“All right, Blunt; now you’re christened,” said the big miner. “Phelim O’Hara’s mine, and these other chaps are my brother Pat and George Dixon; we’re all natives, only as he’s Lancashire by blood we call him ‘Lanky’ for short; we may’s well go down now, and you can do a bit of pick and shovel work for a change.”
Mr. Blount considered it to be a change in the fullest sense of the word when he found himself dangling between earth and sky, with his leg in the loop of a rope, having a great inclination to turn round and round, which he combated by thrusting his leg against the side of the shaft. He realised a feeling akin to that of being lowered over a cliff, which he had read of in boyhood, reflecting, too, that he had no more real security than a man in that embarrassing position. Still the narrow shaft had an appearance of safety, which in his case prevented vertigo. The pick and shovel work was not hard to comprehend. He did his best, though easily outpaced by his mates.
In a week’s time he found himself quite au fait at the work, while improving daily in wind and muscle. “Capital training for a boat-race,” he said, “only there’s no water hereabouts, except this little brook, but we don’t seem to be getting rich very fast, do we, George?”
George was sententious. He had been a navvy. The best worker of the party, he was slow of speech, and disinclined to argue on abstract matters.
“Forty or fifty pound a fortnight for four of us ain’t so bad,” he growled out.
Not only was Mr. Blount himself becoming accustomed to this unfamiliar mode of life, but his cob, though he did not take kindly to the mountaineering work, as we have seen, became familiarised to being turned out with the claim horses and foregathered with them amicably. However, one afternoon, when they were brought in for a ride, as it was too wet to work, the cob, now fat and frolicsome, was reported missing.
His master was much annoyed and alarmed at this state of affairs. However, Phelim O’Hara volunteered to stay at home, and moreover to lend him his horse on which to search for the defaulter. Mr. Blount eagerly accepted the offer, and lost no time in going off to hunt for “John Gilpin” as the cob was facetiously named. Unlike a bushman, he rode hither and thither, not troubling himself about tracks, or keeping a course in any given direction.
The consequence was that towards nightfall he found himself several miles from camp, or indeed any landmark which he had passed in the early part of the day. He was, however, sensible enough to follow a creek, which eventually led him to the river; between which and the hilly country he had been traversing, he saw a piece of level country on which several wild horses were grazing.
He was attracted by the appearance of a handsome grey stallion, who appeared to be the leader and, so to speak, commander of the “manada,” around which he trotted or galloped, driving in the mares and colts, and indeed, with open mouth and threatening heels, forcing them to keep within bounds.
Suddenly there was the sound of a rifle shot from the side of the forest nearest to the troop. The leader gave a sudden bound forward, then dropped on his haunches. He made several unavailing attempts to rise.