PART II

UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS

THE FIVE-MILE RUSH

It was a very hot day in September when we arrived at Perth, Western

Australia, and hastened to put up at the nearest hotel to the station,

which happened to bear the common enough title of the "Royal."

We had come up with the mail train from Albany, where the P. & O.

steamers then called, and even Westralia's most ardent admirers would

hesitate to claim comfort as one of the features of the Colony's railway

system. So we arrived, after a long night's misery, dusty and

travel-stained. No one attempts to keep clean in the land of "Sand, sin,

and sorrow," for the simple reason that, according to the nature of

things there, such a luxurious state of æsthetic comfort can never be

attained. The streets were sandy, and as a natural sequence the

atmosphere was not of ethereal quality. The people were sandy and

parched-looking, and we found the interior of the hotel little better

than the outside, so far as the presence of the powdery yellow grains

was concerned.

In the darkened bedrooms the hum of the festive mosquito was heard, and

my companions chuckled at the sound.

"It's a lang time since I heard they deevils," said Mac; then he

proceeded, "Noo, oot on the Pampas----"

"D--n the Pampas!" roared Stewart, as he clutched wildly at one of the

pests that had been quietly resting on his cheek for full half a

minute.

"Ye've pushioned that onfort'nate beast," Mac retorted, with unruffled

serenity; "noo, can ye no let the puir thing dee in peace?"

We remained but a short time in Perth; it is a neatly-laid-out little

city with streets running off at right angles to each other, and

containing a fair sprinkling of fine buildings, among which may be

mentioned the General Post Office and Lands Offices, and they are

palatial edifices indeed. The Botanical Gardens are small, yet very

pretty; and here, instead of the usual garden loafer, may be found many

weary-eyed and parchment-skinned gold-diggers from the "fields," whose

one idea of a holiday lies in a visit to Perth or Fremantle, where they

stroll about or recline on the artificially-forced grass plots of these

towns, and wile the weary hours away.

The Swan River at Perth forms an exquisite piece of scenery, which

redeems the environs of the sandy city from utter ugliness. Innumerable

black swans swim hither and thither on its placid waters, and by the

sloping banks, well fringed with rushes, many notable yachting clubs

have their pavilions. There is nothing in this Capital of the Western

Colony to attract. Even to the casual observer it is plain that the

bustling, Oriental-looking town is essentially a gateway to the

goldfields, and little more. Fremantle, on the other hand, is the Port,

and chief engineering and commercial centre.

At this period I was, like most erratic travellers, without a definite

object in view. In a certain hazy way I thought that we should visit the

mining districts at once, as we had done in other and more impracticable

countries; yet I was aware that the known Westralian goldfields were by

no means so new as the "finds" in North-West Canada, and in consequence

the ground might be over-pegged or long since rushed.

"The countrie is big enuff," said Mac when I mentioned my doubts, "an'

we'll mebbe find anither Gold Bottom Creek faurer oot than onybody has

gaed."

"We're better diggin' holes, even if they are duffers," spoke Stewart,

"than makin' oorsel's meeserable at hame." Which argument in a sense

settled the matter, and I forthwith purchased tickets for Kalgoorlie,

with the intention of penetrating thence towards the far interior.

It is a weary journey eastward from Perth, and one that cannot be too

quickly passed over. The single narrow-gauge line has been laid without

any attempt at previous levelling, and the snorting little engine puffs

over switchback undulations ceaselessly, at a speed that averages nearly

sixteen miles an hour. It is a fortunate circumstance for the fresh

enthusiast from "home" that the "Kalgoorlie Mail" leaves Perth in the

evening. The discomfort experienced in the midnight ride is bad enough,

but he is mercifully spared from viewing the "scenery" along the route,

which would assuredly have a most demoralising effect: Western Australia

must be taken gradually.

The Coolgardie "rush" may be fresh in the minds of most people. The

township now stands almost deserted, bearing little trace of former

glory; and yet it is but a few years since the railway was pushed out to

this remote settlement. Southern Cross, two hundred miles nearer the

coast, was formerly the terminus of all traffic, and the hardy pioneers

of Coolgardie daringly ventured on foot from this point, as did also the

vast numbers who "followed the finds."

Very insidiously Kalgoorlie has risen to high eminence as a mining

centre; it accomplished the eclipse of its sister camp some time ago,

and by reason of its deep lodes it is likely to retain its supremacy

indefinitely. To the individual miners a new strike or location is

considered to be "played out" when limited liability companies begin to

appear in their midst, as only in rare cases can fossickers succeed in

competition with machinery. However, the flat sand formations around

Kalgoorlie have proved one of the exceptions to this rule, and the

alluvial digger may still sink his shallow shaft here with every hope of

success, and even in the proved "deep" country surface indications are

abundant.

When my little party stepped from the train at Kalgoorlie, we saw before

us a scattered array of wooden and galvanised-iron houses,

white-painted, and glistening dully in the sunlight through an extremely

murky atmosphere. On closer acquaintance the heterogeneous erections

resolved themselves into a wide principal thoroughfare, aptly named

Hannan's Street, after the honoured prospector of the Camp's main reef,

and a number of side paths that bore titles so imposing that my memory

at once reverted to the fanciful names distinguishing the crude log

shanties of Dawson, where there were: Yukon Avenue, Arctic Mansions,

Arcadian Drive, and Eldorado Terrace. Here, in keeping with the latitude

of the city, more salubrious, if equally fantastic, were the various

designations of the alleys and byways.

In the near distance we could see the towering tappet heads of the

widely-known Great Boulder mine, and the din created by the revolving

hammers of the ever-active stamping machinery assailed our ears as an

indescribable uproar. But beyond the dust and smoke of these

Nature-combating engines of civilisation, the open desert, dotted with

its stunted mulga and mallee growths, shimmered back into the horizon.

