Suddenly his conversation with his partner came back into his mind. What was it Boss had said upon the subject? “Tell her how they live at the mines.” He revolved it in his brain. It seemed a curious thing to talk about; but Boss had said it, and Boss was always right. He would take the plunge; so, with a premonitory hem he blurted out:

  “They live mostly on bacon and beans in the valley.”

  He could not see what effect this communication had upon his companion. He was too tall to be able to peer under the little straw bonnet. She did not answer. He would try again.

  “Mutton on Sundays,” he said.

  Even this failed to arouse any enthusiasm. In fact she seemed to be laughing. Boss was evidently wrong. The young man was in despair. The sight of a ruined hut beside the pathway conjured up a fresh idea. He grasped at it as a drowning man to a straw.

  “Cockney Jack built that,” he remarked. “Lived there till he died.”

  “What did he die of?” asked his companion.

  “Three star brandy,” said Abe, decisively. “I used to come over of a night when he was bad and sit by him. Poor chap! he had a wife and two children in Putney. He’d rave, and call me Polly, by the hour. He was cleaned out, hadn’t a red cent; but the boys collected rough gold enough to see him through. He’s buried there in that shaft; that was his claim, so we just dropped him down it an’ filled it up. Put down his pick too, an’ a spade an’ a bucket, so’s he’d feel kinder perky and at home.”

  Miss Carrie seemed more interested now.

  “Do they often die like that?” she asked.

  “Well, brandy kills many; but . there’s more get’s dropped—shot, you know.”

  “I don’t mean that. Do many men die alone and miserable down there, with no one to care for them?” and she pointed to the cluster of houses beneath them. “Is there anyone dying now? It is awful to think of.”

  “There’s none as I knows on likely to throw up their hand.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use so much slang, Mr.

  Durton,” said Carrie, looking up at him reprovingly out of her violet eyes. It was strange what an air of proprietorship this young lady was gradually assuming toward her gigantic companion. “You know it isn’t polite. You should get a dictionary and learn the proper words.”

  “Ah, that’s it!” said Bones, apologetically. “It’s gettin’ your hand on the proper one. When you’ve not got a steam drill, you’ve got to put up with a pick.”

  “Yes, but it’s easy if you really try. You could say that a man was ‘dying,’ or ‘moribund,’ if you like.”

  “That’s it,” said the miner, enthusiastically. “‘Moribund’! That’s a word. Why, you could lay over Boss Morgan in the matter of words. ‘Moribund!’ There’s some sound about that.”

  Carrie laughed.

  “It’s not the sound you must think of, but whether it will express your meaning. Seriously, Mr. Durton, if anyone should be ill in the camp you must let me know. I can nurse, and I might be of use. You will, won’t you?”

  Abe readily acquiesced, and relapsed into silence as he pondered over the possibility of inoculating himself with some long and tedious disease. There was a mad dog reported from Buckhurst. Perhaps something might be done with that.

  “And now I must say good-morning,” said Carrie, as they came to the spot where a crooked pathway branched off from the track and wound up to Azalea Villa. “Thank you ever so much for escorting me.”

  In vain Abe pleaded for the additional hundred yards, and adduced the overwhelming weight of the diminutive basket as a cogent reason. The young lady was inexorable. She had taken him too far out of his way already. She was ashamed of herself; she wouldn’t hear of it.

  So poor Bones departed in a mixture of many opposite feelings. He had interested her. She had spoken kindly to him. But then she had sent him away before there was any necessity; she couldn’t care much about him if she would do that. I think he might have felt a little more cheerful, however, had he seen Miss Carrie Sinclair as she watched his retiring figure from the garden-gate with a loving look upon her saucy face, and a mischievous smile at his bent head and desponding appearance.

