He drew the brushwood over the mouth of the hole, then descended the ladder and lay down to rest. The excitement of finding the gold and the fear of being discovered had unnerved him. He was as a bow unstrung.
If it were known that he was working a rich claim near where the old man was found, it might be said that it was the dead man's, and that Bill had murdered him in order to get it. What a position to be placed in! This was the mess the Devil's Punch Bowl had brewed for him. "Double, double toil and trouble."
He must work like a mole, silently and in the dark, and must on no account show himself in the light of the sun. He would pick out as much gold as he could, and then, when night came on, he would creep up, cover the mouth of the hole, and grope his way to the tent. Of course he could go to Mopoke to-morrow and register the claim, so as to secure it against all comers. An innocent man like himself would have nothing to fear, but tongues would wag, wiseacres shake their heads, and envious eyes wink. Would it not be asked, "Why shouldn't Bill Marlock have murdered the old man?" "Wasn't it as plain as a foot-rule that he had ridden hot-haste to the place where the old man was working, and had murdered him for the sake of the rich claim?" "Dead men tell no tales." "Out of sight out of mind." "Then, when the secret was buried six feet under ground, he had gone back to take possession of his victim's property, just as Ahab had done, long ago, when he went to take possession of Naboth's vineyard. As Ahab had suffered, so would Bill Marlock."
These and such thoughts rushed over the grey matter of Bill's brain, as the wind rushes through the tree-tops.
He lay on the rock, and picked out the nuggets with his jack-knife. When the last gleam of light faded overhead his trousers' pockets were full. There was plenty more in sight. He had come upon a veritable goldsmith's shop.
When he could see no longer, he slowly ascended the ladder and listened. All was still. Putting the brushwood aside, he scrambled out of the hole, stood up to his full height, and drew a long breath. A cricket chirped, and made him tremble. His blood raced, and his bones seemed out of joint. No further sound smote the stillness. Then he covered up the hole, as carefully as he could, and crept away to the tent.
He dared not make a fire to-night, nor light a candle. The flickering stars eyed him, now and again, through rifts in the clouds, and enabled him to see a little.
His only thought now was to bury the gold. After a while he took a spade, and cut a solid square of earth in front of the bed, then he lifted it, unbroken, and poured the gold in the vacant space, as into a mould. This done, he fitted the piece of earth to its place again, and smoothed the edges with his fingers. Well satisfied with his work, he gave a sigh of satisfaction when he thought that Mother Earth's Bank was perhaps as safe as that of the Old Lady in Threadneedle Street. "As safe as a bank" has slipped out of our language now. We say "As unsafe as a bank," after what has occurred in Melbourne.
He tried to sleep, but the nuggets seemed to rattle through his brain like castanets at a Spanish dance. His riches oppressed him. The finding of the gold was a delight, but the keeping of it brought sorrow and trouble. He could not rest. He felt like a sentinel within forty yards of the enemy's guns, and expecting them to leap into flame every moment. To his disordered imagination the rustle of a leaf was an assassin's tread, the croak of a frog the whistle of a bullet.