The story of the lives of Basil and Chaytor during the ensuing three years may be briefly summarised. So far as obtaining more than sufficient gold for the bare necessaries of life were concerned, ill-luck pursued them. They went from goldfield to goldfield, and followed every new rush they heard of, and were never successful in striking a rich claim. It was all the more tantalising because they were within a few feet of great fortune at least half-a-dozen times. On one goldfield they marked out ground, close to a claim of fabulous richness, every bucket of wash-dirt that was hauled from the gutter being heavily weighted with gold. This was the prospectors' claim, and the shaft next to it struck the gutter to the tune of twelve ounces a day per man. The same with the second, and Basil and Chaytor had every reason, therefore, to congratulate themselves, especially when the men working in the claim beyond them also struck the lead, and struck it rich. But when at length the two gold diggers in whom we are chiefly interested came upon the gutter, they were dismayed to find that instead of ten ounces to the tub, it was as much as they could do to wash out ten grains. It was the only poor claim along the whole of the gutter; on each side of them the diggers were coining money, and they were literally beggars. It is frequently so on the goldfields, the life on which very much resembles a lottery, riches next door to poverty; but the hope of turning up a lucky number seldom dies out in the heart of the miner. He growls a bit, apostrophises his hard luck in strong language, is despondent for a day, and the next shakes off his despondent fit, and buckles to again with a will, going perhaps to another new rush, jubilant and full of hope, to meet again with the same bad fortune. The romance of the goldfield is a rich vein for novelists, some few of whom have tapped it successfully; but the theme is far from being worn out, and presents as tempting material to-day as it did years ago, when gold was first discovered in Australia.
"It is maddening, Basil," said Chaytor, as he gazed gloomily at the "prospect" in his tin dish--two or three specks which would not have covered a pin's head. "Here we are upon the gutter again, and the stuff will wash about half a pennyweight to the tub."
"It's jolly hard," said Basil, proceeding to fill his pipe with cut cavendish, "but what can we do? Grin and bear it."
"Ah, you're philosophical, you are," growled Chaytor, "but I'm not so easy minded. Just think of it, and bring a little spirit to bear upon it, will you?"
"Off you go," said Basil. "I'm listening."
"Here we are on Dead Man's Flat, and here we've been these last three weeks. Just four days and three weeks ago we struck our claim in Mountain Maid Gully, having got two ounces and three pennyweights for our month's hard work. That contemptible parcel of gold brought us in barely eight pounds, the gold buyer pretending to blow away sand before he put it in the scale, but blowing away more than two pennyweights of the stuff, and reducing it to a little over two ounces. We weighed it in our own gold scales before we took it to him, and it was two ounces three pennyweights full weight. You can't deny that."
"I've no intention of denying it. Don't be irritable. Go on, and let off steam; it will do you good."
"I want to point out this thing particularly," fumed Chaytor, "so that we can get to the rights of our ill luck, get to the bottom of it, I mean, and find out the why and the wherefore. Eight pounds we receive for our gold, when we should have received eight pounds ten; not a sixpence less; but the world is full of thieves. Now, that eight pounds gives us a little under twenty shillings a week a man. I would sooner starve."
"I wouldn't--though I've had bitter blows, Chaytor."
"Not worse than I have."