had fair hair, blue eyes, and a thin old-fashioned face--a face that
would scarcely alter as he grew to manhood. His costume consisted of a
pair of moleskin trousers, a cotton shirt, and one suspender. He held
the slate rigidly with a corner of its frame pressed close against his
ribs, whilst his head hung to one side, so close to the slate that his
straggling hair almost touched it. He was regarding his work fixedly
out of the corners of his eyes, whilst he painfully copied down the head
line, spelling it in a different way each time. In this laborious task
he appeared to be greatly assisted by a tongue that lolled out of the
corner of his mouth and made an occasional revolution round it, leaving
a circle of temporarily clean face. His small clay-covered toes also
entered into the spirit of the thing, and helped him not a little by
their energetic wriggling. He paused occasionally to draw the back of
his small brown arm across his mouth.

Little Isley Mason, or, as he was called, "His Father's Mate," had
always been a favourite with the diggers and fossickers from the days
when he used to slip out first thing in the morning and take a run
across the frosty flat in his shirt. Long Bob Sawkins would often tell
how Isley came home one morning from his run in the long, wet grass as
naked as he was born, with the information that he had lost his shirt.

Later on, when most of the diggers had gone, and Isley's mother was
dead, he was to be seen about the place with bare, sunbrowned arms and
legs, a pick and shovel, and a gold dish about two-thirds of his height
in diameter, with which he used to go "a-speckin'" and "fossickin'"
amongst the old mullock heaps. Long Bob was Isley's special crony, and
he would often go out of his way to lay the boy outer bits o' wash
and likely spots, lamely excusing his long yarns with the child by the
explanation that it was "amusin' to draw Isley out."

Isley had been sitting writing for some time when a deep voice called
out from below:

"Isley!"

"Yes, father."

"Send down the bucket."

"Right."

Isley put down his slate, and going to the shaft dropped the bucket down
as far as the slack rope reached; then, placing one hand on the bole of
the windlass and holding the other against it underneath, he let it
slip round between his palms until the bucket reached bottom. A sound of
shovelling was heard for a few moments, and presently the voice cried,
"Wind away, sonny."

"Thet ain't