CHAPTER I

Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he dashed into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler," a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.

When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.

"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the other.

When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.

Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when the manager shouted "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.

The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as quiet as the granite boulders on which they lay; the crows sat motionless on the fences; and the clouds were too lazy to move.

"Ee takes es gruel without choking, an' doesn't find no bones in't," said Jack Jewell, with a jerk of his left thumb towards Bill.

"Ol' Bill's panned out. Ef ee isn't ringer 'is porridge 'as no salt in't," said Tom Wren.

"He! he!" giggled a weak little man; "it's like ridin' in a kerridge, an' comin' down to hobblin' on yer own trotters."

Peter Amos, a greybeard, shook his head solemnly as he buried his nose in a pannikin of tea, and said, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall—that's gospel wisdom; an' don't 'it a man wen's down—that's worldly wisdom, an' looks like as it 'ad jumped out o' the Bible stark naked."

"Mair like the man i' the parable, Peter," said Sandy McKerrow, "wha took the highest room wi' a swagger, an' had to climb down to the lowest room wi' his tail 'tween his legs."

"Aye, man, that's verra true, verra true," said another known as "Scottie."

Here a stalwart giant, with a shock of red hair, stood up, with doubled fists, and spat on the floor; then said, "If any of you mongrel mules says another word against Bill, I'll rattle your teeth down your throat like dice in a box."

Meanwhile the subject of this conversation had closed his eyes, and was fast asleep. All his senses were locked, bolted, and barred. Sheep, shears, tallies, and pride of place were forgotten. He was in the land of dreams, that ancient land of gold, precious stones, ivory castles, battle, murder, and sudden death.

Silence reigned in the shed. The men quietly ladled the tea out of the buckets into their pannikins, or struck a match on the seat of their trousers, lit their pipes, and smoked.

Bill slept on, but suddenly his brow was knitted and his hands were clenched. Then he opened his eyes, and looked round with a scared face.

"Boys," he said, "I've had a dream! I'll never shear another sheep!"

He slowly rose and stood up, then he took his oilstone, and with it smashed his shears into fragments.

"Good-bye all," he said; then slid into the count-out pen, vaulted two fences, got his saddle and swag. When he caught his horse, he saddled up, mounted, and rode away across the ranges.

"There's a roaring fire in that volcano," said Peter Amos, keeping the words well between his teeth, for fear of the giant with the shock of red hair.

CHAPTER II

Whether the dream or the hand of fate gave him his course I know not, but Bill rode a straight line, up hill and down dale. When he came to a fence or a log he made his horse jump it. There was no going round or turning back, till he found himself descending a steep, rugged spot, known as the Devil's Punch Bowl.

"This is the place I saw in my dream," he said aloud; "but where is the dead man?"

A little stream wound in and out among the rocks. The hum of bees and the smell of honey filled the air. Wattles waved their yellow tassels, and reflected splashes of gold on the water. Wild mint, fennel, and chamomile dipped their feet in the water, and wove two ribbons of green on the margin of the brook, as far as the eye could measure them.

He came to a little track which his bush experience taught him was made by man. He followed it to the water's edge. Here it had a grim ending. A bucket and an old pannikin stood on a stone; a fresh footmark was printed, sharp and clear, on a patch of damp earth; and the body of a man, motionless, asleep or dead, was half hidden among the herbage, growing lush and tall, as if trying to screen it with loving hands.

Bill jumped off his horse, and gently turned the man over on his back and looked at him. One glance was enough. Two eyes, wide open, and horrible to behold, met his gaze. A faint smile seemed to linger about the mouth. The face appeared to be chiselled marble. It was easy to see that Death had aimed true, and that his dart had struck home.

Bill, nevertheless, instinctively put his finger on the dead man's pulse, and placed his hand over the heart. They were both still as a rundown clock, and stopped for ever.

A letter had fallen from the man's pocket when he was being turned over. Bill took it up in the hope that it would disclose something. The writing was in a woman's hand, full of affection, repetition, and platitude. It wound up with, "Your loving daughter, Mary." There was a date on the top, but no address. There was an envelope, and the postmark was Melbourne.

"Not much clue," said Bill; "nameless, so far." The man, evidently, by the clay smears on his trousers, and by the general appearance of his clothes, was a digger.

"I saw a tent in my dream, so I'll look for it," said Bill.

He went along the little track for a hundred yards, and there, behind some stunted bushes, stood a weather-stained, ragged tent. Everything about it was squalid, unkempt, unwashed, and unlovely. The only bit of sentiment, or romance if you will, was a photograph of a girl, pinned to the tent, at the head of the bed. There was a pathetic look about the eyes which seemed to follow him wherever he turned. They haunted him, and illumined the tent. After a short time he went up to the portrait, and stared at it for five minutes, studying every feature.

"I suppose you are Mary," he said; "I feel we are to meet some day, and you are to come into my life."

Below the photograph, and also pinned to the canvas, was a rude diagram. At one end of a line was a triangle; at the other end a curious tree with two branches touching the ground. Between the triangle and the tree was a big dot, and at the dot were two figures, but whether 45 or 65 he could not tell. An arrow pointed to them.

He kissed the photograph, unpinned it carefully, and put it in his pocket.

Then he took down the diagram and examined it more carefully. There was an almost undecipherable scrawl at the bottom, which he made out to be, "For Mary." He put the diagram in his purse.

