Before sunset the next day I had changed my apartments, and taken private lodgings with a friend who had visited me but once since my return, and had then refused to accept of the hospitalities that I was disposed to offer him.  He had lent me money without security—­he had declined taking interest for the same—­he had welcomed me on my arrival as warmly as I expected—­he did not ask me how much dust I had brought back and he never said a word about his wish to be repaid the few hundred dollars that he had advanced me when I left home to seek my fortune.  When I did offer him the money, and thrust a diamond ring upon his finger as a token of my esteem, he blushed like a young school girl, and declared that he didn’t deserve it.

At his house, then, I took up my abode; and while his family treat me with respect, they possess none of the fawning which characterizes my other friends.  As the latter have frequently expressed their sorrow for my sudden removal, and their anxiety to know what events befell me in the mines of Australia, I have come to the conclusion that I would put them in print; and now those who used to drink my liquor and feast at my table will learn how I acquired my fortune, and then, if so disposed, they can follow in my footsteps and gain a competence for themselves.

This much I have told the reader in confidence, and with the hope that it will not be repeated, as my red-faced cousin, who every day is to be seen on ’Change, might be seriously angry if he was suspected of mercenary motives.  With this introduction I will commence my narrative.

LIFE IN AUSTRALIA;

Or,

A gold Hunter’s adventures.

CHAPTER I.

First thoughts of going to Australia.—­Departure from California.—­Life on board ship.—­Arrival at Williams town.—­Description of Melbourne.—­A convict’s hut.

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.