“Nor I,” said Henderson, emphasizing the declaration with an oath. “I’ve had cursed bad luck all along.”
This was not surprising, for Henderson was a lazy, shiftless fellow, whose main idea was to make a living without earning it. He had come from London, where his reputation was none of the best, and had haunted the mines for a considerable time. He worked at mining by fits and starts, but never long enough to gain anything. At one time, indeed, he appeared to have considerable money, with which he returned to Melbourne, where he soon got rid of it. Where he got this money was a mystery. But it happened, by an unfortunate coincidence, that just at that time a poor fellow who, by hard labor, had managed to collect about fifty ounces of the precious metal, suddenly found himself stripped of everything. There were some who suspected Henderson of knowing something of this gold, and where it went to; but nothing could be proved, and so of course nothing was done. Harry had seen him more than once, and he understood very well what sort of a character he was; so, at present, he hoped that the fellow would soon leave him.
“Where’s your pal?” asked Henderson.
“You mean Bush?”
“Who else should I mean?”
“He’s trying another place.”
“Whereabouts?”
Harry pointed out Bush further up the hill. The distance being but quarter of a mile, it was possible to distinguish him.
“What sent the fool up there?”
“He is not a fool,” said Harry, shortly.