elting away" at a solid
mass of quartz for some time without speaking, "Which," said he, "is the
hammer-headed end of your pick?" Then shaking his head, "Ah! I could guess
you were a Scotchman--brute force and blind ignorance!" He then proceeded
to show me how to do twice the amount of work at half the expenditure of
labour. I never remember a real digger who was not ready to help one, both
with advice and in practice, and I never experienced that "greening" of
new chums which is a prominent feature of most novels that deal with
Australian life.

In the absence of Lord Douglas, an old horse-artilleryman, Richardson by
name, was my usual comrade. A splendid fellow he was too, and one of the
few to be rewarded for his dogged perseverance and work. In a pitiable
state the poor man was when first we met, half dead from dysentery, camped
all alone under a sheet of coarse calico. Emaciated from sickness, he was
unable to follow his horses, which had wandered in search of food and
water, though they constituted his only earthly possession. How he, and
many another I could mention, survived, I cannot think. But if a man
declines to die, and fights for life, he is hard to kill!

Amongst the prospectors it was customary for one mate to look after the
horses, and pack water to the others who worked. These men, of course,
knew several sources unknown to the general public. It was from one of
them that we learnt of the existence of a small soak some thirteen miles
from Coolgardie. Seeing no hope of rain, and no prospect of being able to
stop longer at Coolgardie, Mr. Davies, who camped near us, and I, decided
to make our way to this soak, and wait for better or worse times. Taking
the only horse which remained to us, and what few provisions we had, we
changed our residence from the dust-swept flats of Coolgardie to the
silent bush, where we set up a little hut of boughs, and awaited the
course of events. Sheltered from the sun's burning rays by our house, so
low that it could only be entered on hands and knees, for we had neither
time nor strength to build a spacious structure, and buoyed up by the
entrancement of reading "The Adventures of a Lady's Maid," kindly lent by
a fellow-digger, we did our best to spend a "Happy Christmas."

Somehow, the climate and surroundings seemed singularly inappropriate;
dust could not be transformed, even in imagination, into snow, nor heat
into frost, any more easily than we could turn dried apple