(You do not sink
deep enough, Signore Editor.) Slabs that had cost us some eight pounds
a hundred would not fetch, afterwards, one pound.
We left them to sweat
freely in the hole; and all the mob got on the fuddle. My mate and myself
thought we had been long enough together, and got asunder for a change.
I was soon on the tramp again. Bryant's Ranges was the go of the day,
and I started thither accordingly. December, 1853. Oh, Lord! what a pack
of ragamuffins over that way! I got acquainted with the German party
who found out the Tarrangower den; shaped my hole like a bathing tub,
and dropped "on it" right smart. Paid two pounds to cart one load down
the Loddon, and left two more loads of washing stuff, snug and wet
with the sweat of my brow over the hole. Got twenty-eight pennyweights
out of the load. Went back the third day, brisk and healthy, to cart down
the other two loads. Washing stuff! gone: hole! gone: the gully itself!
gone: the whole face of it had been clean shaved. Never mind, go ahead again.
Got another claim on the surface-hill. No search for licence: thank God,
had none. Nasty, sneaky, cheeky little things of flies got into my eyes:
could see no more, no ways. Mud water one shilling a bucket! Got the
dysentery; very bad. Thought, one night, to reef the yards and drop
the anchor.
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