Just after midnight B.B., dressed in a digger’s woollen jumper, which hung down to his knees, a woollen muffler right up to his chin, and a felt hat, with a crown pushed up like a cone, appeared about a quarter of a mile from Hampton’s home. There was a slight surface depression here, which seemed to indicate a “gutter” below. Several holes had been sunk along it years before, without payable results. B.B., who was an authority, had told Mr. Hampton that he thought the old workings were not worth spending time on.
B.B. looked warily round, on emerging from the scrub, then cautiously approached, and, after a casual glance at the windlass, seized the rope and disappeared. The shaft was only about 18 feet deep. A drive ran in for some distance from each end along the gutter. B.B. produced a candle, and examined the workings, then drew a tin containing gold dust from his pocket. He paused, again studied the strata and slate underfoot, then tested it with a pick. Now, B.B. was a geologist—of a sort. He had not learned the science by correspondence, but by working on most of the alluvial fields in the “rush” days. The candle burned down almost to the clay, as he hesitated. Then he remarked: “False bottom, like the McIvor lead,” and returned the gold to his pocket. Taking a length of broken board, he wrote on it with a piece of pipe-clay, and drove the sharp end into the floor, at the entrance to one of the drives, remarking: “If he gets nothing out of it, I’ll salt his show later.” Although he could read print, B.B. did not profess to be able to write—in fact, he used to sign for his miner’s right with a cross—so the spelling presented difficulties, in particular the word “father.”
Although B.B. believed his nocturnal visit had been unobserved, he was mistaken, for a small white-robed figure had been standing at a window, looking toward the ranges, just made discernable by the rising moon. She noticed someone emerge from the saplings, and approach the claim. Hope neither spoke nor moved, but gazed, spell-bound. Yes, it was Santa Claus! She could see the hoar frost sparkling all over him. (In the dryest season, at that altitude, there is a heavy dew, so on every minute hair of the digger’s clothes, and every hair of his whiskers, glistened a particle of moisture.) Strange he should come a night too soon, and not to the house, she thought, as B.B. disappeared down the shaft. Her eyes never left the spot. Then, after what seemed a long time, the figure reappeared, crossed the flat, and was enveloped in the foliage. But, in the broad light of day, Hope was not quite sure that the whole occurrence was not a dream, so, being a reserved child, she held her peace.
During breakfast the father said: “I’ll not go to work to-day, as there are several things about the place that require seeing to. I’ll just bring home the tools and windlass rope.”
“Couldn’t we get them for you?” enquired Hope.
“Be careful of the twins, then, and on your return you can help me with the pudding,” said the mother.
“I’ll go down the shaft and put the tools in the bucket, one at a time, and you two can wind them up. Mind you both don’t let go the handles at the same time,” cautioned Hope.
Many a shaft had she descended, for, by swinging the rope from side to side, she could reach the footholes made in either side of the shaft, with her toes, but not without the aid of the rope. When her eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, she saw the message:
So it was not a dream, after all. She was far from an excitable child, but her heart beat faster, as she determined to test the value of the message. She quickly ascended, and lowered the twins, and then set to work, meanwhile telling her sisters of the visitor.