"This morning," he whispered, "I thought I was tied to shearing for life; now I am harnessed, in some mysterious way, to a romance. This dead man clutches me like the Old Man of the Mountain. He has me in his grip; and this Mary moves me strangely. Shall we ever meet?"

He mounted his horse, and cantered down the valley till he came to the main road, where he stood uncertain where to turn. At first he thought of going to the nearest township, twelve miles to the east, to report the finding of the body, so that an inquest might be held; but it occurred to him that his movements this morning might savour of madness, or worse, and he might be called upon to show why he left the shed so abruptly. He might be accused of causing the old man's death. These and suchlike thoughts ran up and down his brain for some time; then he slowly turned his horse to the west, and rode furiously till he came to the Yantala woolshed.

The men had finished dinner, had washed and brushed up a bit, and were catching their horses preparatory to dispersing till Sunday night.

Constable Duffus was coming out of the manager's hut, where he had dropped in for dinner. Bill told his tale to him, and the manager, coming up at that moment, listened with all his ears. One by one the shearers and the rouseabouts clustered, like a swarm of bees round their queen, and hung about Bill with open mouth, while he told of finding the dead body at the Devil's Punch Bowl.

"Fwhat's this?" said the constable; "a man kicked de bucket widout benefit av clargy. Och! the lonely man. To turn yer toes up to de sky, an' nobody handy to close yer eyes, is gashtly creepy."

"But what's to be done?" said Bill. "We must give the poor man decent burial, an' find out where he came from, an' whether he has a wife or children, an' all about him."

"Them lonely buffers never have wife, nor chick, nor child, nor uncle, nor aunt, nor any other frind," said the constable. "They've got a story tacked on their back like a clout, every mother's son av thim. Or maybe, every patch on their trousers is stitched wid a mother's tears or a wife's groans. They've generally been turned out av the family for the drink or the disgrace av them. Tin to wan you'll find he's prison cropped, or you'll percaive a broad arrow on his small clothes."

"He looks as if he had been a decent old chap; respectable like, honest, but poor," said Bill.

"We must have an inquisht," said the constable "on Monday morning, at tin o'clock, say, at the Pretty Sally Inn. I'll requisition a cart av ye, Mr. McDonald."

"All right," said the manager.

A cart was obtained, and the constable requested Bill to accompany him to the spot where the corpse was lying. He was nothing loth, as he hoped to find out where the dead man came from, and discover the whereabouts of the girl whose portrait had so strangely moved him.

The body was taken to the inn the same afternoon.

CHAPTER III

Next day Bill rode to the place where the dead man's tent was still standing. The place had a grim fascination for him. Something about the old man's face and staring eyes held him in thrall. The appealing look of the girl in the photograph enchained him. The dream spoke strangely to his imagination. He felt that something had entered into his life. He did not feel a free man. Compulsion appeared to be laid upon him, and he could not shake off the feeling that a course was being shaped for him, a pattern was being woven which he did not design.

He lingered about the Devil's Punch Bowl all day, and wondered what was being brewed for him. He hoped it was something pleasant: a cup to his liking.

Monday came, and the coroner arrived in a hired buggy. The constable seized upon the publican and one of his men, to serve on the jury. Then he stationed himself at the door of the inn, and impounded every man who passed along the road, until he counted ten upon his fingers, whereupon he doubled up his fists. His hands were full—the jury was complete.

The publican hustled the "good men and true" into the bar, like a flock of sheep, and was ready to "lamb" them down.

"Who stands drinks?" he said.

A man who had just finished painting the house, and was going to be paid that day, spoke up, and said, "I will; for I sees from that placard," pointing his thumb at it, "that drinks is to be redooced to-day from a shillin' to sixpence, so we'll wet the occasion."

"Give your commands, gentlemen!" said the publican; "keep the ball a-rollin'."

"Gin for me, some'at stiff, for I can't stand a corp," said one of the men.

"Brandy for me, as I feel a sinkin'," said another.

"Whisky for me; I've a qualm in the stummick."

"Beer, that's good for a buryin'," said the wag.

The publican and his wife handed out the drinks in a surprisingly short time. In some unaccountable way the news that free drinks were about had run round the place with fleet foot, and seventeen thirsty men and women stood up to receive them; then they drank and smacked their lips, for free drinks are sweet to the taste.

The publican poured out some brandy for himself, and immediately bawled: "Eighteen drinks, painter; hand us over the stiff."

"Here you are," said the painter, putting a sovereign into the publican's hand; at the same time trying to look pleased, but his mouth wouldn't go into the right position. The drawing was all wrong.

"Eighteen drinks, eighteen shillin's," said the publican.

"'Old 'ard," said the painter; "look at your own placard—sixpence each, if you please. I figur' it at nine shillin's, accordin' to Cocker."

"Placard be blowed!" said the publican; "everybody knows that, in legal dociments, the day begins at twelve o'clock. The price of drinks before twelve is a shillin', after twelve they is sixpence. Here's two shillin's change, painter!"

"All right!" said the painter in a whisper, and with a cunning wink to the constable, "Hark you, I'll be even with him! I'll charge him nine shillin's extra in my bill for turpentine and putty."

"The Crowner is sittin', the jury is summoned! Quick; every mother's son av yees!" said the constable.

