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."

"We didn't come to warn you about that," I said. "Emu Bill of the Five Mile said you had a few good horses——"

"Emoo Bill!" he howled.

"Same man," I admitted; "do you know him?"

"Does I know Emoo Bill? Well, I should smile. Why, me an' him were with Hannan when that old skunk went back on us at the discovery ov Kalgoorlie. Howly Moses! Poor owld Emoo! Horses, boys? Surely. I'm goin' to use 'Prince' myself, but yez can have the two steeplechasers, 'Satan' an' 'Reprieve.' I'll do that much for the Emoo; an' d—— n the others who expect the horses."

Events had certainly developed much more rapidly than I had anticipated; neither Phil nor myself had entertained the idea of joining in the rush. I had mentioned Emu Bill's message idly, never dreaming it would produce such a prompt effect. Tom Doyle was a noted sporting man in the district, a second Harry Lorrequer in a small way, and provided he was not drunk, he could break in even the most unruly horse when all others had failed.

The noise on the street was now becoming terrific; small armies of miners bearing picks and stakes were arriving from the local diggings, and buggies and horses were being hurriedly equipped.

"We'll have a dhrop av the crater first," said Tom, noting the disturbance outside, "and then we'll saddle up."

Shortly afterwards we emerged from the hotel courtyard mounted on horses that were the pride of the countryside. Tom rode "Prince," a powerful-limbed, coal-black cob of sixteen hands; Phil bestrode "Satan," a fiery Australian brumby; and I clung to "Reprieve," an impetuous high-stepping bay. "Keep at my heels, boys," cried Tom, as he started off at a canter, and it was at once evident that if we could keep at his heels we should be in at the death without a doubt. It was slightly after three o'clock, and when we reached the scene of excitement we found the street absolutely blocked. There must have been several thousand men packed like sardines right across the broad passage, and on the outskirts of this vast crowd over a hundred cyclists stood ready; beyond them still, a line of horsemen were drawn up, in numbers exceeding a regimental squadron.

Scores of buggies and other spidery racing contrivances were scattered near at hand, and extended far down the side street leading towards the post-office. It was indeed an extraordinary sight. We formed up with the other horsemen, Tom's approach being hailed with loud cheers, for every one knew the dare-devil Irishman.

"You'll get a broken neck this time, Tom," cried one of his acquaintances cheerfully.

"I didn't know Prince was broken in to the saddle yet, Tom," said another.

"No more he isn't," replied Tom, "but he's broken enough for me. Stand clear, bhoys."

And then the black charger reared and bucked and curvetted wildly, while its rider kicked his feet out of the stirrups and kept his seat like a Centaur. Few of the horses present had been much used before, and they now became restive also, and pranced dangerously. Phil and I had a bad five minutes. We did not know the nature or temper of our mounts; and besides, neither of us cared to place much reliance on our stirrup leathers, they looked frayed and wofully fragile.

"If they go with yez, bhoys," advised Tom, "give 'em their heads. They'll get tired soon enough. Thar's lots o' room in this country."

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Phil, "what a comfortable prospect we have before us! My back is about broken with this kicking brute already."

The vast assembly was now becoming impatient. The stated time, 3.30, had been reached, and as yet there was no sign of the Reverend Father who had been the cause of the extraordinary meeting. Then just as threats and curses were being muttered, a pale-faced young man in clerical garb made his appearance on the balcony, and a deathlike stillness reigned in an instant. In a few words the priest explained his strange position, but he was rudely interrupted many times.

"It's gettin' late. Where did the nugget come from?" the rougher spirits roared. The young man hesitated for a moment.

"The nugget was found on the Lake Gwinne track," he said, "at a depth of three feet——"

With a long, indescribable roar the multitude scattered, and the speaker's concluding words were drowned in the din. "Hold on!" cried Tom, as Phil and I swung round to follow the main rush, "the d—— d idiots didn't wait to hear how far it was from Lake Gwinne." There was scarcely a dozen of us left; the breaking-up had been as the melting of summer snows.

"And the position is two miles from the lake," repeated the young man, wearily. Then Tom gave his horse a free rein and we followed suit.

Lake Gwinne was a salt-crusted depression in the sand surface, about five miles distant from the township, and in a very little frequented vicinity. The so-called track towards it was nothing more than a winding camel pad through the bush, and had the miners stopped to think, they would have at once realised how insufficient was the data given. With our additional information we were slightly better off; nevertheless I was not at all inclined to grow enthusiastic over our chances. The district mentioned had been very thoroughly prospected many months before, and with little success. "I think Father Long has been hoaxed after all," I said to Phil, as we crashed through scrub and over ironstone gullies in the wake of the main body, which we were rapidly overtaking. But he could not reply; his horse was clearing the brush in great bounds, and as it had the bit between its teeth, my companion evidently had his work cut out for him.

