Rolf Boldrewood
The Ghost Camp
“Dear Mrs. Bruce, – To say that for your kind and considerate letter I feel most deeply grateful, would be to understate my mental condition lamentably. After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed as if the whole world was against me; and, conscious as I was of entire innocence, except of an act of egregious folly (not the first one, I may confess, which a sanguine temperament and a constitutional disregard of caution have placed to my account), my spirits were lowered to the level of despair. There seemed no escape from the dilemma in which I found myself.
“I stood convicted of egregious folly, or dishonour, with the sin of ingratitude thrown in. I could not wonder at the harsh tone of your husband’s letter. What must he – what must you all – think of me? was the inexorable query. Suicide seemed the only refuge. Moral felo-de-se had already been committed.
“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which I shall never cease to bless the writer, and, may I add, the probable sympathiser? Hope again held up her torch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. I regained courage for a rational outlook. I think I gave a sketch of my imminent peril and the rescuer to Miss Imogen, as we rode away from Marondah on that lovely morning. Her commentary was that it was not unlike an incident in Anne of Geierstein, except that the heroine was the deliverer in that case. We agreed, I think, in rating the book as one of the best in the immortal series.
“I have fully explained the position in which I stand, to Mr. Bruce in my letter, which you will doubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I have been recalled on important business (unconnected with this regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leave early to-morrow. Meanwhile, I trust that all doubts connected with my inconsistent conduct will be cleared up with the least possible delay.
“In which fullest expectation,
“I remain,
“Very gratefully yours,“Valentine Blount.”
The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and ascertained that all correspondence – his own included – which were addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps good time – better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”
The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.
He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full directions would be forwarded by his agent.
The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel chef, an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to abandon “la belle France.” So he said, amid the confessions, indirect or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he had been chef at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case, and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one else could have complained of the banquet.
Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant, however, completely eclipsed the other convives by a choice experience drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see him home” at the conclusion of the repast.
This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite like spring weather.”
Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”
“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”
“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning, you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”
When they returned all traces of the symposium had been removed, and the cloth laid ready for the early breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing would occur to prevent him from consuming.
On the plate at the head of the table, near the fire-place, was a half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written in bold characters:
“Dear Sir, – The groom will call you at five sharp, breakfast at 5.30. Coach leaves at six. I’ve got you the box seat.
“Yours truly,
“Sheila.”
“That’s a fine girl,” said the landlord, “she’s got ‘savey’ enough for a dozen women; and as for work, it’s meat and drink to her. The missus is afraid she’ll knock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruined and done for. I hope she won’t throw herself away on some scallowag or other.”
“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interest in her. But she has too much sense for that, surely?”
“I don’t know,” answered the landlord, gloomily, “the more sense a woman has, the likelier she is to fancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s my tip. Good-night, sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old George will call you.”
“Oh! I shall be up and ready, thank you.”
The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunities of studying human nature, warned old George to have the gentleman up at 5 a.m. sharp, which in result was just as well. For Blount being too excited from various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbled about till 3 a.m., when he dropped into a refreshing slumber, so sound that George’s rat-tat-tat, vigorous and continued on his bedroom door, caused him to dream that all the police of the district, headed by Mr. Bruce and Black Paddy, had come to arrest him, and were battering down the hotel in order to effect a capture.
CHAPTER VI
A dip in the creek, and a careful if hasty toilet, produced a complete change of ideas. The morning was almost too fine, the leaves of the great poplars were unstirred, which gave an unnaturally calm and eerie appearance to the landscape. This was not dispelled by the red sun shedding a theatrical glare over the snow-peaks and shoulders of the mountain range.
“My holiday’s over, Sheila!” said he, moving from the fire front to the table upon which was such an appetising display that he wished he had gone to bed a little earlier. However, the savour of the devilled turkey reassured him, and he felt more drawn towards the menu which was to form the sustaining meal of the day. “Now, what do you think of the weather? Shall I have a safe journey to the station?”
“Well, you may, and you may not, sir. We all think there’s a big storm coming; if it’s wind, it may blow a tree down on the coach and horses; if it rains hard, there’ll be a flood, which will rise the Kiewah and the Little River in a few hours, so as they can’t be crossed under a week.”
“That’s a bad look out!” said the traveller, making good time with the scrambled eggs and toast, which succeeded the devilled turkey, “but we’ll have to go straight at it, as your friend and philosopher, Gordon, has it. By the way, I bought a copy at the post-office store, so I can read it on the way down and think of you when I come to the lines ‘Kindness in another’s trouble,’ and so on.”