The inquest was soon over. The local doctor had made a post mortem examination. The verdict of the jury was, "Died from natural causes."

The clock in the bar cuckooed eleven times. Drinks were still a shilling each, so no one would venture his nose within smell of liquor for an hour at least. The jury preferred a draught of fresh air just now, as the room in which they had sat was close and stuffy. Their courage had been uncorked and spilt in the presence of the "corp," and they felt as limp as a wet rag.

Bill was anxious to get away, and he was about to jump on his horse, when the constable rushed out of the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Bill Marlock," he said, "is it running yees are, an' lavin' me wid de corp, stark an' shtiff, to rattle his bones over the logs and boulders to de cimetery. Yees found him above ground, an' de laste yees can do is to see him under de turf."

"I don't mind if I do, seein' you put it in that way," said Bill.

"I thought yees would; shure he'd do the same for you any day!"

The coffin, with the dead man in it, was carried out. When the jurymen saw it they rushed forward to lend a hand, and buzzed about like flies round carrion. They felt they had an interest in the poor body within. They had "sat" upon it, and given their verdict. They had carried out the law's behest, and they would carry out the "remains" on their shoulders. Bill took off his hat, and every man followed his example. Then the coffin was reverently laid on a cart, and covered with old sacks. The constable climbed into the seat, gathered the reins in his left hand, and reminded the horse by a flick on the ear that it must look alive when it was carrying a dead man. The horse awoke with a start, and dashed down the road. Half a dozen horsemen, with Bill at their head, galloped after, enveloped in a cloud of dust—dust before and behind.

The funeral procession passed on at a quick pace, but had not gone many miles when the constable looked back and found that Bill was the only mourner. The other men had dropped out of the ranks, and had silently disappeared, one to his farm, and another to his merchandise.

In about two hours the constable and Bill arrived at the village of Mopoke. The only clergyman in the place was hastily summoned to read the burial service. He was writing his next Sunday's sermon, with a pipe in his mouth. He jumped up immediately, stuck his pen absently behind his ear, pulled his surplice from a peg, and hitched it over his shoulders as he made for the door. The prospect of a fee unstiffened his rheumatic joints. There had been no burial in Mopoke for a year.

Funerals were as rare and far between as white kangaroos. The unwonted strokes of the gravedigger's axe, cutting some saplings, had rung like a knell from the cemetery in the morning, and the whole population had turned out to know the why and the wherefore. Boys and girls had played truant, and hid behind the tombs, until the school bell had ceased to tinkle and trouble their consciences; then they kicked up their heels like a flock of lambs. They had about as little reverence for the dead as hyenas. The boys played leapfrog over the graves, and the girls ran up and down the mounds or had a game of hop-scotch on the weedy paths. Suddenly they were hushed by a solemn voice chanting the words, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord."

The children dashed away, tumbling over each other as they rushed to the grave, and clustered about it like rabbits round a water-hole in a drought. The cart came up slowly, and the horse looked solemn. The clergyman took his stand at the grave, reading the burial service, while the pebbles crunched under his feet and rattled below.

The constable represented the law, the clergyman the gospel.

With the help of Bill, the gravedigger lowered the coffin to its resting-place. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was said, and the earth was shovelled in right merrily. Very soon the old man was covered up, and tucked in his narrow bed. Only a little mound of earth showed the swelling of the puffed-up earth, proud of having swallowed another victim. Insatiable is the grave!

As soon as the gravedigger turned his back, the boys and girls proceeded to attest their presence as witnesses by writing their names, with knives, rusty nails, and pins, on the smooth black mound. Then there was a general exodus, and a fearful looking forward to punishment from the schoolmaster in the morning. The taskmaster was waiting for them. Pharaoh and all his host seemed to be in pursuit.

Bill Marlock heaved a sigh when he stood alone outside the cemetery gate. The old man was buried, but his spirit seemed to haunt him. He felt as if it were floating by his side, and pushing him in the direction of the Devil's Punch Bowl.

Bill stood in the middle of the road uncertain where to go. He took from his pocket the photograph of the girl with the pathetic eyes. Then he looked at the letter, signed "Mary," and at the diagram. He felt bewitched, for the eyes appeared to glance for a moment towards the north-west, where the old man died; the writing of the letter seemed to slope towards the same point; and the arrow on the diagram shot straight for that goal.

Fate was too strong for him, but he would give himself another chance. He would throw his stick in the air and see how it pointed when it fell. If it pointed to the north-west, he would go to the Devil's Punch Bowl; if not, he would go to Melbourne. He threw the stick, with many a twirl, and it fell, aiming at the north-west.

"Double, double toil and trouble," he said; "the dream and the omens are too much for me. To the Devil's Punch Bowl I must go."

He jumped on his horse, which had been cropping the short sweet grass, and rode as fast as he could till he came to the Pretty Sally Inn, where he had some bread and cheese, and bought some chops to carry with him; then he rode slowly up the gulley which led to the Devil's Punch Bowl.

CHAPTER IV

The tent was standing, just as he had left it on Sunday. There seemed to be a disconsolate, pathetic droop in the limp folds of the ragged canvas. Pathos and expression are not confined to living things. Some inanimate objects are invested with joy, others with a heritage of woe. A deserted digger's tent is the mournfullest thing in the world, the embodiment of misery in every fibre—desolation painted on canvas, as never limner's brush equalled.

