he water
was nearly level with the top of the hole, and all hope of saving him
was gone. The brothers had often been warned of the danger they
were running.

Shuddering at the thoughts of this awful death we turned away, but no
change of scene could dissipate it from our minds--the remembrance of
it haunted me for many a night.

Jessie seemed pleased to see us on our return--we had left her behind
with Gregory to his great delight--we abstained from mentioning before
her the fearful accident we had but witnessed.

That evening we wandered about Forest Creek. We had not gone far before
a digger with a pistol in his hand shot by us; he was followed by an
immense mob, hooting, yelling, and screaming, as only a mob at the
diggings can. It was in full pursuit, and we turned aside only in time
to prevent ourselves from being knocked down in the confusion.

"Stop him--stop him," was the cry. He was captured, and the cry changed
to, "String him up--string him up--it's useless taking him to the
police-office."

"What has he done?" asked my brother of a quiet by-stander.

"Shot a man in a quarrel at a grogshop."

"String him up--string him up--confront him with the body," vociferated
the mob.

At this moment the firmly-secured and well-guarded culprit passed by, to
be confronted with the dead body of his adversary. No sooner did he
come into his presence than the CI-DEVANT corpse found his feet,
"showed fight," and roared out, "Come on," with a most unghostlike
vehemence. The fury of the mob cooled down; the people thought the man
had been murdered, whereas the shot, fortunately for both, had glanced
over the forehead without doing any serious injury. Taking advantage of
this lull, the fugitive declared that the wounded man had been robbing
him. This turned the tables, and, inspired by the hootings of the now
indignant mob, the "dead man" took to his heels and disappeared.

The diggers in Pennyweight Flat, Nicholson's Gully, Lever Flat, Dirty
Dick's Gully, Gibson's Flat, at the mouth of Dingley Dell, and in
Dingley Dell itself, were tolerably contented with their gains,
although in many instances, the parties who were digging in the
centre of the gullies, or what is called "the slip," experienced
considerable trouble in bailing the water out of their holes.

Some of the names given to the spots about Forest Creek are anything
but euphonious. Dingley Dell is, however, an exception, and sounds
quite musical compared to