“Oh! I daresay,” replied the girl, “a lot you’ll think about me when you’re on the road to Melbourne and wherever else you’re bound for. But we’ll all remember you here, never fear! And if you ever come back, you’ll see how glad all hands will be to welcome you.”
“You’re only too good to me, but why should the other people have this sort of feeling towards me?”
“Well, one reason is that you never put on any side, as they call it. You’ve been free and easy with them, without being too familiar. The country people hereabouts, and in the bush generally, may be rough, and haven’t seen much, but they know a gentleman when they see one, and besides, there’s another reason – ” And here she seemed to hesitate.
“And what might that be?”
“Well, it came out somehow, I don’t know how, that when you were ‘pinched’ (that is, nearly arrested and tried for being ‘in’ with the O’Haras and Little-River-Jack in the cattle racket), that you wouldn’t give them away; never let on that you’d been with them in the claim, or seen cattle in their yard or anything.”
“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and saw nothing that the town-crier at the market-place (is there one in this droll country, I wonder?) might not have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any ‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainly guessed after I visited Mr. Bruce that I might just as well not advertise the O’Haras, and as Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life on Razor Back, how could I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”
“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I suppose Mr. Bruce is pretty wild about it, after you being at his house and all that. He’s a fine man, Mr. Bruce; all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he worked like niggers when first they came from home. Now they’re well off, and on the way to be richer still. But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor. He’ll have Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as he is.”
“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”
“I suppose it does,” said the girl, hesitatingly; “but I can’t help feeling sorry for him, he’s so pleasant and plucky, and such a bushman. He can find his way through those Wombat Ranges, they say, the darkest night that ever was, and drive cattle besides.”
“‘’Tis pity of him, too, he cried,
Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,’
as the Douglas said about Marmion, who, though more highly placed than poor Jack, was but indifferent honest after all. Do you read Walter Scott?”
“Well, I’ve read bits of the Lady of the Lake and Marmion too. We had them to learn by heart at school. Only I haven’t much time to read now, have I? It’s early up and down late. But you’d better finish your breakfast; it’s getting on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down to the stable.”
“So I will; but tell me, how do you write out a receipt for a horse when you’ve sold him?”
“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I have sold my bay horse, branded “J. R.” (or whatever he is) to Job Jones for value received.’ That’s enough; you’ve only to sign your name and put a stamp on.”
“Nothing could be simpler. Get the landlord to receipt my bill while I write out a cheque, and ask George if he’s put my saddle and bridle into the coach.”
The girl ran out. He wrote the cheque for the account, which he had seen before breakfast. Then more carefully, a receipt for the cob in the name of Sheila Maguire, in which he enclosed a sovereign. “Isn’t that your side-saddle? Where’s your horse? You haven’t got one, eh? Why, I thought every girl in this country had one.”
“Mine got away; I’m afraid I’ll never see him again.”
“What will you give me for the cob? he’s easy and safe if you don’t try the Razor Back business with him?”
“I wouldn’t mind chancing a tenner for him, sir.”
“Would you, though? Well, I’ll take it. There’s the receipt. You can pay me when I ask for it.”
At that moment, the coachman having drawn on his substantial gloves, mounted the box and called out “All aboard!” Mr. Blount pressed the receipt and the sovereign into the girl’s reluctant hand, who came out of the room with rather a heightened colour, while the driver drew his lines taut as the passenger mounted the box and was whirled off, if not in the odour of sanctity, yet surrounded with a halo (so to speak) of cheers and good wishes.
Once off and bowling along a fairly good road behind a team of four fast horses, specially picked for leaving or approaching towns, a form of advertisement for the great coaching firm of Cobb and Co. (then, as now, famed for speed, safety and punctuality throughout the length and breadth of Australasia), Mr. Blount’s spirits began to improve, keeping pace, indeed, with the rising of the sun and his own progress. That luminary in this lovely month of early spring was seen in his most favourable aspect.
The merry, brawling river, now rushing over “bars” gleaming with quartz pebbles, the boom of the “water-gun,” the deep, reed-fringed reaches, in which the water-fowl dived and fluttered, alike engaged the traveller’s alert interest. The little river took wilful, fantastic curves, as it seemed to him through the broad green meadows. Sometimes close-clinging to a basaltic bluff, over which the coach appeared to hang perilously, while on the other side was the mile-wide, level greensward, thickly covered with grazing kine and horses. The driver, a wiry native from the Shoalhaven gullies, was cheerful and communicative.