He unpinned the tent flap and looked in. He almost expected to see the dead man, prone on the bed, staring with glassy eyes at the ridge-pole. He went into the tent and sat down on a block of wood which had served as a seat. Then he took the portrait from his pocket, and pinned it in the place where he had found it. He examined the diagram once more, and tried to get at the heart of it. It had a story to tell—a riddle might be guessed from it. He was here to learn what fate would unfold.

The sun was going down full of fire: long, inky shadows were creeping up the hills. Bill watched one of them going, inch by inch, nearer and nearer to the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl, when, lo! just at the edge, hit by the last patch of red, stood a tree, with two branches touching the ground, as in the diagram, one on either side, as if two men were hanging there.

"That is the tree, at any rate," he said. "Happy discovery! I'm on the track!"

Darkness began to come down like a shroud; a dingo howled up the gulley; a gun cracked in the distance, and echoed among the hills; a bittern boomed its dreary call; and a mopoke drawled its woebegone cry. Everything was weird and uncanny. Bill's hearing seemed preternaturally acute to-night. The sounds thrilled every nerve; he felt them in his bones and marrow. He was unutterably wretched, up here, above civilisation, warmth, and human society. He feared to be alone in the dead man's tent.

He had been pushed into his present position—mere clay in the hands of a higher Power. He felt in the presence of his Maker. He went into the tent, groped about for a candle, lit it, and fell upon his knees. When he arose there was a great peace in his soul. He was not doing his own will, but the will of Him who had sent him here for some purpose not yet apparent. It was hidden, but he had no doubt it would be made plain. It would develop as a bird develops in the shell.

He was tired, so he unwrapped his blankets, spread them on the bed, undressed himself, lay down, and was soon fast asleep.

When he awoke the sun was up, and shining cheerily through the thin canvas. Three magpies were chattering on the ridge-pole, telling the news of the night and all talking at once—all mouth and noise, like a cannon on the Queen's birthday, or like boys let loose from school—plenty of shouting, but no listening; pearls of wisdom dropping, and no one picking them up.

He rose, and made a fire by the side of a log; then filled the kettle and put it on; then he went to the creek and had a wash. He felt fresh as a trout, and sat down to wait till the steam came out of the hole in the lid of the kettle. In the meantime chops were frizzling in the pan. His appetite was in a state of exultation.

After breakfast he washed up, and was then ready to dive into the mystery wrapped up in the diagram. He stood silent for a few minutes in expectation, as nature stands hushed when waiting for a thunder shower. Spreading the diagram on his knee, he pored over it for half an hour. He was at a standstill. There was a deadlock. He had got the clue to one end of the line, for the tree was on the hillside clearly enough, corresponding exactly with the tree on the drawing; but what was the triangle at the other end of the line? He tried to imagine a three-sided figure, composed of the creek, a fallen log, and an outcrop of the rock; but he gave it up as a bad job, the lines being more like a dog's hind leg than a triangle. He spelled triangle over and over again. Nothing came of it. He was fairly cornered at every point. He cuffed and whipped his brains to no purpose.

At last he looked up, and his weary eyes rested on the tent. Viewed from the front it had a triangular shape.

"Fool!" he said, "not to see it before."

A line projected from the tent to the tree would give the line in the diagram.

"Now," he thought, "I must walk over the ground and find out whether the old man intended the figures to be 45 or 65, and whether he measured from the tree or the tent." He jumped up, placed himself in a bee-line between the tent and the tree, and walked fifteen paces, each of which he believed to be three feet. This distance would make forty-five feet. Then he looked for some indication, some mark or sign. There was nothing to indicate that man had ever disturbed this solitude. Forty-five was evidently not the distance. He would try sixty-five; so he paced to about this distance and stopped, but could see nothing unusual—nothing to guide him. He felt like a blind man groping his way in the Sahara.

CHAPTER V

He would try from the tree this time. He walked to it, then turned, and paced fifteen steps in a line with the tent. Here the ground was covered with broken pieces of quartz, but there was no mark or sign that would attract a bushman's eye. Then he walked about twenty feet more, when, suddenly, the ground seemed to give way under his feet, and he felt himself falling down a hole. He had just time to throw himself forward and clutch the solid earth. With a great effort he managed to hold on to the side of the hole and drag himself up. The excavation had been lightly covered with brushwood and earth. This was no doubt the key to the diagram, and something perhaps was to be unlocked here. Peering into the hole he saw a rough ladder, and went down it about fourteen feet. A marvellous sight filled his eyes with wonder! The cap of a reef had been broken off, and the stone blazed with gold. In half an hour he had picked out about twenty ounces.

He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. What was that noise? He heard a muffled rumbling, and the ground seemed to vibrate. Some animal was in the Devil's Punch Bowl, and was moving northwards. He lay motionless for a little while, then, as the footsteps grew fainter, he crept up the ladder, and raised his left eye above the top of the hole. A horse, with a man on his back, was slowly climbing the steep bank, and in a moment disappeared over the other side. Bill drew a sigh of relief. Last night he longed for company, now he did not wish to see a human creature. The rich shoot of gold he had come upon would make up for the poor surroundings and the awful solitude of the Devil's Punch Bowl. The gold would compensate for all.

