er of the goldfields or
otherwise--so they did the only thing possible and sensible, they joined
forces and became 'Poynton, Regan, & Party'. They agreed to work the
ground from the separate shafts, and decided to go ahead, irrespective
of appearances, and get as much dirt out and cradled as possible before
the inevitable exposure came along. They found plenty of 'payable dirt',
and soon the drive ended in a cluster of roomy chambers. They timbered
up many coffins of various ages, burnt tarred canvas and brown
paper, and kept the fan going. Outside they paid the storekeeper with
difficulty and talked of hard times.

But one fine sunny morning, after about a week of partnership, they got
a bad scare. Jim and Kullers were below, getting out dirt for all they
were worth, and Pinter and Dave at their windlasses, when who should
march down from the cemetery gate but Mother Middleton herself. She was
a hard woman to look at. She still wore the old-fashioned crinoline and
her hair in a greasy net; and on this as on most other sober occasions,
she wore the expression of a rough Irish navvy who has just enough drink
to make him nasty and is looking out for an excuse for a row. She had
a stride like a grenadier. A digger had once measured her step by her
footprints in the mud where she had stepped across a gutter: it measured
three feet from toe to heel.

She marched to the grave of Jimmy Middleton, laid a dingy bunch of
flowers thereon, with the gesture of an angry man banging his fist down
on the table, turned on her heel, and marched out. The diggers were dirt
beneath her feet. Presently they heard her drive on in her spring-cart
on her way into town, and they drew breaths of relief.

It was afternoon. Dave and Pinter were feeling tired, and were just
deciding to knock off work for that day when they heard a scuffling in
the direction of the different shafts, and both Jim and Kullers dropped
down and bundled in in a great hurry. Jim chuckled in a silly way, as if
there was something funny, and Kullers guffawed in sympathy.

'What's up now?' demanded Dave apprehensively.

'Mother Middleton,' said Jim; 'she's blind mad drunk, and she's got a
bottle in one hand and a new pitchfork in the other, that she's bringing
out for some one.'

'How the hell did she drop to it?' exclaimed Pinter.

'Dunno,' said Jim. 'Anyway she's coming for us. Listen to her!'

They didn't have to listen hard. The language which came down the
shaft