Fred was one of the most peaceable men in the world, and never commenced a quarrel; but when once engaged in a conflict, he was like a lion, and would as soon think of yielding as the royal beast.

For nearly fifty days did we roll on the Pacific, amusing ourselves by playing at “all fours,” speculating on the chances of our arrival, and making small wagers on the day that we should drop anchor; and after we had all lost and won about an equal amount, we were one morning overjoyed by the sight of land.  Standing boldly in towards a low coast, with no signs of a harbor, it was not until we were within half a mile of the shore that we discovered a narrow entrance that opened into Hobson’s Bay; when we dropped anchor opposite to a town consisting of a dozen or twenty houses, and over one of them floated the flag of England.

“Well, Mr. Mate,” asked Fred, as the men went aloft to furl sails, “do you call that densely-populated city Melbourne?”

“That!” replied the mate, with a look of contempt at the scattered houses.  “That be d——­d.  That’s Williams Town.  Melbourne is a fine city, seven miles from here, and where all the luxuries of life can be obtained; but tobacco is the dearest one—­so be careful of your weed.”

As the officers of the custom house were even then coming on board, we thanked him for the hint, and put ours out of their reach.

Williams Town is situated at the mouth of the River Zarra, on Hobson’s Bay, and at one time actually threatened to become a place of considerable importance; but the water for domestic use was too bad to be tolerated, and most of those who had settled there were glad to retrace their steps to Melbourne, where a better sort of article exists.

“How are the mines?  Do they still hold out?” I inquired of one of the crew of the custom house boat, who was leaning against the rail in a languid manner, as though he had been overworked for the past six months.

“Yes, I s’pose so,” he answered; and he spoke as though each word cost him an immense amount of labor.

“Then, Fred, we are in luck,” I cried, turning to my partner who stood near at hand.

“Intend going to the mines?” the man asked, with a sudden show of interest.

“Such is our intention,” I replied.

“’Mericans, I suppose,” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“Then don’t go if you want to keep the number of your mess,” the boatman said.

“Why not?” Fred ventured to inquire.

“’Cos they kill Yankees at the mines.  Jim,” he continued, turning to a comrade, “how many ’Mericans were killed week afore last at Ballarat?”

“O, I don’t know,” replied the individual referred to.  “A dozen or twenty, I believe.  Might have been more or less.  I’m not ’ticular within a man or two.”

“Thank you for your information,” cried Fred.  “And now one question more.  Can you tell me how many Englishmen were killed by those same Americans, before they died?”