  The Colonial Bar was the favorite haunt of the inhabitants of Harvey’s Sluice in their hours of relaxation. There had been a fierce competition between it and the rival establishment termed the Grocery, which, in spite of its innocent appellation, aspired also to dispense spirituous refreshments. The importation of chairs into the latter had led to the appearance of a settee in the former. Spittoons appeared in the Grocery against a picture in the Bar, and, as the frequenters expressed it, the honors were even. When, however, the Grocery led a window-curtain, and its opponent returned a snuggery and a mirror, the game was declared to be in favor of the latter, and Harvey’s Sluice showed its sense of the spirit of the proprietor by withdrawing their custom from his opponent.

  Though every man was at liberty to swagger into the Bar itself, and bask in the shimmer of its many colored bottles, there was a general feeling that the snuggery, or special apartment, should be reserved for the use of the more prominent citizens. It was in this room that committees met, that opulent companies were conceived and born, and that inquests were generally held. The latter, I regret to state, was, in 1861, a pretty frequent ceremony at the Sluice; and the findings of the coroner were sometimes characterized by a fine breezy originality. Witness when Bully Burke, a notorious desperado, was shot down by a quiet young medical man, and a sympathetic jury brought in that “the deceased had met his death in an ill-advised attempt to stop a pistol-ball while in motion,” a verdict which was looked upon as a triumph of jurisprudence in the camp, as simultaneously exonerating the culprit, and adhering to the rigid and undeniable truth.

  On this particular evening there was an assemblage of notabilities in the snuggery, though no such pathological ceremony had called them together. Many changes had occurred of late which merited dismission; and it was in this chamber, gorgeous in all the effete luxury of the mirror and settee, that Harvey Sluice was wont to exchange ideas. The recent cleansing of the population was still causing some ferment in men’s minds. Then there was Miss Sinclair and her movements to be commented on, and the paying lead in the Conemara, and the recent rumors of bushrangers. It was no wonder that the leading men in the township had come together in the Colonial Bar.

  The rangers were the present subject of discussion. For some few days rumors of their presence had been flying about, and an uneasy feeling had pervaded the colony. Physical fear was a thing little known in Harvey’s Sluice. The miners would have turned out to hunt down the desperadoes with as much zest as if they had been so many kangaroos. It was the presence of a large quantity of gold in the town which caused anxiety. It was felt that the fruits of their labor must be secured at any cost. Messages had been sent over to Buckhurst for as many troopers as could be spared, and in the mean time the main street of the Sluice was paraded at night by volunteer sentinels.

  A fresh impetus had been given to the panic by the report brought in to-day by Jim Struggles. Jim was of an ambitious and aspiring turn of mind, and after gazing in silent disgust at his last week’s clean up, he had metaphorically shaken the clay of Harvey’s Sluice from his feet, and had started off into the woods with the intention of prospecting round until he could hit upon some likely piece of ground for himself. Jim’s story was that he was sitting upon a fallen trunk eating his mid-day damper and rusty bacon, when his trained ear had caught the clink of horses’ hoofs. He had hardly time to take the precaution of rolling off the tree and crouching down behind it, before a troop of men came riding down through the bush, and passed within a stone-throw of him.

  “There was Bill Smeaton and Murphy Duff,” said Struggles, naming two notorious ruffians; “and there was three more that I couldn’t rightly see. And they took the trail to the right, and looked like business all over, with their guns in their hands.”

  Jim was submitted to a searching cross-examination that evening; but nothing could shake his testimony or throw a further light upon what he had seen. He told the story several times and at long intervals; and though there might be a pleasing variety in the minor incidents, the main facts were always identically the same. The matter began to look serious.

  There were a few, however, who were loudly sceptical as to the existence of the rangers, and the most prominent of these was a young man who was perched on a barrel in the centre of the room, and was evidently one of the leading spirits in the community. We have already seen that dark curling hair, lack-lustre eye, and thin cruel lip in the person of Black Tom Ferguson, the rejected suitor of Miss Sinclair. He was easily distinguishable from the rest of the party by a tweed coat, and other symptoms of effeminacy in his dress, which might have brought him into disrepute had he not, like Abe Durton’s partner, early established the reputation of being a quietly desperate man. On the present occasion he seemed somewhat under the influence of liquor, a rare occurrence with him, and probably to be ascribed to his recent disappointment. He was almost fierce in his denunciation of Jim Struggles and his story.

