In little more than half an hour they were in their little gully working like mad. They ate their dinner working. At five o'clock George pointed out to Robinson no less than seven distinct columns of smoke rising about a mile apart all down the valley.
“Ay!” said Robinson, “those six smokes are hunting the smoke that is hunting us! but we have screwed another day out.”
Just as the sun was setting, a man came into the gully with a pickax on his shoulder.
“Ah! how d'ye do?” said Robinson, in a mock friendly accent. “We have been expecting you. Thank you for bringing us our pickax.”
The man gave a sort of rueful laugh and came and delivered the pick and coolly watched the cradle.
“Why don't you ask what you want to know?” said Robinson.
The man sneered. “Is that the way to get the truth from a digger?” said he.
“It is from me, and the only one.”
“Oh! then what are you doing, mate?”
“About ten ounces of gold per hour.”