He drew the brushwood over the mouth of the hole, then descended the ladder and lay down to rest. The excitement of finding the gold and the fear of being discovered had unnerved him. He was as a bow unstrung.

If it were known that he was working a rich claim near where the old man was found, it might be said that it was the dead man's, and that Bill had murdered him in order to get it. What a position to be placed in! This was the mess the Devil's Punch Bowl had brewed for him. "Double, double toil and trouble."

He must work like a mole, silently and in the dark, and must on no account show himself in the light of the sun. He would pick out as much gold as he could, and then, when night came on, he would creep up, cover the mouth of the hole, and grope his way to the tent. Of course he could go to Mopoke to-morrow and register the claim, so as to secure it against all comers. An innocent man like himself would have nothing to fear, but tongues would wag, wiseacres shake their heads, and envious eyes wink. Would it not be asked, "Why shouldn't Bill Marlock have murdered the old man?" "Wasn't it as plain as a foot-rule that he had ridden hot-haste to the place where the old man was working, and had murdered him for the sake of the rich claim?" "Dead men tell no tales." "Out of sight out of mind." "Then, when the secret was buried six feet under ground, he had gone back to take possession of his victim's property, just as Ahab had done, long ago, when he went to take possession of Naboth's vineyard. As Ahab had suffered, so would Bill Marlock."

These and such thoughts rushed over the grey matter of Bill's brain, as the wind rushes through the tree-tops.

He lay on the rock, and picked out the nuggets with his jack-knife. When the last gleam of light faded overhead his trousers' pockets were full. There was plenty more in sight. He had come upon a veritable goldsmith's shop.

When he could see no longer, he slowly ascended the ladder and listened. All was still. Putting the brushwood aside, he scrambled out of the hole, stood up to his full height, and drew a long breath. A cricket chirped, and made him tremble. His blood raced, and his bones seemed out of joint. No further sound smote the stillness. Then he covered up the hole, as carefully as he could, and crept away to the tent.

He dared not make a fire to-night, nor light a candle. The flickering stars eyed him, now and again, through rifts in the clouds, and enabled him to see a little.

His only thought now was to bury the gold. After a while he took a spade, and cut a solid square of earth in front of the bed, then he lifted it, unbroken, and poured the gold in the vacant space, as into a mould. This done, he fitted the piece of earth to its place again, and smoothed the edges with his fingers. Well satisfied with his work, he gave a sigh of satisfaction when he thought that Mother Earth's Bank was perhaps as safe as that of the Old Lady in Threadneedle Street. "As safe as a bank" has slipped out of our language now. We say "As unsafe as a bank," after what has occurred in Melbourne.

He tried to sleep, but the nuggets seemed to rattle through his brain like castanets at a Spanish dance. His riches oppressed him. The finding of the gold was a delight, but the keeping of it brought sorrow and trouble. He could not rest. He felt like a sentinel within forty yards of the enemy's guns, and expecting them to leap into flame every moment. To his disordered imagination the rustle of a leaf was an assassin's tread, the croak of a frog the whistle of a bullet.

But the night with its darkness passed away, and the sun came up over the white-gums on the ridge, with security and protection in his face. It was when his back was turned that the trouble would begin again, for when the street lamps of heaven were lit terrors crouched at every corner.

He would not pass another night in the tent: nothing would induce him! He would sleep in it all day, and work in the hole all night. There he would feel safe. He would pick out as many nuggets as he could, and flee to-morrow from this hateful spot.

He found a little stock of flour in the tent, with which he made a flat cake, then baked it in the ashes of his fire, fried a chop, and ate a hearty breakfast. His nerves, which had been unstrung, were screwed up again, and he felt as perky as the first fiddle in the orchestra.

He slept the sleep of the just, daylight standing surety for his safety.

When he awoke it was late in the afternoon. The sun was on the edge of the hill, and running down it like a coach wheel, without haste and without rest, and would soon be at the bottom.

As it would soon be dark he had to think in a hurry. It would not be safe to leave the tent for any marauder to enter and plunder under cover of night, while he was working at the mine. His plans were made quickly, and what he ought to do was flashed into his brain in a moment.

He went into the tent, took down the photograph of Mary, gazed into the eyes, and kissed the mouth. "All for you, Mary!" he said, then put the likeness in his pocket. He gave the poles on which the tent rested a kick, and the canvas collapsed about his shoulders. He dragged his late dwelling to the creek, loaded it with stones, and sank it in a deep pool, then hid a few utensils and useful things among the ferns.

When he could not have discerned a wild-cat's eye at ten paces, he crept to the mine and went down the ladder. He took a candle from the packet he had brought with him, and lit it. No glimmer of light could be seen from the upper regions, and no wayfarer would seek this lonely spot at night. He thought he would be safe here, but ghosts would come trooping down the ladder, in spite of all he could do.

The words of the ninety-first Psalm suddenly came into his mind, and illumined the mine: "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." He was down on his knees like a shot, asking guidance and protection; then rose in perfect peace, feeling safer than in chain armour, or with swords and guns by his side.

He worked steadily, breaking up the pliable stone, and taking out the gold as if he were picking plums from a pudding. When dawn showed over the top of the shaft he had obtained about fifty pounds weight, which he put in a bag. He was satisfied: he had enough. This loneliness and secrecy were too much for him. He could not bear the strain another night. Something would break.