  “It’s always the same,” he said; “if a man meets a few travellers in the bush, he’s bound to come back raving about rangers. If they’d seen Struggles there, they would have gone off with a long yarn about a ranger crouching behind a tree. As to recognizing people riding fast among tree-trunks—it is an impossibility.”

  Struggles, however, stoutly maintained his original assertion, and all the sarcasms and arguments of his opponent were thrown away upon his stolid complacency. It was noticed that Ferguson seemed unaccountably put out about the whole matter. Something seemed to be on his mind, too; for occasionally he would spring off his perch and pace up and down the room with an abstracted and very forbidding look upon his swarthy face. It was a relief to everyone when suddenly catching up his hat, and wishing the company a curt “Good-night,” he walked off through the bar, and into the street beyond.

  “Seems kinder put out,” remarked Long McCoy.

  “He can’t be afeard of the rangers, surely,” said Joe Shamus, another man of consequence, and principal shareholder of the El Dorado.

  “No, he’s not the man to be afraid,” answered another. “There’s something queer about him the last day or two. He’s been long trips in the woods without any tools. They do say that the assayer’s daughter has chucked him over.”

  “Quite right too. A darned sight too good for him,” remarked several voices.

  “It’s odds but he has another try,” said Shamus. “He’s a hard man to beat when he’s set his mind on a thing.”

  “Abe Durton’s the horse to win,” remarked Houlahan, a little bearded Irishman. “It’s sivin to four I’d be willin’ to lay on him.”

  “And you’d be afther losing your money, a-vich,” said a young man with a laugh. “She’ll want more brains than ever Bones had in his skull, you bet.”

  “Who’s seen Bones to-day?” asked McCoy.

  “I’ve seen him,” said the young miner. “He came round all through the camp asking for a dictionary—wanted to write a letter likely.”

  “I saw him readin’ it,” said Shamus. “He came over to me and told me he’d struck something good at the first show. Showed me a word about as long as your arm-—‘abdicate,’ or something.”

  “It’s a rich man he is now, I suppose,” said the Irishman.

  “Well, he’s about made his pile. He holds a hundred feet of the Conemara, and the shares go up every hour. If he’d sell out he’d be about fit to go home.”

  “Guess he wants to take somebody home with him,” said another. “Old Joshua wouldn’t object, seein’ that the money is there.”

  I think it has been already recorded in this narrative that Jim Struggles, the wandering prospector, had gained the reputation of being the wit of the camp. It was not only in airy badinage, but in the conception and execution of more pretentious practical pleasantries that Jim had earned his reputation. His adventure in the morning had caused a certain stagnation in his usual flow of humor; but the company and his potations were gradually restoring him to a more cheerful state of mind. He had been brooding in silence over some idea since the departure of Ferguson, and he now proceeded to evolve it to his expectant companions.

  “Say, boys,” he began. “What day’s this?”

  “Friday, ain’t it?”

  “No, not that. What day of the month?”

  “Darned if I know!”

  “Well, I’ll tell you now. It’s the first o’ April. I’ve got a calendar in the hut as says so.”

  “What if it is?” said several voices.

  “Well, don’t you see, it’s All Fools’ day. Couldn’t we fix up some little joke on some one, eh? Couldn’t we get a laugh out of it? Now there’s old Bones, for instance; he’ll never smell a rat. Couldn’t we send him off somewhere and watch him go maybe? We’d have something to chaff him on for a month to come, eh?”

  There was a general murmur of assent. A joke, however poor, was always welcome to the Sluice. The broader the point, the more thoroughly was it appreciated. There was no morbid delicacy of feeling in the gulches.

  “Where shall we send him?” was the query.

  Jim Struggles was buried in thought for a moment. Then an unhallowed inspiration seemed to come over him, and he laughed uproariously, rubbing his hands between his knees in the excess of his delight.