Here and there a dump or mullock heap showed where the alluvial miner

had staked his claim, but for the most part the landscape was unbroken

by any sign of habitation.

"There's a lot of room in this country, boys," I said, as we stood

unobserved in the middle of the street and took in the scene.

"It's a deevil o' a funny place," Mac ventured doubtfully.

"It's a rale bonnie place," reproved Stewart, whom the inexpressible

gloom peculiar to the interior country had not yet affected. "I'm

thinkin'," he continued, with asperity, "that ane or twa men o' pairts

like oorsel's were jist needed at this corner o' the warld."

"In ony case," Mac now agreed, "it's better than being meeserable at

hame."

Instead of seeking the hospitality of one of the numerous hotels close

by, we decided to begin our campaign in earnest right away, and get

under canvas as a proper commencement. So we prospected around for a

good camping site, and that same night we slept in our tent, erected

about a mile distant from the township.

There was no water in our vicinity, and next morning Stewart set out

with two newly-purchased water-bags to obtain three gallons of the very

precious fluid at a condensing establishment we had noticed on the

previous night, where, at sixpence a gallon, a tepid brackish liquid was

sparingly dispensed. It should be understood that water, in most parts

of Western Australia, is more difficult to locate than gold, and when

obtained it is usually as a dense solution, salt as the sea, and

impregnated with multitudinous foreign elements extremely difficult to

precipitate.

"There's aye something tae contend wi' in furrin countries," Mac

philosophised, as he leisurely proceeded to build a fire for cooking

operations. "In Alaska there wis snaw, an' Chilkoots, an' mony ither

trifles; bit here there's naething much objeckshunable let alane the

sand an' want o' watter."

I agreed with him if only for the sake of avoiding an argument. "There

may be a few--insects along with the sand, Mac," I hazarded cheerfully,

and then I went into the tent to arrange the breakfast utensils.

"Insecks!" cried he derisively after me. "Wha cares fur insecks, I shid

like tae ken? What herm is there in a wheen innocent muskitties, fur

instance? Insecks! Humph!"

The absurdity of my remark seemed to tickle him vastly, and as he broke

the eucalyptus twigs preparatory to setting a match to the pile he had

collected, he continued to chuckle audibly. Then suddenly there was

silence, a silence so strange that I felt impelled to look out of the

tent and see what had happened; but before I had time to set down the

tinware cups I held in my hands, his voice broke out afresh. "Insecks!"

I heard him mutter. "Noo A wunner----; bit no, that canna be, fur snakes

hiv'na got feet, an' this deevil's weel supplied i' that direction. It's

a bonnie beast, too. I wunner if it bites?" I gathered from these

remarks that the valiant Mac had made the acquaintance of some unknown

species of "insect" with which he was unduly interested. "If it's an

inseck," came the voice again, "this countrie maun be an

ex-tra-ord'nar'----Haud aff! ye deevil. Haud off! I tell ye." I

hastened outside just in time to see my companion ruthlessly slaughter a

large-sized centipede, which had evidently refused to be propitiated by

his advances.

"It's a vera re-markable thing," said he, looking up with a perfectly

grave countenance, "hoo they--insecks--persist in bringin' destruckshun

on themsel's. I wis just pokin' this onfort'nate beast wi' a stick--in a

freen'ly wey, ye ken--an' the deevil made a rin at me, wi' malishus

intent, I'm thinkin', an' noo he's peyed the penalty o' his misguided

ackshun."

[Illustration: STEWART PREPARING OUR FIRST MEAL.]

"In future, Mac," I warned, "you'd better not attempt to get on friendly

terms with these--insects; a bite from a centipede might kill you."

"I'll gie ye best about the insecks," he returned thoughtfully, applying

a match to the pile, "bit ye'll admit," he added, after some moments'

pause, "that it's maist ex-tra-ord'nar' tae see insecks o' sich

onnaitural descripshun rinnin' aboot on the face o' the earth."

I fully concurred, much to his satisfaction, and just then Stewart

arrived, perspiring under his watery load.

"Dae ye mean tae tell me," howled the new-comer, addressing no one in

particular, "that ye hiv'na got the fire ken'l'd yet?"

"Ca' canny, Stewart, ca' canny," sternly admonished the guilty one.

"There's been a narrow escape here, ma man, a verra narrow escape."

Stewart's ruddy face blanched slightly, then slowly regained its colour

when the slain centipede was pointed out. "Ye've raelly had a

providenshul escape, Mac," said he. "Noo, staun aside an' let me get on

wi' the cookin'."

Our first breakfast in camp was an unqualified success; it was not a

very elegant repast, certainly, but the traveller must learn to forego

all luxuries and enjoy rough fare, and we had already served our

apprenticeship in that direction. Stewart, however, had lost none of his

art in matters culinary, and, as he himself averred, could cook

"onything frae a muskittie tae an Injun," so we had every reason to be

contented.

"If we wur only camped aside a second Gold Bottom!" sighed Mac, getting

his pipe into working order.

"It's a bonnie countrie," mused his companion, "wi' a bonnie blue sky

abune, an' what mair could a man want?"

"I think we have had no cause to complain, so far, boys," was my

addition to the conversation, "and I'll go into the township in an hour

or so and make investigations as to the latest strikes. To-morrow we may

make a definite camp."

And so the early day passed while we rested and smoked, and recalled our

grim experiences in the land of snows.

"It's mebbe wrang tae mak' compairisons," grunted Mac, "bit gie me the

sunshine an' the floo'ers----"

"An' the centipedes!" Stewart slyly interpolated.

