By G—d! there’s Kálee now. Good dog, hold him!’ as if it were possible for her to hear at that depth.

Pushing and scrambling along, we got to the entrance of the drive, where the muffled sounds resolved themselves in a furious hullaballoo of barks and curses. Then, as we paused for a moment, swish, swish, down came the windlass rope, falling all of a heap. Just as we were on the point of pushing out, what feeble light there was at the bottom changed into total darkness, and, with a terrific smash, a heavy mass fell at our feet. [87] Then silence, broken only by low groans and hoarse fierce growls.

With trembling hands we relit our candles, and saw more distinctly.

Upon the rope coils lay ‘Brummy,’ quite still. Squatted on his breast, the great hound watched him narrowly—so narrowly that her lolling red tongue nearly touched the face of the prostrate man. Blood oozed slowly from his mouth and ears.

With reluctance the dog obeyed her master’s call, and, apparently uninjured, crouched in a corner, panting loudly, while we examined Brummy.

‘Habet!’ said Treloar, as we turned him over. ‘Back’s broken! See here’ (producing a loaded revolver from a hip-pocket), ‘the old man meant business. It’s only guessing, mind. But he probably thought we should attempt to escape up the Snake Shaft, and would have shot us off the ladders like magpies. Well done, Goddess Kálee. You’ve proved yourself worthy of your name for once, anyhow.’

With a good deal of trouble we got the rope through the drive into the Snake Shaft and on to our windlass again. It had been cut clean off with a tomahawk. We hove the man and the dog up. We let the other thing alone for a while. But the one we had thought dead was still alive, with a little life. As the cool air blew on his face he opened his eyes. It was all he could do. Black, beady eyes, once sharp and piercing, now fast dulling with the death-film. And he lay there and watched me, staring fixedly. It was a bright [88] sunshiny day, the birds were singing cheerily about us, and the wash of the sea was very faint. From the expression on his face I thought he was listening to it. Presently Treloar returned from the camp with some brandy, and poured a spoonful between the clenched teeth.

The spirit revived him a little, and he spoke. He said,—

‘Curse you!’

More brandy, and he spoke again.

‘Is he there yet?’

‘He’s there yet,’ answered Treloar. ‘How long ago was it?’

‘Ten year.’

‘What did you kill him for?’

More brandy; and then, as his eyes brightened, he laughed, actually laughed up at us, saying, in a strong voice,—

‘Why, you fool, for the big lump, o’ coorse! A ’underd an’ eighty ounces! Too big to share, I reckon. I’d a-smashed a dozen men for it in them days, let alone a poor softy like Jim.’

‘There must be thirty or forty ounces down there,’ I remarked. ‘Why didn’t you take that too?’

‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘I come back for it now. And if it hadn’t been for that theer infernal dorg I’d ha’ had it.’

‘And how about us?’ asked Treloar, as, obeying the look in his eyes, he gave him another drink.

The dying man smiled significantly, but said nothing. There was a long pause, during which Brummy shut his [89] eyes, and breathed stertorously, whilst Kálee, drawing herself noiselessly along on her belly, came closer, and looked into his face, but with no anger in her gaze now.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Treloar, in a low voice, ‘and that is how he contrived to get up this shaft again with the gold.’

Quietly as he spoke, Brummy heard him, and muttered—

‘Would ye like to know?’

‘No, no!’ exclaimed Treloar earnestly. ‘We have wasted far too much precious time already in vain talk. Can we do anything to make your mind easier? You know you can’t last much longer. In God’s name try and prepare yourself to meet Him.’

Very slowly came the reply, in short gasps,—

‘I’m easy enough. If I could choke the pair o’ ye by winkin’ I’d do it. I’m gittin’ cold a’ready. But I’m cursin’ ye to mysen all the time. If I kin git back I’ll häänt ye.’

Another long silence, and then he murmured,—

‘Take that dorg away, Jim, or I’ll put the pick into yer! There, you got it now, ole man! Ah, would yer?’

Then the flickering light in the eyes failed altogether, and, I take it, a very defiant, murderous old soul went forth to meet its Maker.

Kálee, smelling at the body, sat upon her haunches and wailed loudly and dismally after the manner of her kind, answered from the flat by Eclipse, marvelling at the disturbance of his friend, with sonorous bellowings.

[90]
This was the requiem of him as he passed to join the other shades of Yamnibar. Slain by a dog and the cunning of his own hand.

As for the gold that ‘Jim’ had lain by so quietly, and watched so patiently through the years, we never got any of it.

The three nuggets figured in the police-court inquiry, with other things, under the title of ‘Exhibit A.’

That was the last glimpse we had of them.

Departmental red tape enwrapped them so closely that no amount of solicitation could render them visible again—to us.

Easier would it be to draw leviathan from the waters with a bit of twine and a crooked pin than to draw ‘treasure trove’ from the coffers of a treasury—colonial or otherwise.

To this day they are possibly accumulating dust, pigeon-holed with the depositions in the case. But I doubt it, I doubt it.