Up at the camp they'll take on
any useless loafer wot's able to carry a carbine, and they'll give
you tucker, and you can keep your shirt clean. But, mind, if you do
join the Joeys, I hope you'll be shot. I'd shoot the hull blessed
lot of 'em if I had my way. They are nothin' but a pack of robbers."
The hairy man knew something of current history and statistics, but
he had not a pleasant way of imparting his knowledge.
Picaninny Gully ended in a flat, thinly timbered, where there were
only a few diggers. Turning to the left, Philip found two men near a
waterhole hard at work puddling. When he bade them good-day, they
did not swear at him, which was some comfort. They were brothers,
and were willing to talk, but they did not stop work for a minute.
They had a large pile of dirt, and were making hay while the sun
shone--that is, washing their dirt as fast as they could while the
water lasted. During the preceding summer they had carted their
wash-dirt from the gully until rain came and filled the waterhole.
They said they had not found any rich ground, but they could now make
at least a pound a day each by constant work. Philip thought they
were making more, as they seemed inclined to sing small; in those
days to brag of your good luck might be the death of you.
While Philip was away interviewing the diggers, Jack showed me where
he had worked his first claim, and had made 400 pounds in a few days.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130