"D--n centipedes!" roared Mac; then he recovered himself. "Mak' nae mair

allushuns, ma man," said he with dignity. "An' hoo daur ye spile ma

poetic inspirashun?"

The sun was now well overhead and shooting down intense burning rays;

the sky was cloudless, and not a breath stirred the branches of the

dwarfed eucalyptii on the plains.

"It's a g-glorious day," murmured Stewart, mopping his perspiring

forehead.

Mac chuckled: "Wait till ye see some o' the insecks the sun'll bring

out," said he, "ye'll be fairly bamfoozled."

At this moment I was surprised to notice a man, armed with pick and

shovel, approaching rapidly in our direction. As he came near I saw that

he bore, strapped to his shoulders, a bundle of wooden pegs which had

evidently been hastily cut from the outlying timber. "Some energetic

individual thinks we have made a find at this camp," I thought; but I

was mistaken. The stranger made as if to pass a good way off our tent;

then he hesitated, looked back, apprehensively, it seemed to me, and

came quickly towards us.

"What in thunder does yer mean by campin' here, mates?" he demanded

hurriedly, grounding his shovel impatiently and letting his eyes roam in

an unseeing manner over the surrounding country.

I had barely time to explain that ours was only a temporary camp, when,

without a word, he shouldered his shovel and sped onwards into the

brush.

"Maist onmainnerly behaviour," Mac snorted wrathfully. "Noo, if I meet

that man again, I'll----" He stopped suddenly. "Ho, ho!" he chuckled,

"there's mair o' them comin'; I begin tae smell a rat." We now observed

what had caused the sudden flight of our visitor. Rushing from every

shanty near the township, and issuing from the main street in a chaotic

mass, a perfect sea of men bearing axes and picks and shovels came

surging down on us. As we looked the fleeter members of the "rush"

forged quickly ahead, so that the spectacle soon appeared as a medley

army advancing desperately at the double in Indian file.

There was no need to be in ignorance as to what it meant; we had seen

the same thing often enough in Alaska when strikes on the Upper Klondike

were frequent.

"Get the tent down, boys," I said, "and follow on when you're ready.

I'll represent this camp and see that it is not last on the programme."

Even before I had finished speaking, my companions were tugging wildly

at the guy ropes, and loosening the wall pegs of the tent.

"We'll no be faur ahint," growled Mac from beneath the canvas folds

which in his zeal he had brought down upon himself.

"Ye shid let me gang first," grumbled Stewart, "fur ye ken weel that I

can sprint wi' ony man."

I seized an axe and shovel and awaited the approach of the van-leader of

the struggling line of humanity, who was fast drawing near: not knowing

the destination of the rush, it was necessary that I should follow some

one who did. I had not long to wait. A lean, lanky true son of the bush,

with nether garments held in position by an old cartridge belt, burst

through the brushwood a few yards wide of us. His leathery face showed

not the slightest trace of emotion, and though the heat was sweltering

not a drop of perspiration beaded on his forehead. Heaven knows how

often he may have taken part in a rush and been disappointed.

"Mornin', boys," he said genially. "Fust-class exercise, this," and he

passed at a regular swinging pace, with eyes fixed straight ahead,

steering a direct course.

"He gangs like clockwork," said Mac admiringly, gazing after him; "bit

haud on. What's this comin'?"

The second runner was now coming forward at a rate that was rapidly

annihilating distance; he had passed the bulk of the others since he had

joined the race, and I had been much interested in watching his

progress.

"Guid Lor'," ejaculated Stewart, stopping in his work of rolling up the

tent, and gazing at the approaching runner in dismay. "Did ye ever see

onything like that in a' yer born days?"

There was ample excuse for his astonishment. The fleeing figure was

hatless, and otherwise ludicrously garbed--for Westralia. What Stewart

called a "lang-tailie coat" spread out behind him like streamers in a

breeze, a "biled" collar had, in the same gentleman's terse language,

"burst its moorings" and projected in two miniature wings at the back of

his ears, and a shirt that had once been white, bosomed out expansively

through an open vest. Yet, notwithstanding his cumbrous habiliments, he

had well outdistanced his nearest "hanger-on," and it was plain that the

wiry sandgroper still in front would have to screw on more speed if he

meant to keep his lead long.

With lengthy strides the strangely-garbed runner shot past; in his hand

he gripped a spade, which tended to make his appearance the more

wonderful, but that he meant business was very evident.

"Fur Heaven's sake, pit aff the coat!" howled Stewart, and Mac toned

down the impertinence of the remark by adding stentoriously--

"Ye'll rin lichter withoot it, ma man."

The individual addressed slowed up at once. "Thanks for the idea, boys,"

said he good-naturedly, and he promptly discarded the objectionable

emblem of civilised parts and threw it carelessly into a mulga bush.

Then noting that he was a good way in advance of the main army, he

mopped his streaming face and gave the information, "There's been a big

strike at the Five Mile, boys, wherever that may be. I am letting the

first man steer the way on purpose."

"Ye're a daisy tae rin," admiringly spoke Mac, seizing the tent and a

packet of miscellaneous merchandise, while Stewart feverishly gathered

up the remainder of our meagre belongings. He of the "biled shirt" now

set down to work again, making a pace which I, who had joined in the

chase, found hard indeed to emulate; and my companions, heavily laden as

they were, hung into our rear like leeches.

Far behind we could hear the sand crunch under hundreds of feet, and the

mallee shrubs crackling and breaking, but hardly a word was spoken. Mile

after mile we crashed through the endless brush and over the monotonous

iron-shot plains. Mac puffed and blowed like some huge grampus, and

Stewart's deep breathing sounded like the exhaust expirations of an

overworked steam engine.