A few yards ahead Tom's great charger kept up a swinging gallop, and every now and then that jolly roysterer would turn in the saddle and encourage us by cheery shouts. We soon passed the men who were hurrying on foot, but the buggies and the cycles were still in front. The sand soil throughout was so tightly packed that it formed an ideal cycle path, but the sparse eucalypti dotting its surface were dangerous obstacles, and made careful steering a necessity. The goldfield cyclist, however, is a reckless individual, and rarely counts the cost of his adventurousness. Soon we came near to the cyclist army; the spokes of their wheels scintillated in the sunlight as they scudded over the open patches. But one by one they dropped out, the twisted wheels showing how they had tried conclusions with flinty boulders, or collided with one or other of the numberless mallee stumps protruding above the ground.

On one occasion Tom gave a warning shout, and I saw his horse take a flying leap over a struggling cyclist who had got mixed up in the parts of his machine. I had just time to swerve my steed to avoid a calamity, and then we crashed on again at a mad gallop, evading the bicycles as best we could, and sometimes clearing those which had come to grief at a bound. It was in truth a wild and desperate race.

When the last of the cyclists had been left behind, and the swaying, dust-enshrouded buggies and one or two solitary horsemen were still in front, Tom turned again.

"Let her go now, bhoys," he said, "there's a clear field ahead. Whoop la! Tally ho!"

For the remainder of that gallop I had little time to view my surroundings; I dug my heels into "Reprieve's" flanks, and he stretched out his long neck and shot forward like an arrow from the bow. Buggies and miscellaneous vehicles were overtaken and left in the rear. Various horsemen would sometimes range alongside for a trial of speed, but "Reprieve" outdistanced them all.

"It's Doyle's 'Reprieve,'" one of the disgusted riders cried; "an' there's 'Satan,' an', fire an' brimstone! here's Doyle hissel'."

Tom's weight was beginning to tell on his noble animal, which had given the lead to my horse who carried the lightest load; but with scarcely a dozen lengths between us we thundered past the foremost racing buggy, and were quickly dashing down towards Lake Gwinne, whose sands now shimmered in the near distance. We were first in the rush after all.

Suddenly we came upon a recently-excavated shaft with a dismantled windlass lying near, and with one accord we drew up and dismounted.

"If this is where the Sacred Nugget came out of, it looks d—— d bad that no one is about," growled Tom, throwing the reins of his horse over a mulga sapling and looking around doubtfully. It was clearly the vicinity indicated by Father Long, and we lost no time in marking off our lots in the direction we considered most promising. We had barely taken these preliminary precautions when horsemen and buggies began to arrive in mixed order, and in a short time the ground all the way down to the lake was swarming with excited gold-seekers.

"I'm blest if I like the look o' things at all, at all," mused Tom, and I was inclined to take a similar view of matters, for a more barren-looking stretch of country would have been hard to find. Then, again, by examining the strata exposed in the abandoned shaft we could form a fair estimate of the nature of the supposed gold-bearing formation; and after Phil and I had made a minute survey of all indications shown, we came to the conclusion that our ground, acquired after such a hard ride, was practically worthless and not likely to repay even the labour of sinking in it.

The hundreds of others who had pegged out beyond us were not so quickly convinced, and they announced their intention of sinking to bedrock if they "busted" in the attempt. About an hour after our arrival at the Sacred Nugget Patch, Phil and I started back for the Five-Mile Flat, satisfied to have taken part in so strange a rush, yet quite certain that the Sacred Nugget had been unearthed in some other district, or that the entire concern had been a stupendous hoax. Tom Doyle decided to camp on the so-called "Patch" all night, without any special reason for doing so beyond holding the ground in case some fool might want to buy it for flotation purposes, as had been done often before with useless properties.

When we reached home that evening we were tired indeed, and in spite of ourselves we felt rather disappointed at the unsuccessful issue of the much-advertised stampede.

"Ye've had a gran' time," said Mac regretfully, when Phil told of how he and "Satan" came in first after a most desperate race.

"I'm glad I didn't go with you," said Bill. "I hope I can resist temptation in the way o' rushes until I is ready to sail back homeward."

"It would certainly be better," I allowed, "than to give up a proved property for a miserable sham."

As it happened, the famous rush had indeed proved but a worthless demonstration. Not a grain of gold was discovered near the Sacred Patch; and after much labour had been expended there, the disgusted miners abandoned their shafts in a body.

The mystery connected with the alleged nugget was never explained. Every bank in the Colony denied having seen it, and its supposed finders did not again appear on the fields. Father Long must have been cruelly victimised, of that there was no doubt, for no one could for a moment believe that he had perjured himself. He was justly known as a thoroughly honourable man and a conscientious teacher. Even the most suspicious mind could not accuse him in any way. And he, the unfortunate dupe of a pair of unscrupulous rogues, did not long survive the severe shock given to an already feeble system. He died some months later, and with him went the secret, if any, of the Great Sacred Nugget.