STARTING FOR THE MINES
Harry may be considered rash in his immediate acceptance of his Yankee
acquaintance as a member of their party, but there are some men who
need no letters of recommendation. Obed Stackpole certainly was not
a handsome man. He was tall, lean, gaunt in figure, with a shambling
walk, and his skin was tough and leathery; but in spite of all there
was an honest, manly expression which instantly inspired confidence.
Both Harry and Jack liked him, but Dick Fletcher seemed to regard him
with instinctive dislike.
“What made you accept that scarecrow into our company?” he asked, when
Stackpole had left them to make his own arrangements for leaving the
city.
Harry smiled.
“He isn’t a handsome man,” he replied, “but I think he will prove a
valuable companion.”
“You took no notice of my objection to him,” said Fletcher, frowning.
“Our company was too small,” returned Harry. “From inquiry I find that
parties seldom consist of less than half-a-dozen.”
“I know all about that,” said Fletcher impatiently. “You might have
been guided by me.”
“I shall be to some extent,” answered Harry, “but not implicitly.”
“I am going to have trouble with that boy,” thought Fletcher. “Wait
till we get on the road.” Aloud he said: “If you had mentioned the
matter to me I would have found some one to go with us. You had better
tell this Yankee that we haven’t room for him, and I will do it now.”
Fletcher’s persistence only aroused vague suspicions in Harry’s breast.
He felt glad that Stackpole was neither a friend nor likely to prove a
confederate of Dick Fletcher, and was resolved to hold on to him.
“I have invited him, and I won’t take back the invitation,” he said.
“How old are you?” asked Fletcher abruptly.
“Sixteen.”
“I should think you were sixty by the tone you assume,” said Fletcher
with a sneer.
“Do I understand, Mr. Fletcher,” asked Harry steadily, “that you claim
to control our party?”
“Seeing that I am more than twice as old as you are, I am the natural
head of the expedition.”
“I cannot admit any such claim. If you are not satisfied to be simply
a member of the party, like the rest of us, I shall not be offended if
you back out even now.”
This, however, did not suit Fletcher, and with a forced laugh he
answered, “You are a strange boy, Vane. I don’t want to back out, as
you term it. I fancy we shall get along together.”
“I wish he had decided to leave us,” said Harry, when the two boys were
alone. “Somehow I distrust him.”
“I don’t like him myself,” said Jack, “but I don’t see what harm he can
do us.”
“Nor I, but I feel safer with this Yankee addition to our party.”
About ten o’clock the next morning the little party got off. It is
needless to say that Obed Stackpole contributed his full share of
expense, and more too, for he furnished the yoke of oxen that were to
draw the cart which conveyed their provisions and other outfit.
“I don’t want to push in where I ain’t wanted,” he said, “but I’m used
to oxen, and if you want me to, I’ll drive these critters, and you
three can foller along as you please.”
“That’ll suit me,” said Fletcher, with unusual graciousness. “I’ve no
doubt you understand the business better than I do.”
“I ought to understand it,” said Stackpole. “I was raised on a farm in
New Hampshire, and used to drive oxen when I wasn’t tall enough to see
over their backs. I never thought then that I’d be drivin’ a team in
Australy.”
“What led you to come out here, Mr. Stackpole?” asked Harry.
“Well, a kinder rovin’ disposition, I guess. A year ago I was in
Californy, but things didn’t pan out very well, so when I read accounts
of the goldfields out here, I jist dropped my pick and started, and
here I am.”
“Didn’t you find any gold-dust in California?” asked Fletcher, with
sudden interest.
“Well, I found _some_,” answered the Yankee, with drawling
deliberation, “but not enough to satisfy me. You see,” he added, “I’ve
got two to make money for.”
“And who are those two?” inquired Fletcher.
“The first is my old dad--he’s gettin’ kinder broken down, and
can’t work as well as he could when he was a young man. He’s got a
thousand-dollar mortgage on his farm, and I want to pay that off. It’ll
kinder ease the old man’s mind.”
“That’s a very excellent object, Mr. Stackpole,” said Harry, who felt
still more drawn to his plain, ungainly, but evidently good-hearted
companion.
“I think so myself,” said Obed simply.
