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.

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.