“I brought a packet of wax candles,” observed Blount. “Thought they might be useful.”
“Useful!” cried the invalid, “you have saved my life, they are invaluable. Fancy having to read by a slush lamp! Mr. Blount, we are sworn brothers from this hour.”
“For Heaven’s sake let us have supper,” interposed Tregonwell. “Is the whisky jar empty? I feel as if a nip would not be out of place, where two tired, hungry, muddy travellers are concerned.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” replied Herbert, who had been spreading tin plates and pannikins over the rude table on trestles, with corned beef in a dish of the same material, and baker’s bread for a wonder. A modicum of whisky from the jar referred to was administered to each one of the company, prior to the announcement of supper.
When the primitive meal had been discussed with relish, Mr. Jack Clarke considered himself sufficiently restored to sit up against the wall of the hut, and begin at Mr. Blount’s newspapers with the aid of one of that gentleman’s wax candles in a bottle, by way of candlestick. The others preferred to sit round the fire on three-legged stools provided for such purpose, and smoke, carrying on cheerful conversation the while.
The discovery of the Comstock as a deeply interesting subject, commended itself to Mr. Blount; so Tregonwell persuaded Herbert, who was the pioneer, to sketch the genesis of this famous property, destined to exercise so important an influence on their future lives.
“Come, Charlie,” said he, “you’re the real prospector, Clarke wouldn’t have gone into it but for you, and I shouldn’t have taken a share but for Blount, who knew nothing about mines, having just come from England. I wanted to chuck it, but Blount, who is obstinate (not a bad virtue, in its way), determined, for that very reason, to stick to it.
“So he paid his share of the expenses, went away, met all kinds of adventures and all sorts and conditions of men—with, of course, a girl or two, not wholly unattractive, and forgot all about it. I kept an eye on it, so did Charlie; complied with the labour condition, kept up the pegs, according to the Act, did a little work now and then. And now, Charlie! it’s your turn.”
Mr. Herbert put down his pipe carefully and began the wondrous tale. “You know I was always fond of mooning about—wallaby-shooting, fishing, and collecting birds and plants in mountain country. We had a sheep station on the edge of this horizontal scrub country in old times; and I used, when I had leave, to get away and spend a week or two of my Christmas holiday there. One of the shepherds was a great pal of mine. Like many of the prisoners of the Crown in old days, he had been transported wrongfully, or for very slight offences (as much to get rid of Britain’s surplus population as for any other reason it really would seem). He was fairly educated, and was a very decent, well-behaved old chap, with a taste for geology and minerals.
“When his sheep were camped in the middle of the day I would find out his flock, and we would boil the billy and have lunch, with ever so much talk.