He was in a position to know and enlarge upon the names and characters of the different proprietors of the estates through which they passed. The divisions were indicated by gates in the fences crossing the roads at right angles, at which period Mr. Joshua Cable requested his passenger to drive through while he jumped down and opened the gates and shut them after the operation was concluded. As this business was only necessary at distances varying from five to ten miles apart, the stoppages were not serious; though in one instance, where the enclosure was small and the number of gates unreasonably large, his temper was ruffled.
“D – n these gates,” he said; “they’re enough to ruin a chap’s temper. They put up a new cross fence here – wire, too – since I was here last. This is a bother, but when a man is driving by himself at night it’s worse. And they can summons you, and fine you two pounds and costs for leaving a gate open, worse luck!”
“How do you manage then?” asked the passenger, all unused to seeing a coach and four without groom or guard.
“Well, it’s rather a ticklish bit of work, even with a pair, if they’re at all touchy, as I’ve had ’em, many a time. You drive round before you come to the gate and tie your leaders to the fence as close as you can get ’em. I carry halters, and that’s the best and safest way; but if you haven’t ’em with you, you must do the best you can with the lead reins. You’re close enough to jump to their heads and muzzle ’em if they’re making a move. No chance to stop four horses after they’re off. When you’ve opened the gate and driven through, you have to turn your team back and let ’em stand with the leaders’ heads over the fence till you’ve shut the gate. If it’s a gate that’ll swing back to the post, and you’ve only a pair, you may manage to give it a shove just as it clears the hind wheels, but it’s a chance. It’s a nuisance, especially at night time and in rainy weather, but there’s nothing else for it, and it’s best always to keep sweet with the owners of the property the road runs through. Now we’ve five miles without a gate,” said Josh Cable as he led his horses out and proceeded to make up time, with three horses at a hand gallop, and the off-wheeler, a very fast horse, trotting about fourteen miles an hour; “the road’s level, too. We’ll pull up in another hour at the Horse and Jockey for dinner.” It may be explained that in Australian road-travel, whatever may be the difference of climate, which ranges indeed from sunshine to snow, the “dinner” so called, is the meal taken at or about mid-day – an hour or two, one way or another, not being regarded of importance. The evening meal at sundown, allowing for circumstances, is invariably “tea,” though by no means differing in essentials from the one at mid-day. It is at the option of the traveller to order and pay extra for the orthodox “dinner,” with wine, if procurable, as an adjunct.
The Horse and Jockey Hotel was duly reached, the half-hour dinner despatched, and, at sunrise, the railway station at Warongah reached, into which, after a hurried meal, Mr. Blount was enabled to hurl himself and luggage, the train not being crowded. Long before this hour he had ample time to admire the skill used in driving on a road never free from stumps and sidelings, creeks, and other pitfalls. Certainly the seven lamps, which he had never seen before on a coach, assisted the pilot’s course, with the light afforded by the great burners, three on high above the roof of the composite vehicle, a sort of roofed “cariole” defended as to the sides by waterproof curtains; while four other lamps gave the driver confidence, as they enabled him to see around and for some distance ahead as clearly as in the day.
In sixteen hours from the terminus Mr. Blount was safely landed per cab at the Imperial Club, Melbourne, in which institution he enjoyed the privileges of an honorary member, and was enabled to learn that the Pateena would leave the Queen’s Wharf at four o’clock p.m. next day for Launceston. Here he half expected to have one or more letters in answer to his appeal to the mercy of the Court as represented by Mrs. Bruce and Miss Imogen, or its justice, in the shape of Edward Hamilton Bruce of Marondah, a magistrate of the Territory. But none came. Other epistles of no importance, comparatively; also a fiery telegram from Hobart, “Don’t lose time. Your presence urgently needed.” So making arrangements for his correspondence to follow him to the Tasmanian Club, Hobart, he betook himself to the inter-colonial steamship, and at bed-time was sensible that a “capful” of wind was vexing the oft-turbulent Straits of Bass.
Hobart – the peaceful, the picturesque, the peerless among Australian summer climates, whether late or early. Hither come no scorching blasts, no tropical rains. Nestling beneath the shadow of Mount Wellington, semi-circled by the broad and winding Derwent, proving by old-fashioned – in many instances picturesquely ruinous – edifices, it claims to be one of Britain’s earliest outposts. Mr. Blount, from the moment of his landing, found himself in an atmosphere about as peacefully secluded as at Bunjil.
From this Elysian state of repose, he was routed immediately after breakfast by the tempestuous entrance of Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, Mining Expert and Consulting Engineer, as was fully set forth on his card, sent in by the waiter.