He left the bag of gold in the mine, hidden among some loose stones, and went in search of his horse, which he found grazing by the side of the creek. He dug up the gold which he had buried in the tent, wrapped it in a towel, and rolled his blanket round it, then put the bundle on the horse, led the animal to the mouth of the mine, and fetched the bag of gold, which he strapped inside the blankets.

He was too excited to feel hungry. If food had been placed before him he could not have eaten any. The gold fever had taken away his appetite, as is the nature of fevers, yellow fever especially.

He covered the mouth of the hole with sticks and brushwood, then placed stones and earth over them. The excavation was cleverly hidden.

"Gee up, Brownie!"

He led the horse down the gulley to the main road, and went along it due east, up hill and down dale. In three hours he looked down upon the blue smoke, which ascended from fires that cooked late breakfasts in the sleepy town of Mopoke. In another half-hour he had caused the manager of the Bank of Victoria to raise his eyebrows an inch higher than usual in pure astonishment, when he unpacked the gold and laid it in a glittering heap on the counter.

"For heaven's sake," said the manager to his assistant, "lock both the front and back doors, and bring out the revolvers! The bank is closed till the escort goes out."

The gold was weighed, and kicked the beam in pure frolicsomeness, at 77 lbs. 7 oz. 7 dwt. It changed hands, becoming the property of the bank; and Bill went away, feeling as light as a feather, with a deposit receipt for a handsome amount, and a lot of sovereigns in his pocket. Then he went to the hotel, put his horse in the stable, with a feed of oats under his nose, and took a square meal himself of the best the house afforded.

CHAPTER VI

After the escort left the bank the sensational find of gold was whispered into a few greedy ears; then it was retailed, with large margins, and soon found its way to the bars of public-houses, where it was hammered into the counters with clenched fists or pewter pots.

It was noised abroad that Bill had taken lunch at the "Shearer's Arms." A few of the astute townspeople, with their weather eye open, determined to shepherd him and dog his footsteps. The landlord hoped to "lamb" him down.

The Melbourne coach suddenly came out of a cloud of dust, and drew up at the door. Bill was expecting it. He quickly paid his bill, and arranged to send his horse to grass for three months. Then he went outside, and sauntered up and down with the air of a man who had come to stay and enjoy himself. The bystanders gazed their fill, and gloated over the hid treasure that was supposed to be stowed away in his pockets.

"All aboard!" shouted the coachman from the box seat.

"Wait a moment!" said Bill while he sprang up beside him. "All right, driver!"

The off-leader got the tip on the right ear from the whip, which wakened his front half and made it spring in the air. Away the four horses went, scattering a flock of geese which was picking up a living on unconsidered trifles. There was a roar of disappointment from the astute ones.

"Blast 'im! if 'e 'asn't give us the slip!" said one.

"D——!" said another.

Another swore at large; hissing, red-hot, as from a furnace.

Another hastily unfastened the bridle of a horse from a hitching-post—which horse belonged to a respectable farmer—jumped on the animal's back, and went clattering down the street in chase of the coach. He said to himself, "He won't throw me off his tracks, darn him! I'll see where he goes!"

This man followed the coach till it was beyond the auriferous country, and far into the night; then his horse, which had shown unmistakable signs of giving in, refused to go another step.

At twelve o'clock next day Bill arrived in Melbourne. He did not say a word to any one about the gold. He kept the secret locked. He had settled it in his own mind that he was holding the money as a sacred trust for Mary. He was only the custodian, and not the owner.

The whole affair was bordered and fringed with the miraculous.

His first concern was to find Mary. That was the platform. "Seek, and ye shall find." That was the first plank. How it would shape who could tell? He would try to fit all the pieces into their places in his rough stumbling fashion, and leave a higher Power to do the smoothing and joining. He was in love with Mary, and hoped to get "spliced" some day. "Marriages are made in heaven." He had unbounded faith that there would be one on earth soon.

He went to the Argus office, and wrote an advertisement, in which he described Mary and the old man as well as he could, and stated that she would receive a legacy on application to B. M.

Next day he got an armful of letters from Marys who had lost a father, and hoped they had found a legacy. He was astonished to find how many girls so exactly answered the description of the Mary he was in search of. Before night he had written and posted letters to all the applicants, requesting them to meet him at his hotel next day.

At the hour appointed for the interview, babies in arms, children, young women, middle-aged ones, toothless spinsters, and grandmothers, were sent in to him, one after another, and dismissed with scant courtesy. His Mary was not among them.

He haunted the streets by day, and the theatres by night, in the hope of seeing her. He would know her eyes anywhere. If he met her he would almost greet her as an old friend, so well did he seem to know her.

Weeks passed away. As he could find no tidings of her he was getting downhearted, and was almost giving up the search, when, as he was passing along Brunswick Street, an interesting, youthful girl came out of a shop, and walked on before him. Something about her attracted his attention, and he followed her. She was evidently a servant. Suddenly she stopped at the gate of a respectable house, and turned her face towards him. Her eyes flashed across his bows, revealing the object he was in search of, as a harbour light reveals the port. It was his Mary!

