"Come," said Smith, about ten o'clock, "it's time we were asleep, for we start early in the morning, and before to-morrow night you'll not feel as fresh as you do at present."
As he spoke he removed the whiskey, and in half an hour deep snoring was the only sound of life in the convict's hut.
CHAPTER II.
A MORNING IN AUSTRALIA.—JOURNEY TO THE MINES OF BALLARAT.—THE CONVICT'S STORY.—BLACK DARNLEY, THE BUSHRANGER.
"Hallo!" cried a gruff voice, accompanied by a gentle shake, which was sufficient to arouse Fred and myself from a deep sleep, that was probably caused by the whiskey.
The time had passed so swiftly that it did not seem an hour since we had first stretched ourselves upon our blankets on the floor.
We rubbed our eyes and sat up, looking around the Australian's hut, almost fancying that we were still dreaming. A spluttering tallow candle was dimly burning, stuck in the neck of a porter bottle, and a fire was lighted in the old broken stove, on which was hissing a spider filled with small bits of beef and pieces of potatoes. A sauce pan was doing duty for a coffee-pot, and the fragrant berry was agreeable to the nostrils of hungry men. Our host, the convict Smith, after he had aroused us, seated himself upon a three-legged stool, and was busily employed stirring up the savory mess, and trying to make a wheezy pipe draw; and as the tobacco which he was smoking was damp, and the meat was liable to burn, his time was fully occupied.
"Come, rouse up." Smith said, when he saw that we were awake; and while he spoke, he was trying to coax a coal into the pipe, but it obstinately refused to go.
"We'll be off in an hour's time; so I'm getting a little bit of breakfast ready before we start. Get up, and help me set the table."