"A canary a-piece."
"Agreed." And we gladly sprung in. For the sake of the uninitiated, I
must explain that, in digger's slang, a "canary" and half-a-sovereign
are synonymous.
We passed the "Porcupine Inn." We halted at noon, dined, and about two
hours after sighted the Commissioners' tent. In a few minutes the cart
stopped.
"Can't take yer not no further. If the master seed yer, I'd cotch it
for taking yer at all."
We paid him and alighted.
Chapter XI.
FOREST CREEK
In my last chapter we were left standing not far from the
Commissioners' tent, Forest Creek, at about three o'clock in the
afternoon of Saturday, the 16th. An air of quiet prevailed, and made
the scene unlike any other we had as yet viewed at the diggings. It was
the middle of the month; here and there a stray applicant for a licence
might make his appearance, but the body of the diggers had done so long
before, and were disseminated over the creek digging, washing, or
cradling, as the case might be, but here at least was quiet. To the
right of the Licensing Commissioners' tent was a large one
appropriated to receiving the gold to be forwarded to Melbourne by the
Government escort. There were a number of police and pensioners about.
Not many months ago, the scarcity of these at the diggings had
prevented the better class of diggers from carrying on their operations
with any degree of comfort, or feeling that their lives and property
were secure.