"Keep her gaun, Mac; keep her gaun," this personage would splutter when

his more portly comrade showed signs of flagging, which well he might,

considering that he clutched in his arms a weight of nearly forty

pounds.

"Wha's stoppin'? ye inseegneeficant broken-winded donkey engine!"

retorted his aggravated compatriot, rolling along manfully.

But the race was nearly over. Half a mile further on the land dipped

ever so slightly, and in the gentle hollow formed about a dozen men

rushed madly about, pacing off prospectors' claims, and driving rude

pegs at the boundary corners.

The sight had an exhilarating effect on Mac and Stewart, and with wild

shouts they quickly drew up the little distance they had lost, and would

have passed my white-shirted pacemaker and myself were we not compelled

for very shame to keep our lead if we died for it.

"By Jove!" panted he of the strange garments, "these beggars behind can

run."

And Mac at his heels chivalrously grunted between his breaths, "I've

never had a harder tussle tae keep up ma deegnity--no never."

A few minutes more, and we reached the field of operations. The men

there were too busy marking off their properties to give us much

attention. I noticed swiftly that our first visitor of the few words had

his claim neatly pegged, and was sitting in the middle of it,

complacently smoking. He must have received special information of the

find or he could not have got away so much before the others. Our second

passing acquaintance--he of the emotionless countenance who had steered

our quartet unknowingly--had got in a hundred yards ahead of us, and he

was now coolly cutting pegs with which to mark his chosen area.

"It's a deep alluvial leader, mate," he said to me. Then he added

obligingly, "I guess I knows the lie of the kintry, an' if ye hitch on

at the end o' my boundaries, ye'll likely sink on it, plumb."

The advice of an experienced miner should always be accepted; and while

Mac and Stewart were felling several small trees for use as

marking-posts, I proceeded to line off the direction of our claim as

suggested by the angle of my adviser's corner channels. I performed this

work with much care, knowing how slim are one's chances of holding any

gold-bearing area at a rush unless the holder's title is beyond dispute

according to official regulations.

The straggling body of men was now beginning to appear on the crest of

the undulation which marked the only visible natural boundary of the

valley; in less than three minutes the madly-striving crowd would be

upon us, and we should be assuredly swamped by its numbers so that no

pegs could be driven. Then I noticed the man who had doffed his

fashionable coat to oblige Stewart, standing dejectedly near by; his

sleeves were rolled up, displaying splendidly-formed muscles, and he

held his shovel loosely in his hand as if uncertain what to do with it.

"Better get your pegs fixed quickly," I advised.

But he shook his head rather sadly. "I haven't got an axe," he said,

"and--and I'm new to this sort of thing."

Mac had by this time obtained the four blazed posts necessary to denote

our "three-men square," and Stewart promptly began to smite them into

position in their proper places.

"If ye'll alloo me," said Mac, "I'll get the bitties o' sticks fur ye;

I'd be vera sorry tae a bonnie rinner like you left in the cauld."

But there was no time now.

"Shift out our posts instead, Mac," I instructed, "we'll make a four-men

lot of it and divide afterwards."

Our white-shirted associate looked at me gratefully, and held out his

hand. "My name is Philip Morris," he said. "I am an Englishman, just out

from the old country."

A swaying mob of perspiring and fiery-eyed men of all nationalities now

flooded the valley as a tumultuous sea of humanity, and scattered in

twos and fours throughout its entire length.

"You've struck a circus for a start, Morris," I said. "I think we'll all

remember the Five-Mile Rush."

SINKING FOR GOLD

Next morning the Five-Mile Flat was the scene of extraordinary activity.

Tents sprung up like mushrooms in all directions, and the thud, thud of

picks sounded incessantly. It was almost pitiful to witness the feverish

eagerness with which most of the diggers tried to bottom on their

claims. The depth of the Lead at Discovery shaft was given out to be

only forty feet, but the strata encountered before that level was

reached had been of a flinty impervious nature, necessitating the use of

much giant powder.

At least the original prospectors, who were camped near to us, gave me

that information in a fit of generosity when they learned that I had

some little experience of geological formations. They even allowed me to

descend their shaft--most unheard-of thing--and compute the angle and

dip of the lode for the benefit of the general assembly; a privilege

which was duly appreciated, as it enabled me to calculate the proper

position in our own claim at which to sink. The lode, so called, proved

to be an auriferous wash, or alluvial gutter, the bed of an extremely

ancient watercourse, probably silted up long before the time of the

Pharaohs.

Our newly-acquired companion, who had already won the good graces of

both Mac and Stewart, astonished me greatly, while I was expounding my

theories on these matters for his special edification, by making

several courteous corrections to my statements, so that I was forced to

tread more cautiously; and when I had finished, he capped my argument

with a lucid technical discourse and much scientific addenda.

"You certainly know a fair-sized amount for an inexperienced man," I

said, with some irritation; but he hastened to explain.

"My knowledge is purely theoretical," he replied. "Perhaps I should not

have spoken."

His admirable good sense appealed to Mac's idea of fairness. "I'm

thinkin'," began that gentleman, gazing at me reproachfully, "I'm

thinkin' that oor freen Phil-ip is a vera modest man, a vera modest man

indeed."

"I'm o' the opeenion," cried Stewart, from the interior of the tent,

"that if he keeps awa' frae tailie coats, and dresses rashunal, he'll be

a rale orniment tae ony camp."

The young man was much moved by these expressions of good-will; but when

I asked him to mark off his allotment on our too large mining territory,

he stubbornly refused. "If it had not been for your kindness I should

have no claim to any corner of the ground," he said.