“The other person is your wife, I fancy,” said Fletcher.
“I expect she will be my wife when I get forehanded enough,” replied
Obed. “It’s Suke Stanwood, one of Farmer Stanwood’s gals. We was raised
together, and we’ve been engaged for nigh on to five years.”
“Very romantic!” said Fletcher, but there was a veiled sneer in his
tone, as he scanned with contemptuous amusement the ungainly figure of
his Yankee companion.
“I don’t know much about such things,” said Obed, “but I guess Suke and
I will pull together well.”
“You are not exactly a young man,” said Fletcher. “You’ve waited some
time.”
“I’m thirty-nine last birthday,” said Obed. “I was engaged ten years
ago, but the girl didn’t know her own mind, and she ran off with a man
that came along with a photograph saloon. I guess it’s just as well,
for she was always rather flighty.”
“It is very strange she should have deserted a man of your
attractions,” said Fletcher, with a smile.
Harry was indignant at this open ridicule of so honest and worthy a
fellow as Stackpole, and he wondered whether the Yankee would be
obtuse enough not to see it. His doubt was soon solved.
“It looks to me as if you was pokin’ fun at me, Fletcher,” said Obed,
with a quiet, steady look at the other. “I’m a good-natured fellow
in the main, but I don’t stand any nonsense. I know very well I’m
a rough-looking chap, and I don’t mind your sayin’ so, but I ain’t
willin’ to be laughed at.”
“My dear fellow,” said Fletcher smoothly, “you quite mistake my
meaning, I assure you. I am the last person to laugh at you. I think
you are too modest, though. You are what may be called a ‘rough
diamond.’”
“I accept your apology, Fletcher,” said Obed. “If no offence was meant,
none is taken. I don’t know much about diamonds, rough or smooth, but
at any rate I ain’t a paste one.”
“A good hit! Bravo!” laughed Fletcher. “You are a man of great
penetration, Stackpole, and a decided acquisition to our party.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Obed dryly. “If I remember right, you
didn’t want me to join you.”
“At first I did not, but I have changed my mind. I didn’t know you
then.”
“And I don’t know you _now_,” said Obed bluntly. “If you don’t mind,
s’pose you tell us what brought you out here.”
Fletcher frowned, and regarded the Yankee suspiciously, as if seeking
his motive in asking this question, but his suspicions were dissipated
by a glance at that honest face, and he answered lightly, “Really,
there isn’t much to tell. My father was a merchant of Manchester, and
tried to make me follow in his steps, but I was inclined to be wild,
incurred some debts, and finally threw up business and came out here.”
“Have you prospered as far as you’ve gone?”
“Yes and no. I’ve made money and I’ve spent it, and the accounts are
about even.”
“That means you haven’t much left.”
“Right you are, my friend, but in your steady company I mean to turn
over a new leaf, and go in for money and respectability. Now I’ve made
a clean breast of it, and you know all about me.”
In spite of this statement there was not one of his three companions
who did not feel sure that there was much in Fletcher’s history which
he had kept concealed, and possibly for very good reasons.
The path of a gold-seeker in Australia was beset with difficulties.
The country about Melbourne, and far inland, was boggy, the soil
being volcanic, and abounding in mud which appears to have no bottom.
The road to the mines was all the worse for having been ploughed
up by bullock teams, and worked into a slough which proved the
discouragement of mining parties. Some were even months in traversing
the comparatively small distance across the country to the goal they
sought. But the attraction of money, which is said to make the mare go,
enabled them to triumph at last over the obstacles that intervened. It
was not long before our party began to understand the nature of the
task they had undertaken. The cart sank up to the hubs in a bog, and
the oxen stood still in patient despair.
“Well, if this don’t beat all creation!” ejaculated Obed. “I’ve been
in the Western States, and I thought I knew something about mud, but
Australy’s ahead. I say, Fletcher, is there much of this that we’ve
got to go through?”
“Mud’s the rule, and dry land the exception,” answered Fletcher coolly.
“Well, that’s comfortin’!” remarked Stackpole, drawing a deep breath.
“I s’pose people do get through after a while.”
“Yes, generally. I was six weeks getting to the Ovens once.”
