I doubt if his intention had been suicide, but had it been he
could hardly have chosen a more deadly weapon than the whiskey of those
days.
The "rush to Hannan's" had depopulated Coolgardie and the next day saw
Davies and myself amongst an eager train of travellers bound for the new
site of fortune. "Little Carnegie" was harnessed to a small cart, which
carried our provisions and tools. The commissariat department was easily
attended to, as nothing was obtainable but biscuits and tinned soup. It
was now mid-winter, and nights were often bitterly cold. Without tent or
fly, and with hardly a blanket between us, we used to lie shivering at
night.
A slight rain had fallen, insufficient to leave much water about, and yet
enough to so moisten the soil as to make dry-blowing impossible in the
ordinary way. Fires had to be built and kept going all night, piled up on
heaps of alluvial soil dug out during the day. In the morning these heaps
would be dry enough to treat, and ashes and earth were dry-blown
together - the pleasures of the ordinary process being intensified by the
addition of clouds of ashes.
A strange appearance these fires had, dotted through the brush, lighting
up now a tent, now a water-cart, now a camp of fortunate ones lying cosily
under their canvas roof, now a set of poor devils with hardly a rag to
their backs.
