This the stockman did without any delay. He took from the curious assortment of diggers' tools two picks, two short-handled shovels, two prospecting dishes, the roller and handle of a windlass, a couple of buckets, some stout rope, a length of chain, a strong hook, a crowbar, and a pound or two of blasting powder.
These he obtained as a loan, for Smith would not hear of pay. He viewed the whole thing in the light of a joke. The idea of Harry starting to work a claim with a parcel of kids who had never seen a gold shaft in their lives, with a time limit of three or four days at the most! The stockman was but humouring the fancies and ambitions of the kids. They, no doubt, expected to locate the golden nuggets in the same fashion that they would track a missing bullock on the bush, or run down a wild cat to its lair in a hollow log. Well, they would at least develop their arm muscles and have blistered hands to show their friends. So the old settler—who at the time of the rush had listened to the confident prediction of many a greenhorn, going post-haste to pick up the nuggets that were waiting for somebody to tumble over. Not so Harry; he, at least, was no greenhorn. He would give the abandoned workings a trial. It would be a novelty for the boys, and though they mightn't get anything to boast about, would, he was confident, get enough to give each member of the party a souvenir of the visit.
Leaving the accommodation house after an early breakfast, the band of diggers, for such we must now call them, arrived at the old workings in a couple of hours, passing en route two or three fossikers who were working their shows. These ancients looked with a degree of astonishment upon this cluster of youths, whose very jauntiness was suggestive of a prime lark.
Arrived at the diggings, the party had a good look round. Intense solitude reigned everywhere, and save for the heaps of rusty cooking utensils and other rubbish there was little to indicate that the place had once been a busy hive of life and energy. An old signboard, written by another hand than had done Jago Smith's, was seen nailed to a tree. Its language was simple and to the point.
ROYAL HOTEL
ALL DRINKS 6c.
N.B.—Clean Glasses
Harry took a rapid survey of the situation. The place apparently had not been disturbed since the fatal accident. The old tent poles remained as he had left them, and there was no evidence of any one having camped there for years.
Proceeding to the tunnel, which, as previously described, was driven into the perpendicular bank of a deep gully, things looked pretty much as they did on that fatal day, excepting that the earth had fretted away about the tunnel mouth, and, on venturing in a short distance, the man saw that the roof had broken down, completely blocking the mine.
"Well, Harry," exclaimed Joe, when the leader emerged from the tunnel mouth, which the boys had been eagerly watching, "is it all clear? Did you go to the end?"
Didn't git half-way. Tunnel's half blocked."