  “Well, what is it?” asked the eager audience.

  “See here, boys. There’s Miss Sinclair. You was saying as Abe’s gone on her. She don’t fancy him much you think. Suppose we write him a note—send it him to-night, you know.”

  “Well, what then?” said McCoy.

  “Well, pretend the note is from her, d’ye see? Put her name at the bottom. Let on as she wants him to come up an’ meet her in the garden at twelve. He’s bound to go. He’ll think she wants to go off with him. It’ll be the biggest thing played this year.”

  There was a roar of laughter. The idea conjured up of honest Bones mooning about in the garden, and of old Joshua coming out to remonstrate with a double-barrelled shot-gun, was irresistibly comic. The plan was approved of unanimously.

  “Here’s pencil and here’s paper,” said the humorist. “Who’s goin’ to write the letter?”

  “Write it yourself, Jim,” said Shamus.

  “Well, what shall I say?

  “Say what you think right.”

  “I don’t know how she’d put it,” said Jim, scratching his head in great perplexity. “However, Bones will never know the differ. How will this do? ‘Dear old man. Come to the garden at twelve tonight, else I’ll never speak to you again,’ eh?”

  “No, that’s not the style,” said the young miner. “Mind, she’s a lass of eddication. She’d put it kinder flowery and soft.”

  “Well, write it yourself,” said Jim, sulkily, handing him over the pencil.

  “This is the sort of thing,” said the miner, moistening the point of it in his mouth. “‘When the moon is in the sky—’”

  “There it is. That’s bully,” from the company.

  “‘And the stars a-shinin’ bright, meet, O meet me, Adolphus, by the garden-gate at twelve.’”

  “His name ain’t Adolphus,” objected a critic.

  “That’s how the poetry comes in,” said the miner. “It’s kinder fanciful, d’ye see. Sounds a darned sight better than Abe. Trust him for guessing who she means.’ I’ll sign it Carrie. There!”

  This epistle was gravely passed round the room from hand to hand, and reverentially gazed upon as being a remarkable production of the human brain. It was then folded up and committed to the care of a small boy, who was solemnly charged under dire threats to deliver it at the shanty, and to make off before any awkward questions were asked him. It was only after he had disappeared in the darkness that some slight compunction visited one or two of the company.

  “Ain! it playing it rather low on the girl?” said Shamus.

  “And rough on old Bones?” suggested another.

  However, these objections were overruled by the majority, and disappeared entirely upon the appearance of a second jorum of whiskey. The matter had almost been forgotten by the time that Abe had received his note, and was spelling it out with a palpitating heart under the light of his solitary candle.

  That night has long been remembered in Harvey’s Sluice. A fitful breeze was sweeping down from the distant mountains, moaning and sighing among the deserted claims. Dark clouds were hurrying across the moon, one moment throwing a shadow over the landscape, and the next allowing the silvery radiance to shine down, cold and clear upon the little valley, and bathe in a weird mysterious light the great stretch of bushland on either side of it. A great loneliness seemed to rest on the face of Nature. Men remarked afterward on the strange eerie atmosphere which hung over the little town.

  It was in the darkness that Abe Durton sallied out from his little shanty. His partner, Boss Morgan, was still absent in the bush, so that beyond the ever-watchful Blinky there was no living being to observe his movements. A feeling of mild surprise filled his simple soul that his angel’s delicate fingers could have formed those great straggling hieroglyphics; however, there was the name at the foot, and that was enough for him. She wanted him, no matter for what, and with a heart as pure and as heroic as any knight-errant, this rough miner went forth at the summons of his love.

  He groped his way up the steep winding track which led to Azalea Villa. There was a little clump of small trees and shrubs about fifty yards from the entrance of the garden. Abe stopped for a moment when he had reached them in order to collect himself. It was hardly twelve yet, so that he had a few minutes to spare. He stood under their dark canopy peering at the white house vaguely outlined in front of him. A plain enough little dwelling-place to any prosaic mortal, but girt with reverence and awe in the eyes of the lover.