“Bless my soul!” called out this volcanic personage, as soon as he entered the door which he shut carefully behind him. “You are a most extraordinary chap! One would think you had been born in Tasmania, instead of the Duchy of Cornwall, whence all the Captains of the great mining industry have come from since the days of the Phœnicians and even earlier. Lucky you picked up a partner who is as sharp, excuse me, as you are – ahem – Blount!”
“When I’m told what all this tirade is about, ending with an atrocious pun, perhaps I may be able to reply,” answered the object of the attack, complacently finishing his second cup of tea.
“Did you get my telegram? Answer me that, Valentine Blount.”
“I did, and have come over to this tight little island at great personal inconvenience, as you may have observed, Mr. Tregonwell!”
“Have you any recollection of our buying a half share in a prospecting silver claim, of four men’s ground, in the West Coast?”
“I do seem to recall some such transaction, just before I left for Australia. All the fellows I met in the Hobart Club told me it was a swindle, and advised me not to put a pound in it.”
“That was the reason that you did invest in it, if I know you.”
“Precisely, I’ve rarely taken advice against my own judgment that I haven’t regretted it. Did it turn out well?”
“Well! Well? It’s the richest silver lode in the island, in all Australasia – ” almost shouted Tregonwell – “fifty feet wide; gets richer, and richer as it goes down. I’ve been offered twenty thousand pounds, cash down, for my half; you could get the same if you care to take it.”
“I’ve a great mind to take it,” said Blount languidly “ – mines are so uncertain. Here to-day, gone to-morrow.”
“Take it?” said his partner, with frenzied air, and trembling with excitement, “take it! Well!” – suddenly changing his tone – “I’ll give you a drive this afternoon, capital cabs they have here, and the best horses I’ve seen out of England. The way they rattle down these hills on the metal is marvellous! We can’t start for the mine till to-morrow morning; I suppose you’d like to see it? But if you’re determined to sell, I’d like you to see a friend of mine first. He has a magnificent place a few miles out. He’d be charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Certainly, by all means. What’s your friend’s name? Is he a squatter or a fruit-grower? They seem to be the leading industries over here.”
“Neither; he’s a medical man in large practice. His name is Macandrew. Medical superintendent of the new Norfolk lunatic asylum.”
“Well, really, Tregonwell, this is too bad,” answered the other partner, roused from his habitual coolness. “Has it escaped your memory that you wished to sell out before I left for Australia, that I stuck to the claim, and have been paying my share of expenses ever since?”
“Quite true, old fellow; it was your confounded obstinacy and luck combined, a sheer fluke, which has landed us where we are, not a particle of judgment on either side; and now, then, let’s get through business detail before lunch. I have it all here.”
Mr. Tregonwell was a thoroughbred Cornishman, short, square set, and immensely powerful. His coal-black, close-curled hair, with dark, deep-set eyes, short, upright forehead, and square jaw proclaimed him a “Cousin Jack” to all who had ever rambled through the picturesque Duchy, or heard the surges boom on castle-crowned Tintagil. In one way or other he had been interested in mines since his boyhood; had, indeed, delved below sea level in those stupendous shafts in his native place of Truro.
An off-shoot of a good old Cornish family, he had worked up to his present position from a penniless childhood and a youth not disdaining hard manual labour as a miner, when none better was to be had. This gave him a more thorough knowledge of the underground world and its inhabitants than he could otherwise have obtained. As a mining “Captain” therefore, his reputation had preceded him from the silver mines of Rio Tinto in Mexico and the great goldfields of California. A noted man in his way, a type worthy of observation by a student of human nature, like Valentine Blount, who, having added him to his collection, had drifted into friendship, and a speculative partnership which was destined to colour his after life.
