THE FIRST CLAIM
Moseley had amused himself, in the absence of his mates, by pegging out
a supposititious claim, twenty-four feet by eighteen, just to let them
see what they might expect between them elsewhere. He was much
astonished, and withal as elated as his easy nature would permit, at
Denis's decision in the morning. Denis found the pegs almost in the
shadow of the blue gum-tree, beneath which they had pitched their tent,
and he declared that they could not possibly do better. The tall digger
was duly quoted on the possibilities of Black Hill Flat. Its merits as a
residential quarter were already obvious. The Tynesiders' camp was the
nearest, and it was not within speaking distance. As for Moseley, it
entirely suited him to settle down with the least trouble and delay, in
the first peaceful spot; and the party spent a happy Sunday in
re-pitching the tent and carefully arranging the whole encampment.
The day was an experience in itself. It was kept wonderfully holy, for
that community, in those wilds. Dent and Doherty took a morning walk; it
did not interest Moseley, who had also volunteered to cook. But Denis
was much struck and a little touched to meet the string of Sunday
promenaders, all in their best and cleanest, as at home, and to realize
that the average digger was a really law-abiding creature after all.
Outside every tent the Sunday dinner smoked or hissed on fires all but
invisible in the strong sunlight; one or two had been turned into canvas
church or chapel, and a familiar hymn, heard in passing, was only the
more moving for the gruff voices which groaned it forth. On one point
Denis satisfied himself: not a hand was put to the cradle or the spade;
and so peaceful was the impression left in his heart, that not even
Moseley's cooking, which was very disappointing, could spoil an hour of
that first auspicious Sabbath.
The gold license at that time cost thirty shillings; it had to be
renewed monthly at the same tariff, and it carried with it as many
vexatious restrictions as were ever put in print on document of the
sort. But the three new diggers, who were the first to obtain theirs on
the Monday morning, did not wait to read the regulations. Two of them
rushed back through the heat to Black Hill Flat, where Doherty had
turned the first sod, and Denis many more, before Moseley rejoined them
at his leisure.
Rather more than a foot's depth of black soil was soon turned up, and
then rather less than another foot of reddish-coloured clay, much harder
to work upon; by the time he was through this layer, Denis perspired
freely, and was inclined to be irritable with Moseley, who was for
"trying a tub" already, and seemed for once to have Jimmy with him.
"The wash-dirt's from six to twelve feet down," Denis objected.
"Everybody says so; and we shall hardly get as far to-day. Besides,
where's the cradle to try your tub in? I thought we would pick one up
this evening."
"We might have tried some in a tin," said Moseley, who, like many a mild
being, had no slight gift of opposition. "The way to paddock is to keep
on trying it all the way down. That's what we used to do on Bendigo."
"What's paddocking?"
Moseley smiled, though with perfect amiability.
"Do you mean to say you don't know?"
"I wasn't on Bendigo."
"Well, it's the most superficial form of surfacing. But I'm not set on
it," added Moseley, with obvious sincerity. "I only thought as it was
cold tack for dinner, and three of us can't work at the hole, it would
be something for me to do; but it really doesn't matter."
"My dear fellow, of course do as you like," urged Denis, as Moseley's
tone made him critical of his own. "You're the experienced man, after
all, and we're mates, not skipper and mate. Try a tinful by all means."
"No; on second thoughts, it's a long way to the water; but I'll tell you
what I might do," said Moseley, brightening. "I might go and buy the
Long Tom while you two work at the hole. That's a thing I could do, for
it won't be the first I've bought."
Denis felt constrained to consent to this, but with misgivings, for his
comrades' notions of economy were not his own. It was Moseley who had
bought the pick and shovel, of their neighbours from Newcastle, with
other articles of which the Tynesiders had duplicates, on the Saturday
night, when, for all he knew, Denis might have returned with those very
purchases; and the canny north-countrymen had found a customer after
their own shrewd hearts. Now the fellow said he would not be gone an
hour, which augured another incontinent bargain; and Denis dug on grimly
into an eighteen-inch layer of stones and sand. He was not particularly
pleased with Jimmy either; the little fool had looked so confoundedly
eager at the prospect of a premature test, so ridiculously disappointed
when Denis put his foot on it. However, he had not said a word, nor did
he now that they were alone, which was more unusual. He merely looked on
rather wistfully, because Denis would do all the work; but presently he
began looking even more wistfully toward the tent; for a long hour had
doubled itself, and still Moseley did not return, and still Denis
wielded pick and shovel by untiring turns.
At last came Moseley, strolling with a huge cigar, and a box of them
under one arm, but no cradle.