I explained, however, that Mac, Stewart, and myself would not be allowed

by law to possess a four-men holding, and therefore there was no

kindness on my part in giving him back his own. Yet still he hesitated.

"I am all alone, boys," he said at last, "and I don't think I could do

much damage to the ground by myself. Might I come in with you?"

This was a _dénoûement_ I had not anticipated, though in some

unaccountable manner I felt drawn to the stranger; still, the vision of

his coat-tails fluttering in the wind could not be dispelled.

"What do you say, Mac?" I asked, expecting a gruff rejoinder in the

negative; but the answer agreeably surprised me.

[Illustration: "DISCOVERY" SHAFT--ON GOLD.]

"He's a man o' pairts like oorsel's, a modest man, an' a golologist

forbye," replied Mac, grandiloquently; "it wud be sinfu' tae refuse him

oor guid company."

Then Stewart, who had been paying great attention, rushed from the tent

and added his testimony. "Tailie coat or no tailie coat," he shouted,

"he's a guid man, as I kin testeefy, an' me an' Mac'll be prood tae hae

him wi' us. Forbye," he continued, "he's a Breetisher, an' tho' he isna

Scotch, me an' Mac'll look ower that fau't wi' muckle tolerashun."

"I wis aboot tae re-mark----" began Mac, but Stewart had not completed

his peroration.

"Haud yer tongue, Mac," said he sternly; "ye ken weel yer nae speaker

like me." Then he resumed the flow of his eloquence: "An' noo," he said,

"on behauf o' Mac--wha is a man o' disteenction tho' he disna look

it--an' in conformeety wi' ma ain incleenations, I hae pleesure in

signifyin' oor muckle approval o' yer qualities."

The candidate for admission to our illustrious company looked gratified,

as well he might, and straightening his tall form he endeavoured to make

suitable reply to the expectant couple.

"Gentlemen!" said he, and at the word Mac hitched up his nether garments

and looked solemn, while Stewart coughed discreetly. "Gentlemen,"

repeated "tailie coat" in a voice that seemed to issue from his boots,

"it is with considerable feeling of elation that I have heard your

extemporaneous----"

"Haud on!" howled Mac in horror; "ye'll dae, ma man, ye'll dae. Come on,

Stewart." And as they walked sorrowfully apart Stewart's voice floated

back plaintively,

"Noo, Mac, hoo am I gaun tae keep up oor digneety efter

that--ex-tem-por-anee----! He's deceived us, Mac; he's a lamb in sheep's

ooter gairments, he is."

"Well, Phil," I said, when they had disappeared within the tent, "I

think we'll get along all right."

"I feel at home already," he replied, looking towards the tent in grim

amusement, "and enthusiastic enough to swing a pick with either Mac or

Stewart, and that means much, I think."

"It does," I agreed with significance, and we went off to mark the site

of our prospective shaft.

It was nearly midday before we commenced to excavate the ground, and by

that time most of the miners around had penetrated several feet of the

top sandy formation in their various claims. But haste is not always

advisable under such circumstances, and I preferred to make as sure as

possible of the lode's position within our pegs before sinking, and so

obviate any necessity for laborious "driving" when bedrock was reached.

We were fortunately in the "shallowest" ground, being within a hundred

yards of the forty-feet level strike, which meant, judging by the dip or

inclination of the auriferous wash, that we should probably find bottom

about fifty feet down. As for the numbers below us, they might have to

sink over a hundred feet, and even then miss the golden leader, so

elusive are these subterranean channels.

The usual size of prospectors' shafts on any goldfield is five feet six

inches long, by two feet six inches wide, and this just permits of

sufficient room for one man to wield a pick. The aim of every miner on

an unproved field is to get down to bedrock with the least possible

labour, which is also the speediest method. A shaft can be widened

afterwards when it has been found worth while, but it is always well to

refrain from shovelling out two or three tons of granite-like substance,

as is done by most "new chums," merely for the sake of having more

elbow-room during the trying process of sinking.

After our experience with the frozen gravel at Klondike, it almost

seemed like child's play to dig out the comparatively loose sand

conglomeration which formed the topmost layer in the line of our

descent. There was no fire-burning necessary here, but Nature,

nevertheless, had made the balance even, for the auriferous levels in

Alaska were rarely half as deep as even the shallow gutter we were now

searching for. And again, in frozen ground the surface formations are

naturally the hardest, whereas in most other workings that order is

reversed.

"It's a pleesure tae work i' this grund," was Mac's statement, when,

after scarcely two hours' labour, he stood nearly waist deep in the new

shaft. With much foresight, that wily individual had volunteered to sink

the first few feet alone. "I'm just burstin' wi' surplush energy," he

explained to Stewart, "an' you can dae twa or three fit o' the easy

stuff when I'm feenished."

"It's rale conseederate o' ye, Mac," said Stewart feelingly, with

thoughts on the nature of things at Skookum Gulch, and he went inside

the tent to try if anything edible could be gathered together for lunch,

a matter on which he said he had "graive doots."

Our new comrade, whom we had already begun to address as "Phil," quickly

showed himself to be a very worthy addition to our party. After

exploring the scrub for timber suitable for banking-up purposes, and

drawing back a goodly load, he politely insisted on Mac taking a spell

while he swung the pick. "I can see," he said diplomatically, "that you

would soon work yourself to death out of sheer consideration for

others."

"Dae ye think sae?" grunted he in the shaft cautiously, pausing in his

labours.

"I do, indeed," reiterated Phil with much earnestness.

Then Mac laid down his weapon, and leaning back lazily in his excavation

made further circuitous inquiry. "Ye've never dug holes afore, Phil?"

said he; and receiving a negative answer, he supplemented, "An' ye ken

that ironstane is a wee bit--weel, I'll say solid?"