As there remained a couple of hours open to such a task before lunch, the partners settled down to a “square business deal,” as Mr. Tregonwell (who had possessed himself of trans-Atlantic and other idioms) phrased it; in the course of which the following facts were elicited. That the stone, in the first place accidentally discovered as an out-drop in one of the wildest, most desolate, regions of the West Coast of Tasmania, was the richest ever discovered in any reefing district “South of the Line,” as Mr. Tregonwell magniloquently expressed it. On sinking, even richer ore came to light, “as much silver as stone” in some of the specimens. He, Tregonwell, had taken care to comply with the labour conditions, and the necessary rules and regulations, according to the Tasmanian Mining Act, in such case made and provided. He had satisfied the Warden of their bona fides, and this gentleman had supported him in all disputes with the “rush crowd” which, as usual under such circumstances, had swarmed around the sensational find, as soon as it was declared. Everything, so far, had been plain sailing, but there was sure to be litigation, and a testing of their title on some of the technical points of law which are invariably raised when the claim is rich enough to pay the expenses of litigation. The great thing now was to float the discovery into a company, exhibit the specimens in the larger cities and in England, and offer half the property in shares to the public. This was agreed to. Tregonwell, with practised ease, drew out the prospectus, explaining the wondrous assays which had already been made, the increasing body of the lode, its speculative value and unrivalled richness as it descended to the hundred and fifty feet level. The prospectors had invited tenders for a fifty head stamp battery to be placed on the ground. Abundance of running water was within easy reach; timber also, of the finest quality, unlimited in quantity. Carriage, of course, in a rough, mountainous country, must be an expensive item. The directors were anxious not to minimise the cost in any way, and all statements might be regarded as absolutely truthful. The stone, if it kept up quality and output, would pay for any rate of carriage and the most up-to-date machinery. When a narrow-gauge railway had been completed to the Port, where the Company had secured wharf accommodation, the transit question would be comparatively trifling.
Mr. Blount retired for lunch to the hotel in which Tregonwell had engaged rooms – a quiet, old-fashioned house of highly conservative character, selected by his partner as specially adapted for privacy. The family had inherited the business and the house from the grandfather, who had made the business, and built the house in the early days when the island was still known as Van Diemen’s Land. Mr. Polglase, whose portrait in oils still ornamented the dining-room, in company with that of Admiral Rodney, in whose flagship he had been a quartermaster, had reached Tasmania in a whaler from New Zealand.
The Clarkstone having made a successful voyage, and Mr. Polglase’s “lay” as first mate amounting to a respectable sum, he decided to quit the sea, and adopt the more or less lucrative occupation of hotel-keeping. In those days when the convict population outnumbered the free, in the proportion of fifty to one, when the aboriginal tribes and far more savage convict outlaws terrorised the settlers at a comparatively short distance from Hobart, it was not altogether a peaceful avocation. But Mark Polglase, a man of exceptional strength and courage, who had enforced discipline and quelled mutiny among the turbulent whaling crews hailing from Sydney Cove, was not the man to be daunted by rioters free or bond. The small, but orderly, well-managed inn soon came to be favourably known both to the general public and the authorities, as a house where comfortable lodging was to be procured, and, moreover, where a strict system of orderliness was enforced. When the coaching system came to be developed, for many years the best in Australasia, after admirable roads had been formed by convict labour, the Lord Rodney was the headquarters of the principal firm. From the long range of stabling issued daily in the after-time the well-bred, high-conditioned four-horse teams, which did the journey between Hobart and Launceston (a hundred and twenty miles) in a day. To be sure the metalled road was perfect, the pace, the coaches, the method of driving, the milestones even, strictly after the old English pattern. So that the occasional tourist, or military traveller, was fain to confess that he had not seen such a turn-out or done such stages since the days of the Cottons and the Brackenburys.
The pace was equal to that of the fastest “Defiance” or “Regulator” that ever kept good time on an English turnpike road. Here the erstwhile Cornish sailor settled himself for life. To that end he wrote to a young woman to whom he had become engaged before he left Truro on his last voyage, and sent her the wherewithal to pay her passage and other expenses. She was wise enough to make no objection to a home on “the other side of the world,” as Jean Ingelow puts it, and had no reason to regret her decision. Here they reared a family of stalwart sons, and blooming lasses – the latter with complexions rivalling those of Devonshire. They married and spread themselves over the wide wastes of the adjoining colonies, with satisfactory results, but never forgetting to return from time to time to their Tasmanian home, where they could smell the apple blossoms in the orchards and hear the bee humming on the green, clover-scented pastures.
The parents in the fulness of time had passed away, and lay in the churchyard, near the Wesleyan meeting house, which the old man had regularly attended and generously supported. But his eldest son, lamed through an accident on a goldfield, reigned in his stead. He too had a capable wife – it seemed to run in the family. So the name and fame of the Lord Rodney remained good as of old.
The prospectus and plan of operations being now regarded as “shipshape” by Mr. Tregonwell, he proceeded to sketch the locality. “It’s an awfully rough country – nothing you’ve ever seen before is a patch on it. We shall have to walk the last stage. A goat could hardly find footing, over not on, mind you, the worst part of the track. How Charlie Herbert, who discovered the show, got along, I can’t think. He was more than half starved, ‘did a regular perish,’ as West Australians say – more than once. However it was a feat to brag about when he did come upon it, as you’ll see when we get there.”