"I've got it," said he. "It'll be here directly; a couple of Chinamen
are bringing it slung on a bamboo pole. I got it you for thirty bob. But
look here what I have brought--a box of the best--but they're out of my
private pocket, and better not ask the price."
That day they got down four or five feet, and tried two or three tubs
toward evening, walking over half a mile with each, first and last, and
extracting altogether one pennyweight of gold precisely, or about four
shillings sterling. And the expenses of the party to this date were L18
10s.
The first week's record was bad enough to make them laugh and too bad to
continue. Washing everything after the second day, they had exactly half
an ounce of gold dust by next Saturday night, while their further
expenses amounted to several pounds. Everything but meat was at a fancy
price, and in the beginning some new appliance was wanted every day.
Denis held out against the dearer items as long as he could in decency,
but it did not grow easier to restrict the partner who had contributed
the lion's share of capital. The second week realized three ounces (L12
1s. 6d.), and cost less, though Moseley insisted on laying in fifty
pounds of flour as a bargain for L2 15s. Denis for one, however, refused
to be comforted by the second week. It was not bad, but to him a total
and immediate failure would have been more acceptable than the prospect
of a run of such insignificant success. The second week raised neither
high hopes nor a laugh; the third began better, with an ounce on the
Monday, but dropped at once to three or four pennyweight a day. This was
worse than Moseley had done on Bendigo, and he was soon advocating a new
claim on some lead that held good to the water's edge; but Denis was not
so readily deterred, much less since at the outset he had invented a
contrivance which reduced to a minimum the natural disadvantages of the
flat, in the shape of a hand-barrow to hold as much wash-dirt as
half-a-dozen tubs, and so save as many journeys to and from the river.
It was only a couple of saplings with a few feet of canvas nailed
across, which it took two to carry when full, but nobody happened to
have thought of it before, and it was a success when nothing else
succeeded.
These beginners had begun badly in every other way. There was really
nothing romantic in the life as they found it. It was only fascinating
to the spectator, or to the exceptionally successful performer. They had
ceased to be spectators with the turning of their own first sod. There
were many discomforts in the life. Moseley was quite an infamous cook,
yet it was the one direction in which he exerted himself at all. He was
still rather amusing, and would have been a capital companion in
triumphant times, but Denis was no longer easily amused. Doherty was
also disappointing; he had not been the same bright boy since Canvas
Town. Denis himself was seen to have a temper, and not unknown to lose
it; but they had drifted into a belt of unromantic experience not
innocent of the actively abominable. One morning Denis woke itching; and
in the leaden light he thought it was oatmeal on the rolled blanket
which was his only pillow; but minute movements betrayed a nauseating
form of life; in a word, the whole of his scanty bed-clothes were most
thoroughly fly-blown. The day went in boiling them in salt and water,
which carried the offense to heaven, and during this horrid task Denis
did talk of pastures new, which Moseley at once went to seek. After a
discreet interval he returned with glowing accounts of a disused hole
near at hand on the Native Youth, and before sundown the three started
off with ropes and spars to place across the top for a preliminary
descent; luckily one of them threw down a log to stand on, the bottom
being under water; for in another instant the pit was more alive than
Denis's blankets, but with writhing bodies and red eyes enough to
furnish forth a reptile house. Denis cut a slip from one of the spars,
penciled the word SNAKES on both sides, and planted it like a rose-label
as close as possible to the brink of this dreadful hole. Nor was the
unfortunate day complete until they had tried a tub at the old place
without getting a grain. It was the twelfth of November--in all fitness
a Friday--and this is its candid record.
Moseley began to talk seriously of throwing the whole thing up. It was
plain that he regretted his second innings on the gold-fields, yet he
was not the man to desert his mates, and this soon became the greatest
embarrassment of all. There was much that was lovable in Moseley. He was
the cheeriest member of the party, and in happier circumstances might
have been its life and soul. As it was, some ready conceit would often
turn aside that wrath which indolence and inefficiency were peculiarly
calculated to excite in Denis; yet Moseley was naturally indolent, and
his inefficiency seemed nothing less than catholic. He might have been a
genius, but if so it was at nothing that counted on the diggings. There
he was unstable, indecisive, happy-go-lucky, a trifler, a
procrastinator; hopelessly unpractical himself, and what was much more
tiresome, a consistent caviller at the practical in others. His equally
consistent good-humour was his saving merit; it also made him in a sense
incorrigible, for one must be more of a brute than Denis could ever have
been to blame with any bitterness a man who was at all times
unaffectedly prepared to blame himself. There was, however, one occasion
upon which even Denis felt inclined to say exactly what he felt and
rather more. He had at last written a letter, and on returning from the
creek with Doherty, had found it gone from the rack which a few stitches
had made in the canvas over the place where he laid his head.