"Yes, I can understand that much," admitted Phil wonderingly.

"Weel," continued Mac, lowering his voice, "I've come on a bed o' it the

noo, an' I'm jist makin' the tap o't clean an' tidy fur Stewart when he

comes. He thinks he can equal me at onything, an' I've got tae check

that fause impreshun. Dae ye savy?"

"Mac," said Phil with decision, "he'll be a smart man that gets the

better of you."

"I've traivelled a bit," returned the schemer shortly, "an' Stewart's

sometimes ill tae pit up wi'. I'll gie ye a bonnie saft bit tae

practeese on efterwards," he added after a pause.

A little later Stewart announced that he had got some rice and "tinned

dog" cooked. "I houp ye'll excuse the rice," said he, "it's a bit podgy,

fur there wis vera little watter tae bile it in."

"Ye're looking rale worried-like, Stewart," said Mac sympathetically, as

he gulped down his portion of the roasted grains. "It's exerceese ye're

needin', I'm thinkin'."

"Mebbe it is," sighed Stewart dolorously.

"Weel," spoke Mac again, "ye can try an' wear doon the shaft a bit in

the efternoon, an' me an' Phil 'll gang into the city an' get

some tasty bits o' provisions. I'm vera concerned aboot ye, ma man."

It was indeed very necessary that we should obtain supplies without

delay, for our stores consisted only of the remnants carried so

hurriedly from our previous camp. Already, the first flush of excitement

having died away, representatives from the different claims were

hurrying towards the township on a similar mission. Enthusiasm and an

empty stomach seldom agree. But here a difficulty arose. Phil's wardrobe

was painfully small; his once spotless shirt was now yellow with sand,

and almost torn into shreds, and the rest of his limited apparel was in

such a state of disrepair, owing to his scramble through the brush,

that, as Mac said, he looked "hardly respeectable."

"Ye can hae ma jecket," said Stewart magnanimously, "seein' that it wis

on ma account ye pit aff the tailie coat."

Phil accepted the offer promptly. "There's a wonderful change in my

appearance since I left the Old Country a few short weeks ago," said he,

surveying his dilapidated garb ruefully.

"I shid think sae," grinned Mac. "It wud be a rale treat tae see ye walk

doon Peecadeely in they claes." And they departed.

"Dae ye tell me that Mac has gaun doon five fit?" asked Stewart, when we

were alone.

"I believe he has," I replied, "but in this country it is easy to dig

near the surface where the sand has not even solidified."

"Easy or no' easy," responded Stewart impressively, baring his strong

right arm, "what Mac can dae, I'll dae. Wha pu'd harder than I did gaun

tae Klonduk?" he demanded, making a digression, but I waived the

question.

"Let me know when you have had enough of the shaft," I said, "and I'll

relieve you."

"Umph!" he grunted, ignoring my remark in turn, "Five feet! Whaur's the

pick?" And he strode off to emulate his comrade's achievement.

A few moments later a series of sharp metallic echoes issued from the

shaft mouth, intimating that Stewart had attacked a hard unyielding

substance. Then, not wishing to be present when he desisted from his

labours, I made my way stealthily to the adjoining claim and entered

into conversation with its owner; but still the unsympathetic ring of

steel meeting some kindred element reached my ears, and I sorrowed for

the unfortunate Stewart right deeply.

The wiry sandgroper whom I interviewed was not one of the bustling kind.

I found him enjoying a siesta under the scant shade of the solitary

mulga bush on his domain, and scaring the numberless flies away by his

vigorous snores. It was almost impossible to realise that he was the

valiant runner of the day before. "Mornin', mate," said he, rubbing his

eyes, after I had hustled him gently. It was late afternoon, but that

was a small matter, and I did not trouble to correct him; and we talked

together on mining subjects for about an hour.

"I ain't wan o' them cusses," he said, "that tries to git disappinted

early. My tactics is: git thar in the fust place--at which you'll allow

I is no slouch, nuther?" I made the necessary allowance, and he

proceeded. "In the second place, thar ain't no call to be desp'rit'ly

excited; thishyer life won't change worse'n a muskitter whether we does

git to bottom on a spec. three or four days sooner or later." I ventured

to remark that his reasonings did him credit. "I does philosophise a

bit, mate," he agreed languidly. Then there followed a long silence,

during which I missed the regular thuds of Stewart's pick, and wondered

where that persistent gentleman had gone.

Suddenly a noise as of thunder startled me; it was succeeded by an

explosion that shook the ground under our feet. "By the Great Howlin'

Billy!" ejaculated my leather-skinned companion, "somebody's fired your

shaft." I looked in time to see great boulders of jagged ironstone, and

a dense volume of sand, hurled from the mouth of the narrow pit where

Stewart had been working.

Filled with a vague fear I rushed to the scene of the disturbance, where

the sand-clouds were fast settling, and just as I arrived I beheld

Stewart calmly coming out towards me from behind Phil's timber pile,

where he had been sheltered. My surprise was so great that for the

moment speech failed me, and I looked vacantly at the shaft and at my

companion in turn. Then he took pity on me, and condescended to explain.

"It's a' richt. I'm nae pheenix," he announced cheerfully, and he led me

to the mouth of the shaft, which no longer retained its oblong contour,

but was ragged and rent with the upheaval. "I wis lookin' fur ye aboot

an hour since," he continued further, "tae get yer opeenion concernin' a

sort o' irin furmashun what wis gi'en me sair trouble, bit as I could'na

see ye, I kent ye could rely on ma guid jidgement tae dae what I thocht

best----"

"But I was not aware that we had any gelignite or giant powder in our

possession," I interrupted.

