The two men were driving a tunnel at a likely spot in the bank of a blind gully about three miles from the main camp. They worked in relays, and had driven in about a score of yards, when Harry suggested shoring it with saplings for safety. Humpy Bob, however, who was always running risks, made light of the suggestion. They had just struck a vein of promising stuff, which gave "prospects" of several grains to the dish. When it was Bob's turn to go on, Harry again suggested shoring up certain loose spots; especially one near where he had been picking, for there had been a small fall during his shift. This the other would not consent to, though his partner pleaded earnestly.
"There's a hundred to one chances against there being anything serious, mate, and I'm not goin' to waste any time in propping up the blessed tunnel. It's not worth it. We'll most likely clean it out to-morrer. So-long!"
So saying, the digger entered the drive, and was soon at his work. Harry, having nothing to do for a while, went to the tent and stretched himself on his bunk for a rest, intending to return in an hour or so to wheel out the mullock. Unfortunately he fell asleep, and hours passed by before he awoke. When he did, he jumped from his bunk and ran out to the drive, scolding himself for his negligence. The barrow was missing from its usual place, and, after a hasty search, the youth went to the tunnel's mouth and shouted to his mate. There was no response, nor were the usual pick sounds to be heard. The light was still burning at the end of the tunnel. Hastily traversing the drive in a half-stooping position, as indeed compelled by the size of the tunnel, the youth covered about half the distance when he stumbled over the barrow, severely barking his shins. Using hot language against the carelessness of his mate at leaving the barrow in such a place, and with a half fear at the unsatisfactory look of things, he scrambled up and went on towards the end of the tunnel. He had not taken more than two steps when he again stumbled; this time over a softer substance. It was his mate!
Humpy Bob was lying unconscious, half-covered with a mass of fallen earth and rocks. Groping his way across this pile of débris, the excited and frightened youth reached the end of the drive, seized the light and returned to his mate.
Tearing frantically at the soil and stones, he liberated old Humpy, and, as gently as possible, drew him to the tunnel mouth. Then dashing to the little stream below, he brought water in a billy, and made the customary attempts to restore his stricken mate to consciousness. His utmost attempts availed not. The vital spark had fled. Not all the resources of medicine or surgery could bring light into the half-closed eyes, or life into those rapidly stiffening limbs. Humpy Bob would never again unearth a nugget, rock a cradle, appraise the value of a prospect, or get on the "razzle-dazzle" and "paint the town red."
It would seem that after working for a while, and making a heap of mullock, the digger had come out of the tunnel for Harry. Not seeing him about, the old man seized the barrow with the object of wheeling out some of the earth. He had loaded it, and was in the act of wheeling it along, when a mass of earth fell full upon his back, fracturing the spine.
Harry was greatly affected by this sad occurrence; for Humpy Bob had many good points of character, and a strong attachment had grown up between them. As soon as his mate was buried, he left the goldfield, and got a job on one of the stations.
He had often thought of revisiting this scene, for he had a feeling that good gold would be found there. Of late the desire to test the ground again had grown strong, and, when the project of the jaunt to the seaside was launched, he suggested a trip to the old diggings. The boys gladly fell in with the idea, for it furnished them with an item that gave additional spice to the outing.
The journey to the diggings was necessarily slow. The pack-horses were heavily weighted by the extra burden of the fish, and the method of progress was that shuffling gait known as the "jog." Though monotonous and tiring to the rider, it is the easiest pace for the loaded animals, and one that can be kept up all day.
"Seems a pity that we should cart this blessed fish to the diggings, Sandy. Wouldn't it be better to 'cache' it somewhere near the junction? It's giving the horses unnecessary work, in my opinion. Let's see, it's twelve miles to the junction, an' fifteen from there to Rocky Gully. Supposin' we planted the stuff in the scrub at the junction; it'd save thirty miles of hauling, an' be no end of a gain all round."