Ballarat," he
said, after a moment's hesitation.

"Is that mine productive?" we asked.

"It's as rich as any of them. You may sink a shaft and strike a vein,
and you may get nothing. It's all a lottery."

We consulted together for a few minutes, and concluded to try our
fortunes at Ballarat, and so signified to our acquaintance.

"Then shoulder your traps, and I'll show you my shanty. You can sleep
there to-night, and, let me tell you, it's a favor that I wouldn't grant
to half of my countrymen."

As we considered pride out of place in that country, we readily accepted
his offer, and in a few minutes were walking through the streets of
Melbourne with a convicted felon.

We found his hut to be built of rough boards, with but one room; and the
furniture consisted of a stove, wooden benches, a pine table, and a
curiosity in the shape of a bedstead.

That night we learned more of the customs of the Australians from our
host, who gave the name of Smith as the one which he was to be called
by, than we should have found out by a six months' residence.

Over a bottle of whiskey, which was made in Yankeeland, we spent our
first night in Australia.

"Come," said Smith, about ten o'clock, "it's time we were asleep, for we
start early in the morning, and before to-morrow night you'll not feel
as fresh as you do at present."

As he spoke he removed the whiskey, and in half an hour deep snoring was
the only sound of life in the convict's hut.

CHAPTER II.

A MORNING IN AUSTRALIA.--JOURNEY TO THE MINES OF BALLARAT.--THE
CONVICT'S STORY.--BLACK DARNLEY, THE BUSHRANGER.

"Hallo!" cried a gruff voice, accompanied by a gentle shake, which was
sufficient to arouse Fred and myself from a deep sleep, that was
probably caused by the whiskey.

The time had passed so swiftly that it did not seem an hour since we had
first stretched ourselves upon our blankets on the floor.

We rubbed our eyes and sat up, looking around the Australian's hut,
almost fancying that we were still dreaming. A spluttering tallow candle
was dimly burning, stuck in the neck of a porter bottle, and a fire was
lighted in the old broken stove, on which was hissing a spider filled
with small bits of beef and pieces of potatoes. A sauce pan was doing
duty for a coffee-pot, and the fragrant berry was agreeable to the
nostrils of hungry men. Our host, the convict Smith, after he had
aroused us, seated himself upon a three-legged stool, and was busil