r
nature so to work at whatever their hands found to do. They had not set
their hearts upon the gold.

After dinner Harry went out to drive his pick and shovel. Bax remained
in the tent to drive the quill.

That night the two friends lay chatting and smoking in their tent after
supper, with a solitary candle between them, and the result of the day's
work--a small pile of shining dust--before them.

"We'll not make our fortunes at this rate," observed Harry, with a sigh.

"There's no saying what good fortune may be in store for us," observed
Bax; "but put away the gold, it will do us no good to gaze at it."

Harry rolled the little heap in a piece of paper, and tossed it into the
leathern bag which contained their earnings.

"Come now," said he, replenishing his pipe, "let's hear the letter, Bax,
who d'ye say's the friend you've written to?"

"He's a boy," said Bax, "Tommy Bogey by name, of which name, by the way,
he has no reason to be proud--but he's a first-rate fellow, and I fear
will have set me down as a faithless friend, for I left him without
saying good-bye, and the letter I wrote to him on my arrival here went
to the bottom with the unfortunate ship that carried it. However, here
is the epistle. I'm open to correction, Harry, if you think any part of
it not ship-shape."

"All right," said Harry, "go ahead."

Bax read as follows:--

"Kangaroo Flats, Daisy Hill Diggings,

"Australia, _10th January_, 18--.

"MY DEAR TOMMY,--The mail is just about to leave us, so I write to let
you know where I am and what doing--also to tell you that I have just
heard of the wreck of the ship that conveyed my first letter to you,
which will account for my _apparent_ neglect.

"Gold digging is anything but a paying affair, I find, and it's the
hardest work I've ever had to do. I have only been able to pay my way
up to this time. Everything is fearfully dear. After deducting the
expenses of the last week for cartage, sharpening picks, etcetera, I
and my mate have just realised 15 shillings each; and this is the
first week we have made anything at all beyond what was required for
our living. However, we live and work on in the hope of turning up a
nugget, or finding a rich claim, singing--though we can't exactly
believe--`There's a good time coming.'" Here Bax paused. "I won't
read the next paragraph," said he, with a smile, "because it's about
yourself, Harry, so I'll skip.