"Where's my letter?" he asked at once. His tanned face was pale as well
as blank.
"It's gone," replied Moseley, with a reassuring nod.
"Gone! Who sent it?"
"I did, with one of my own. I say, I hope I haven't done wrong, Dent?
It's English mail day, you know, and I thought you'd forgotten it."
"I knocked off early on purpose to take it myself."
"I'm awfully sorry, Dent, but I happened to see that it was already
stamped."
"It's all right, Moseley," said Denis, conquering his displeasure, "and
of course I'm really very much obliged to you, though I came back on
purpose to post it myself. It was very good of you to trouble."
Moseley was beginning to look embarrassed, and not merely because he had
meant well and done ill. He had not taken so very much trouble after
all, and he was too good a fellow to retain more credit than his due.
"There was an old soldier came along," said Moseley, colouring: "not a
bad old chap, but a bit of a gossip; he had a look down the hole, and
asked how we were doing, and drank a pannikin of tea. As he was going to
the post-office, and offered to post my letter for me, I let him take
them both."
Denis could hardly believe his ears.
"You gave my letter to a strange digger?"
"And my own with it, Dent."
"A man you'd never set eyes on before?"
"I certainly never had; but we had quite a long chat first, and he
seemed a decent soul enough. I saw no reason to distrust him, at any
rate. I know what you're saying to yourself," added Moseley, as Denis
smiled sardonically; "but I've been more careful since the lesson I had
the night we met. Even if I'm still the worst judge of character in the
world, what object could anybody have in tampering with simple letters
like ours?"
The ingenuous question gave Denis an idea.
"What was the fellow like--to look at?" he asked in his turn.
"Oh, just a respectable elderly man, not much of the old soldier about
him, but the diggings must be crawling with them, and how many look the
part?"
"Then how do you know he was one?"
"He told me, of course."
"Had he a beard?"
"That goes without saying." Moseley and Denis were each growing one.
"But was his beard dyed?"
"No--gray."
"It should be gray," said Denis, grimly. "Did he tell you which diggings
he came from?"
"Sailor's Gully."
Denis breathed again. He knew that Devenish and Jewson were at the
Gravel Pits. He had really no reason to connect the man who had taken
the letters with the man whom he had in mind; and further questioning
finally relieved him of the idea, partly because Moseley was
unconsciously anxious to make the best of his emissary. But the
altercation had stirred the emotions of both young men; neither spoke in
his natural voice; each resembled an unpleasing portrait of himself. So
much had been said, however, that it was an opportunity for saying more.
"You know, Dent," Moseley went on, "I've had enough of the whole thing.
I made a mistake when I turned back with you, instead of taking the
first ship home as I had intended."
Denis said nothing. The sentiment expressed was too identical with his
own. Doherty reduced the considerate distance to which he had withdrawn,
and there was no doubt he was beginning to listen.
"But I hadn't written to say I was going home," continued Moseley, "so
I'm expecting my money at Christmas. It won't be much--thirty
pounds--but it's sure. You see, my father wasn't so sanguine as I was
when I came out, and he's allowing me sixty pounds a year."
Moseley smiled a little sadly. Doherty drew a few steps nearer. Denis
had become a picturesque study in sympathy, framed in the opening of the
tent.
"I wish I could persuade you to come home with me after Christmas!"
said Moseley, wistfully enough.
Doherty looked tragically at Denis, but could have flung up his
wide-awake at the way Denis shook his head without a word.
"Then I'll be shot if I go either!" cried Moseley, with a noble tremor
in his voice.
"My dear fellow!" urged Denis, while Doherty spun round on his heel.
"No," said Moseley, "you stood by me, and I'll stand by you as long as
you stay on Ballarat. It's no use talking, because I won't listen to a
word. You went through fire for me, Dent--you both did--and I'd go
through fire and water for you! And look here, Dent, I'll never do
another silly thing, and I'll work harder and cook better--you mark my
words!"
They were such as neither listener had ever heard from him before; but,
Doherty was no longer listening with any interest, and Denis was too
much affected to perceive that the humourist of the party was surpassing
himself when least intending it. All he could do was to drop his two
hands on Moseley's shoulders, and shake him affectionately until the
fellow smiled.
"But what about the thirty pounds, when it comes?" asked Denis, with
presence of mind and some sudden eagerness.
Moseley's face lit up with the sacred flame of loyalty.
"It goes into the Company!" said he. "I'll back you with my last stiver
as long as you stay on Ballarat!"