"Nae mair we had," said he, "bit I kept ane or twa extra speecial

cartreedges what we used fur burstin' glashiers oot in Alaskie--as

samples, ye ken--an' I pit them a' in. They've made a vera bonnie hole,"

he wound up; "that's the best o' they labour-savin' devices."

On examination it was found that the ironstone bar had been completely

shattered, and little trouble was experienced in removing the remaining

fragments. The cavity wherein it had rested was fully five feet deep, so

that Mac's plot for outwitting his rival had proved a signal failure.

It was six o'clock when we descried Mac and Phil returning from

Kalgoorlie, laden with stores; darkness was rapidly closing over the

valley, so that their forms could not be distinguished until they were

quite close. Then Stewart uttered a howl of rage. "They've brocht back

the tailie coat," he cried feebly, and in strutted Mac, wearing not only

that hateful garment, but also having perched on his head at a rakish

tilt a highly-burnished silk hat.

"We fund the hat a wee bit faurer on than the coatie," said he, doffing

his glossy headgear and gazing at it admiringly.

"If ye've ony regaird fur ma feelin's, ye'll pit them baith awa' at

aince," Stewart implored, much affected.

His compatriot gazed at him commiseratingly. "Ye've been workin' ow'er

hard the day, ma man," said he, "yer nerves are in a gey bad state, I'm

thinkin'. Hoosomever," he added sternly after brief thought, "it's

ongratefu' on your pairt tae despise the gairment, fur I promised Phil

that ye shid hae it, purvided ye had sunk aboot three feet the day.

Which," he climaxed, nonchalantly, "I hae nae doot ye hae dune?"

Stewart beamed. "I apologeese, Mac," he said, "noo gie me the coatie."

"Hoo muckle hae ye sunk?" demanded the generous giver, much taken aback.

"Full five feet," came the smiling answer. "Mac, ma vera dear freen,

ye've made a ser'us mistak' this time."

Mac stood as if transfixed, gazing appealingly at Phil, who seemed

equally amazed; then he turned without a word and rushed out to the

shaft. When he came back a moment later, he stripped off the coat and

handed it to Stewart. "I'm prood o' ye, ma man," he said with an effort;

"ye're an indiveedual o' muckle strategy."

Then Phil joined in with commendable tact. "You've still got the hat,

Mac," laughed he, "it's a fair divide."

[Illustration: STEWART FINDS THE GROUND HARD.]

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.

[Illustration: NO. 2 CLAIM--JUST STRUCK GOLD.]

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.

[Illustration: OUR SHAFT.]

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 guideposts 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.

[Illustration: NUGGETY DICK AND SILENT TED.]

"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.

[Illustration: HAPPY JACK AND DEAD-BROKE SAM.]

THE "SACRED" NUGGET

At this time much interest was aroused by the report that an

extraordinarily large nugget had been found within a few miles of

Kanowna, an outlying township, but as the days passed and no

confirmation of the rumour was forthcoming, the miners throughout the

whole district decided to hold a court of inquiry and elicit the facts,

or at least the foundations on which the panic-creating statement had

been based. As may be imagined, where gold is in question no rumour,

however wild, is allowed to die a natural death. The miners _will_ sift

and probe into the matter to the bitter end--and usually the end is

bitter indeed to those who have been too eager to join the inevitable

rush, and sink the almost equally inevitable duffer shafts.

In the present case, however, the sifting process was speedily fruitful

of results. Tangible evidence was obtained that two men had been seen

early one morning carrying what seemed to be an enormous nugget in a

blanket, some little distance from the settlement. Where the men came

from with their find no one knew, and it was not likely that they would

have given the information had it been asked; but where they had gone

afterwards promised to be an equally mysterious question; they had

vanished, leaving no trace or clue.

The warden of the district professed complete ignorance of the entire

affair, and suggested that a practical joke had been played on the

people; but this only served to make the miners unite in an outburst of

genuine indignation. Already many shafts had been sunk in the most

unlikely places by men who could ill afford to labour in vain. The mad

enthusiasm created had had dire effect. Hundreds of men were flooding

into the camp daily from every quarter; work on all the leads had ceased

in anticipation of a rush. The joke, if joke it was, was indeed a cruel

one, and its perpetrators deserved the wild denunciations that were

heaped upon them. "We'll lynch them!" roared the miners, and they meant

it; but despite the utmost searching, the nugget-carriers--whose names

were known--could not be found.

Then just as excitement was dying out, when the people were all but

convinced that they had been hoaxed, and were preparing to return to

their various labours, confirmation of the rumour came from a most

unexpected quarter. A Roman Catholic priest publicly stated that he was

aware of the existence of the nugget, that he had been under a promise

of secrecy to the finders not to reveal its location for ten days, but

that owing to the extreme panic aroused he felt constrained to admit its

authenticity, so that one doubt might be set at rest. As for the

district in which the great find had been made, he would give full

particulars on the following Tuesday. He further gave out that the

nugget weighed something over a hundred pounds, and was a perfect

specimen of true alluvial gold.

The state of affairs after that can be better imagined than written.

There promised to be a rush unequalled in the annals of goldfields

history. Men flocked into Kanowna in their thousands; excitement was

raised to fever heat; and the whole country seemed to await the coming

of Tuesday.

We, on the Five Mile, did not escape the prevalent craze. Our various

properties were becoming worked out, and in any case who could resist

being influenced by the mention of such a large nugget? The gold fever

is, indeed, a rampant, raging disease which few can withstand.

"It'll be a bonnie run," said Stewart, "bit I can haud ma ain wi' ony

man."