“I wish we had some ovens to bake this mud,” said Obed, with a grim
smile at his joke. “It would take a powerful large one.”
There was nothing for it but dogged perseverance. It took an hour to
get the oxen and cart through a bog a hundred feet across, and the
appearance of the party, when they finally reached the other side, was
more picturesque than attractive.
Arrived on the other side of the bog, they were obliged to give the
tired cattle a rest. Indeed, they needed rest themselves.
At the end of the day they made an encampment. As well as they could
judge, they were about eight miles from Melbourne.
“Eight miles; and how far is the whole distance?” asked Harry.
“About a hundred miles,” answered Fletcher.
“At this rate we can go through in twelve or thirteen days, then.”
“You mustn’t expect this rate of speed,” said Fletcher. “We shan’t
average over five miles.”
“Well, I hope we’ll get paid for it,” said Obed. “If we don’t I’d
better have stayed in Californy. We haven’t any such mines as this in
that country.”
“You’d better have stayed there,” said Fletcher dryly, and he evidently
wished that his companion had done so.
The travellers encamped for the night in a dry spot among a group of
gum trees, and it may readily be believed that all slept well. The boys
felt dead tired, and it was with difficulty they were awakened in the
morning.
About five o’clock Fletcher opened his eyes. He was one who slept fast,
so to speak, and obtained as much refreshment from an hour’s sleep as
most people do from a period twice as long. He had been lying on the
ground wrapped in a blanket, as was the case with the other members of
the party.
Raising himself, and leaning on his elbow, he saw that they were all
fast asleep. He nodded with satisfaction, and getting on his feet
he approached Obed Stackpole with noiseless tread. The Yankee was
sleeping with his mouth wide open, occasionally emitting a sonorous
snore through his aquiline nose. He was not beautiful to look upon, as
Fletcher evidently thought.
“Ill-favoured brute!” he ejaculated. “I’d like to choke him!”
If any special advantage had been likely to accrue to him, Fletcher’s
conscience would not have been likely to stand in the way of violence;
but his purpose now was different.
“The fellow must have gold about him,” muttered Fletcher. “I wonder
whether I can get at it without waking him up.”
Obed seemed to be in a profound slumber, but it was a peculiarity of
our Yankee friend to wake at the least touch. This, of course, was not
known to Dick Fletcher, who felt that there would be no risk in a
careful exploration of Obed’s pockets.
He thrust his hand into one of the Yankee’s pockets with the practised
skill of a pickpocket, when an entirely unexpected result followed.
“Why, you skunk, what in creation are you about?” exclaimed Obed,
suddenly seizing Fletcher by the throat.
“Let me go!” said Fletcher, struggling violently, but ineffectually, to
free himself.
“Not till you’ve told me what you are after.”
“Let go, and I’ll tell you.”
Obed loosened his grip, saying sternly, “Are you a pickpocket, my
enterprising friend, or what is the meaning of all this business?”
“You had better not insult me!” said Fletcher angrily. “I’m no more a
pickpocket than you are.”
“Then what is the meaning of your little game? Maybe you got up in your
sleep.”
“No, I didn’t. I just waked up, and thought I’d like to have a smoke,
but had no matches. I thought you might have some in your pocket.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up and ask me?”
“You looked so comfortable, and I thought you needed rest after a hard
day’s work, so I decided to help myself.”
“It looks like it,” responded Obed dryly. “So that’s all you were
after, was it?”
“Of course,” said Fletcher, regaining confidence. “What else could it
be?”
“Well, it strikes me it’s rather takin’ a liberty with a gentleman
to search his pockets while he’s asleep, that’s all! In Californy,
Fletcher, if you had been caught doin’ it, ten chances to one you’d
have been lynched, and lynchin’ isn’t usually regarded as comfortable
or desirable. Where’s your cigar?”
“I haven’t any, but I’ve got a pipe.”
“Well, I do happen to have a few matches in my other pocket, but I’d
rather you’d ask for ’em next time.”
“I will. The fact is, I ought to have brought some with me. It’s very
strange, old traveller as I am.”
“It would have been a little better than borrowin’ them of a sleepin’
man without leave. Don’t do it again, Fletcher.”