Spinifex and Sand | Page 5

"roll-up" at the Store. Here we first made acquaintance with Messrs.
Browne and Lyon, then negotiating for the purchase of Bayley's
fabulous mine of gold. No account of the richness of this claim at that
time could be too extravagant to be true; for surely such a solid mass of
gold was never seen before, as met the eye in the surface workings.
Messrs. Browne and Lyon had at their camp a small black-boy whom
they tried in vain to tame. He stood a good deal of misplaced kindness,
and even wore clothes without complaint; but he could not bear having
his hair cut, and so ran away to the bush. He belonged to the wandering
tribe that daily visited the camp--a tribe of wretched famine-stricken
"blacks," whose natural hideousness and filthy appearance were
intensified by the dirty rags with which they made shift to cover their
bodies. I should never have conceived it possible that such living
skeletons could exist. Without begging from the diggers I fail to see
how they could have lived, for not a living thing was to be found in the
bush, save an occasional iguana and "bardies,*" and, as I have said, all
known waters within available distance of Coolgardie were dry, or
nearly so.
[* "Bardies" are large white grubs--three or four inches long--which the
natives dig out from the roots of a certain shrub. When baked on
wood-ashes they are said to be excellent eating. The natives, however,
prefer them raw, and, having twisted off the heads, eat them with
evident relish.]
Benstead had managed to bring up a few sheep from the coast, which
the "gins," or women, used to tend. The native camp was near the
slaughter-yard, and it used to be an interesting and charming sight to
see these wild children of the wilderness, fighting with their mongrel
dogs for the possession of the offal thrown away by the butcher. If

successful in gaining this prize they were not long in disposing of it,
cooking evidently being considered a waste of time. A famished
"black-fellow" after a heavy meal used to remind me of pictures of the
boa-constrictor who has swallowed an ox, and is resting in satisfied
peace to gorge.
The appeal of "Gib it damper" or "Gib it gabbi" (water), was seldom
made in vain, and hardly a day passed but what one was visited by
these silent, starving shadows. In appreciation no doubt of the kindness
shown them, some of the tribe volunteered to find "gabbi" for the
white-fellow in the roots of a certain gum-tree. Their offer was
accepted, and soon a band of unhappy-looking miners was seen
returning. In their hands they carried short pieces of the root, which
they sucked vigorously; some got a little moisture, and some did not,
but however unequal their success in this respect they were all alike in
another, for every man vomited freely. This means of obtaining a water
supply never became popular. No doubt a little moisture can be coaxed
from the roots of certain gums, but it would seem that it needs the
stomach of a black-fellow to derive any benefit from it.
Though I cannot say that I studied the manners and customs of the
aboriginals at that time, the description, none the worse for being old,
given to savages of another land would fit them admirably--"Manners
none, customs beastly."

CHAPTER II

"HARD UP"
During that drought-stricken Christmas-time my mate was down at the
"Cross," trying to carry through some business by which our coffers
might be replenished; for work how we would on alluvial or quartz
reefs, no gold could we find. That we worked with a will, the remark
made to me by an old fossicker will go to show. After watching me
"belting away" at a solid mass of quartz for some time without
speaking, "Which," said he, "is the hammer-headed end of your pick?"
Then shaking his head, "Ah! I could guess you were a
Scotchman--brute force and blind ignorance!" He then proceeded to

show me how to do twice the amount of work at half the expenditure of
labour. I never remember a real digger who was not ready to help one,
both with advice and in practice, and I never experienced that
"greening" of new chums which is a prominent feature of most novels
that deal with Australian life.
In the absence of Lord Douglas, an old horse-artilleryman, Richardson
by name, was my usual comrade. A splendid fellow he was too, and
one of the few to be rewarded for his dogged perseverance and work. In
a pitiable state the poor man was when first we met, half dead from
dysentery, camped all alone under a sheet of coarse calico. Emaciated
from sickness, he was unable to follow