He was not quite so sure the next moment, for her face underwent a change. The temporary brightness had disappeared; the lights were out, and a hopeless sorrow seemed to rest upon it. There was no feature he could identify. He stood bewildered, and then she was gone. He was conscious of a closing door.

"I was a fool!" he said. "Why didn't I ask her if her name was Mary, and settle the matter off-hand, receipt the account, and think no more about it. At the first glance I could have sworn she was Mary; at the next she seemed to have retired behind a veil, and was not the same—only a pretty girl with a melancholy cast of countenance. My imagination is playing tricks."

His hands shook, and his knees trembled. He supported himself by the railings in front of the house. Looking up, he saw a policeman eyeing him with suspicion, so he walked away to avoid being made a gazing-stock.

When he got to the end of the block, he upbraided himself for not making inquiries at the house into which the girl entered. He went back, and stood at the railings, taking a mental inventory of the house from the sky line to the earth line. A notice in the window, that board and residence might be had within, gave him an idea. He had thought of changing his lodgings, so he would knock at the door and make inquiries.

He rapped, and a servant came. He had expected that the other girl would appear, and flash her eyes at him as before.

"I came to make inquiries about board and residence," he stammered.

"I'll call Mrs. Blenners; walk in, sir."

He walked in, and Mrs. Blenners walked in behind him. She had seen him from the window, and was ready, like a tug steamer, to take him in tow, and bring him to good anchorage, with room to swing between the front parlour and the best bedroom, where he might spend his days in comfort and his nights in peace.

He looked at the best bedroom, and inspected the front parlour. He liked them; then hummed and hesitated, and had a question on the tip of his tongue about the girl he had followed, but drew it back just in time, as he reflected that so prim and well-starched a lady as Mrs. Blenners would extinguish him as she would a candle, and leave him in the dark—then farewell to further inquiry in this quarter.

Seeing him hesitate, and thinking he might slip through her fingers, she went into action, and fired argument, persuasion, and flattery at him. Before he knew his whereabouts he was carried by storm, and surrendered, paying the first indemnity in the shape of a fortnight's board and lodging.

"I shall come to-morrow," he said.

He went to his hotel, but could not rest. The face he had seen visited him in the night, and he was sleepless. Sometimes he felt sure he had found Mary, and was glad; but doubts would march in again, and his hopes were elbowed out of the way.

CHAPTER VII

About five o'clock the next day the rumble of a cab was heard by Mrs. Blenners, who was lying in wait.

"It is Mr. Marlock!" she shouted, with two concave hands at her mouth; "show him into the best bedroom."

Bill was ushered in by the servant who had opened the door the day before, and was swept up the stairs with his portmanteaux. When the bell rang for tea he went down to the front parlour, where twelve lodgers were already seated at table. Mrs. Blenners tossed her head towards Bill, and said, "Mr. Marlock"; then made her forefinger travel round the table, like the hour hand of a clock, while she ticked off the boarders, one by one, and repeated their names.

Introductions over, they all fell to on the viands with the energy of the feeder of a sewing-machine going at full speed.

Bill was on the watch, but the girl he was in search of did not appear. He heard Mrs. Blenners say to Annie the waiting maid, "Tell Mary to make more toast."

"This is hopeful," thought Bill; "but Mary is such a common name."

A week passed away, but he had not seen Mary. He was beginning to get impatient, and meditated a walk into the kitchen when Mrs. Blenners was upstairs. Just when this thought came into his mind he heard her say, in a stage whisper, "Mary, you have forgotten the slops."

The rattle of an iron pail was heard, and a light footstep ascended the stair. He waited, and watched for Mary to come down. When she was coming down he was going up. They met halfway. She looked scared, as she was caught carrying the slops, which should only be removed when no man person was near.

She would not look him in the face, so he could not see her eyes, and the light was bad. She was certainly something like his Mary, but not altogether. His Mary had a bright face; this one was sad. Sorrow had limned it, and grief had sculptured it.

He went into his room, and found that the washstand was in disorder, so he knew the girl would come up again as soon as he was out of the way. In the impulse of the moment he took the photograph of Mary, and the letter she had written to her father, and placed them prominently on the washstand; then he ostentatiously went downstairs to the parlour, and shut the door.

As he expected, the girl went to his room, which was just overhead. In a short time he heard a scream, and a heavy body falling. Instinctively he understood, and ascended the stair like a flying shadow. The girl lay white and motionless, with the letter in her hand. The scene required no explanation. It told its own tale. She reminded him of the old man, lying stiff and stark, by the side of the creek. He ran to the door, and, with a voice of urgency, shouted, "Mrs. Blenners!"

"Mercy! that's the new lodger," said Mrs. Blenners to Annie; "do you think he's mad, or dr——, I mean elevated?"

She dropped the rolling-pin on the paste-board with a clatter, and dashed her face with flour in her excitement, then fled upstairs as fast as her tottering legs would carry her. From the top of the landing she looked into the best bedroom, and there, to her horror, she saw Mary lying on the floor, apparently dead.

"Murder!" she screamed.

Annie, hearing this blood-curdling word, rushed out of the front door, and fell into the arms of a policeman, whispering "Murder."

The policeman, seeing the open door, went into the hall, and saw Mrs. Blenners wringing her hands, like wet cloths, over the banisters.

He took four flying leaps, and stood beside her.

"What's the matter?" he said.

She silently pointed at the best bedroom.

