Basil and Annette: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"It is only the washings from the hills," said Chaytor, "and at any unexpected moment a flood of rain would swamp us. There are too many trees about to please me; wood draws water from the clouds. If we don't do better than this by the end of next week we'll mark out a claim on the range yonder, where the blue slate peeps out of the quartz."

Another journey had to be made for food, and this time Chaytor went to the township, where he obtained what he required and sold exactly seven pennyweights of gold. He put on an appearance of great anxiety while the gold was being weighed, and sighed when the weight was announced. This was to throw the storekeeper off the scent; any considerable quantity of gold disposed of proudly would have excited suspicion of a Tom Tiddler's ground somewhere near, and Chaytor, had he so behaved, would certainly have been shadowed by men who were ever watchful for signs of the discovery of a new goldfield. It was in Chaytor's power to sell some fourteen ounces of gold had he been so inclined, for the matchbox which Old Corrie had furtively dropped at Basil's feet, and which Chaytor had slyly picked up unknown to his mate, contained twelve ounces of the precious metal, but he knew better than to attempt it. There was a post-office in the township, from which he dispatched a letter to the Sydney office, requesting that any letters lying there for Basil Whittingham might be forwarded on to him. He wrote and signed the order in Basil's name. He could not very well go to Sydney at present to fetch them; there would be a risk in leaving Basil so long alone, for there being no coaches running from the township, the journey to Sydney and back could not be accomplished in less than nine or ten days. Easier to obtain the letters from England, if any arrived, by the means he adopted, and it was the easiest of tasks to keep the affair from the knowledge of Basil, who never dreamed of asking at any post-office whether there were any letters for him.

They worked a second week on the river-bank, at the end of which they had washed out over three ounces.

"An improvement," remarked Basil.

Chaytor shook his head discontentedly.

"Let us mark off a prospector's claim up the hill," he said. "We can always come back to the river."

This was done, and they commenced to sink. The difficulty they now encountered was the want of a windlass. Chaytor would not venture to purchase one in the township, whither he went regularly, being well aware that he could have done nothing that would more surely have drawn attention upon him. At odd times he bought some pieces of rope which he and Basil spliced till they had a length of about eighty feet. This rope, properly secured, enabled them to ascend and descend the shaft, foot-holes in the sides assisting them. The labour of digging a shaft in this manner was increased fourfold at least, but they could not be too cautious, Chaytor said. He remarked also that they seemed to be haunted by coincidences, and upon Basil asking for an explanation reproached him for his bad memory.

"How many of us were there upon Gum Flat," he said, "after your horse was stolen? Two. You and I alone. How many are there here? Two. You and I alone. When you fell down the shaft how did I get you up? By means of a rope secured at the top. How do we get up and down this shaft? By the same means. There was no windlass there; there is no windlass here. Don't you call these coincidences?"

"Yes," said Basil, "it is very singular."

"It would be very singular," thought Chaytor, "if you were at the bottom of this shaft one of these fine days and never got out of it alive. In that case coincidence would not hold good."