“Why, ye fool! they are half way to Sydney by now.”
“Half way to Sydney?” and a ghastly look passed between the speaker and mephistopheles.
“Ay, lad! they rode off on Moore's two best nags at midnight.”
“The captain had a belt round his waist crammed with dust and bank-notes,” cried another, “and the farmer a nugget as big as a pumpkin on the pommel of his saddle.”
Four hours had not elapsed ere Crawley and mephistopheles were on the road to Sydney, but not on horseback. Crawley had no longer funds to buy two horses, and, even if he had, he could not have borne the saddle after the barbarous surgery of last night—-the lance-head was cut out with a cheese-knife. But he and mephistopheles joined a company of successful diggers going down with their swag. On the road they constantly passed smaller parties of unfortunate diggers, who had left the mine in despair when the weather broke and the claims filled with water; and the farther they went the more wretched was the condition of those they overtook. Ragged, shoeless, hungry, foot-sore, heart-sore, poor, broken pilgrims from the shrine of Mammon.
Now it befell that, forty miles on this side Sydney, they fell in with seven such ragged specters; and, while they were giving these a little food, up came from the city a large, joyful party—the eagerness of hope and cupidity on their faces.
“Hallo! are they mad, going up to the diggings in the wet weather!”
They were questioned.
A hundred-weight of gold had been found at the diggings, and all the town was turning out to find some more such prizes; and, in fact, every mile after this they met a party, great or small, ardent, sanguine, on an almost hopeless errand.
Such is the strange and fatal no-logic of speculation. For us the rare is to turn common, and, when we have got it, be rare as ever.