At that moment Bill put his head out at the door, and said, "She'll be all right soon!"

He had dashed water in her face, and had put a pillow under her head. Mrs. Blenners and the policeman bent over her as she was opening her eyes.

"She fainted," said Bill.

A doctor was sent for. He bustled up the stairs in a few minutes, and said to Mary, "How are you now?"

She gave him no answer.

"Ah, ah! I see," he said, "we must exhibit a little sal-volatile."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Blenners. "We don't want to exhibit her any more. She's made an exhibition of herself enough already. Such a thing never happened in my house before. Mr. Marlock, I'm sorry this has occurred in your room."

"I'm not," said Bill; "I've been hoping and praying to find her for a long time. Look at that photograph, and tell me if it is Mary's portrait."

"Yes! it's the very moral of her."

"Well! I've found her."

"Found her out, do you mean?" said Mrs. Blenners. "Are you a detective? A wolf in sheep's clothing—which devour widows' houses! I thought you was a respectable single gentleman. I'm ashamed of you! Mary's as good a girl as you'll find in a summer day's march."

"You mistake my meaning, Mrs. Blenners; Mary has been left some money, and I have been looking for her, and have found her here, like a diamond in a—a—gutter," he said, for want of a better word at the moment.

"Gutter! forsooth," she said. "Do you liken my house to a gutter?"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blenners; I meant to say like a diamond glittering in the golden setting of your most respectable house. Besides, I have to thank you for giving me the opportunity of finding her here. I'm sure you've been kind to her."

"Kind! I've been a mother to that girl."

"Where is my father?" said Mary, looking wildly around.

"Poor girl!" said Mrs. Blenners; "she hasn't heard from her father for months, and she thinks he's dead."

"He is dead," Bill whispered to Mrs. Blenners.

"Then she might have seen his ghost."

Mary now sat up, and pointed to the letter which was still in her hand.

"Where did you get that?" she said to Bill, "and that?" pointing to the photograph.

Bill told as much as he thought necessary, while the girl rose to her feet. Gradually, and as gently as possible, he told her of her father's death, also that he had advertised for her, and now, after a long time, had found her, and that she was the owner of thousands of pounds.

Mary could hardly believe her ears. She seemed to hear the words in a dream, and did not understand the meaning of them. They appeared to be the echo of something she had heard long ago.

In a short time she had recovered her usual composure, and was told, in the privacy of Mrs. Blenners' own room, the sad particulars of the finding of her father's body. She wept as if her heart would break. Then, bit by bit, he told the rest of the story—about the inquest, the funeral, the gold-reef, its great richness, and that the wealth obtained from it, amounting to thousands of pounds, was hers. At the same time he handed her the bank deposit receipt, and said, "It is all yours."

"No!" she said, "you are too generous."

She positively declined to take it till she had time to think the matter over.

"This is all high falutin!" said Mrs. Blenners.

She took the practical view of the question, and hurried away, with Mary under her wing, to one of the best shops in Bourke Street, where she bought, greatly to her delight, the best black materials for many dresses, besides bonnets, hats, gloves, etc. Mary was a passive instrument to be played on for her delectation. Mrs. Blenners spent a few happy hours. Shopping was a fine art which thrilled her soul. Money was of no consequence. It was like the "Old Man" plain of Riverina—there was no end to it.

Bill Marlock had told her to spend as much as she liked.

"That's a large order!" she said.

"Cut and come again; she's rolling in riches," said Bill.

So Mrs. Blenners had set off on the shopping campaign with a light heart.

For the next few weeks Mary and Bill were much together, she questioning, he informing her of everything she wished to know about her father, and of all that he himself had done on her father's behalf.

She thought Bill was one of the kindest and most disinterested of men.

When she was suitably attired in deep mourning, she was allowed to accompany Bill to the bank, to draw such moneys as were required, but Mrs. Blenners insisted on going with them for propriety's sake. They often, however, managed to get away when she was busy with her household duties, and had many pleasant excursions into the city and suburbs. They were both happy in each other's company.

On one of these excursions, Bill advised her to apply for a lease of the land comprised in the Devil's Punch Bowl, and have it thoroughly worked for the rich gold which was there.

"There is a great fortune lying there, and it's all yours, Mary," he said.

"And what will you do if I apply for the lease?"

"You might make me manager of the mine, if you can trust me," he said.

"Trust you! I would trust you with all I have got."

"If you will trust me with yourself, Mary, that is all I ask. I have loved you ever since I saw your photograph in the tent."

They looked at each other, and saw the honest light of love shining in each other's eyes.

She trusted him with herself, and has never regretted doing so.

The lease was applied for, and granted. The Devil's Punch Bowl became a scene of activity. A house was built on its rim for Bill and Mary. Men were employed to work the mine. Machinery was erected, and the stampers were soon playing merrily to the tune of five hundred ounces of gold a week.

Many years have passed away, but the mine is still worked with fair results. Bill and Mary have every reason to rejoice at the good fortune brewed for them in the Devil's Punch Bowl.

Bill has not forgotten his old friends of Yantala woolshed; for Norman Campbell, Jack Jewell, Tom Wren, Peter Amos, Sandy McKerrow, the stalwart giant with the shock of red hair, and others, are in positions of trust at the mine, and swear by him. Their children grow up and call him blessed.