"I think Phil could gie ye a sair tussle," commented Mac, "an' as fur

masel'--I alloo naebody's sooperiority."

But it was plain to all, long before the eventful day arrived, that the

rush for the Sacred Nugget, as it was called, would be totally different

from that in which we had taken part with so much success. And little

wonder. Since Father Long's announcement, horses and bicycles and

buggies of all descriptions were being held in readiness. No one had a

notion how near or how far the rush might lead, but all seemed

determined to have the speediest means of locomotion at their disposal.

Under these circumstances my companions' running powers could avail

little, and I was not disposed to favour their desire to try their luck

in the stampede.

"We've had enough of gold-mining, boys," I said, "and after we have

finished here I think we'll prospect further out." And the thought of

journeying into the unknown back country pleased them mightily. It had

long been my wish to explore the central parts of the great Western

Colony, and I was seriously considering the feasibility of my plans

towards that purpose when the Sacred Nugget excitement burst into

prominence, and for the time being served to demoralise my schemes.

"I don't think we ought to trouble with any new strike about here," Phil

said wearily. The monotony of the gold-seeker's life in Western

Australia was beginning to affect even his usually buoyant nature.

"Don't go, boys," advised Emu Bill earnestly. "I is satisfied the thing

isn't straight. Father Long or no Father Long, thar's been too much

mystery about the consarn. Thar's a ser'us hoax somewheres."

It was a surprise to hear such advice from him. I thought of the time

when I first saw him leading the rush to Five Mile, and unconsciously I

smiled. "In spite of what you say, I believe you'll be there yourself,

Bill," I said. "I'm sure it would break your heart to be absent from

such an event."

"I'm not deny'n' but you're right," he replied soberly. "Wi' me it's a

sort o' madness, but that don't affeck the honesty o' my remarks wan

little bit."

"Weel," began Mac with emphasis, "if ye dinna want tae gang, ye'll no

gang. Stewart and me'll see efter that. I'll dae ye a kindness fur

aince, Emoo."

We decided at last that Phil and I should go and view the "circus"--not

to join in it by any means, but simply that we should see, and have our

curiosity gratified; and so the matter rested. But on Tuesday morning,

when Emu Bill saw the eager throngs passing inwards in the direction of

Kanowna, his resolutions began to waver, and when the Five-Mile Flat

also began to show a deserted appearance, he came over to our tent with

a mournful countenance.

"I is goin' with you arter all, mates," he said simply.

"Ye're gaun tae dae naething o' the sort, Emoo," roared Mac. "Did ye no

promise tae wait wi' Stewart an' me? No, ma man, fur yer ain guid we'll

keep ye here."

And after much eloquent argument Bill resigned himself to his fate,

almost cheerful at last to find his own views resisted so strongly. But

as Phil and I were starting out, he came to me with an eager light in

his eyes. "If you does think it's goin' to be any good," he said,

"mention my name to Tom Doyle. He'll give you anything you want.

Goodbye, boys, an'--an' good luck." And he was led away to be regaled

with stirring stories of other lands, by the masterful pair.

The momentous announcement had been advertised to take place on Tuesday,

at 3.30 p.m., from the balcony of the Criterion Hotel, and when we

reached the township about midday we found the main thoroughfare a

jostling mass of boisterous humanity; while cyclists in hundreds,

lightly garbed as if for a great race, waited patiently in the side

street leading to the post-office, and in full view of the

much-advertised balcony. The cyclist element was composed of strangers,

for the most part, who had cycled from Kalgoorlie and other settlements

within a radius of twenty miles; hence their early arrival on the scene;

they had timed themselves to be well ahead, so as to be fully rested

before the fateful signal was given.

As we forced our way through the crowd I could not help remarking that

the majority had been imbibing over-freely to ensure rapidity of action

later on. Indeed, it looked as if the Criterion Hotel, which formed the

centre of interest, was to be most benefited by the rush. It had not

been by any means the most popular rendezvous of the miners, but on this

day it received a huge advertisement, and profited accordingly.

We walked to the end of the street, where the bustle was considerably

less, and here we noticed a large wooden erection bearing the sign, "Tom

Doyle, Kanowna Hotel."

"That is the name Bill mentioned," said Phil; "he seems a fairly

important individual in his own way. Suppose we interview him, or at

least have dinner in his mansion."

To the latter part of the suggestion I was agreeable, and so in we

went. I had met Tom Doyle on several occasions since my arrival in the

country; that gentleman was most ubiquitous in his habits, and had a

keen scent for gold, so that his lanky figure might be expected anywhere

where good prospects had recently been obtained. He was also future

mayor of the camp, and so was, as Phil had put it, quite an important

individual in his way; but how we could benefit by giving him Emu Bill's

name and compliments was more than I could understand.

The hotel seemed to be completely empty; even the bar was deserted,

which showed an extraordinary state of matters. "If Mac and Stewart were

here," laughed Phil, "there would be a repetition of the Indian village

raid I have heard so much about." Which I fear was only too true.

However, we determined to give fair warning of our presence in the

establishment, and halloed out lustily; and at last a heavy footstep

sounded in the room above.

"Doyle!" I cried, "Sir Thomas Doyle!"

"Lord Doyle!" added Phil, in a voice that might have awakened the seven

sleepers.

"Phwat the thunder'n' blazes is yez yellin' at!" roared the object of

our inquiry, suddenly appearing on the stairway. Then he noticed the

vacant bar. "Thunder'n' turf!" he muttered helplessly, "has all the shop

cleared out after that d----d nugget?"

"Looks like it, Tom," I suggested. "Have you been asleep?"

"Av coorse. It's me afternoon siesta I was having. I'll be in time for

the rush all right, an' don't you forget it."