It was as hot an afternoon on the banks of the American Fork as ever poor mortals could be subjected to and still retain sufficient vitality to draw their breath. Under a small tent, stretched upon their backs, with shirt collars unbuttoned, boots off, and a most languid expression upon their faces, were two men—both of them of good size, with a fair display of muscle, broad-chested, hands hard and blackened with toil, yet not badly formed; for had they been but covered with neat fitting gloves, and at an opera, ladies might have thought they were small.
These two men, one of whom was reading a newspaper, while the other was trying to take a siesta, were Frederick Button, and his faithful companion, the writer of these adventures, whom we will distinguish by the name of Jack, as it is both familiar and common, and has the merit of being short.
As I was reading the paper, the contents of which interested me, I paid but little attention to my friend, until I suddenly laid it down, and said,—
"Fred, let's go to Australia."
"Go to the d——l," he replied, turning on his side, his back towards me, and uttering a long w-h-e-w, as though he had found it difficult to catch his breath, it was so hot.
"We should find it hotter in the regions of his Satanic Majesty than here; but that is something that concerns you alone, as no doubt you are fully aware."
Fred uttered a grunt—he was too warm to laugh, and I again returned to the charge.
"Gold mines have been discovered in Australia, and ships are up at San Francisco for Melbourne. A party of twenty left there last week, and more are to follow."
There was no reply, and I continued:—
"It is stated in this paper that a man took out a lump of gold weighing one hundred and twenty pounds, and that he had been but ten days in the mines when he found it."