“If you want your traps taken to the mines at a reasonable rate, I’ll do it for you, as I start to-morrow with a load of goods for Ballarat,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Is that mine productive?” we asked.

“It’s as rich as any of them.  You may sink a shaft and strike a vein, and you may get nothing.  It’s all a lottery.”

We consulted together for a few minutes, and concluded to try our fortunes at Ballarat, and so signified to our acquaintance.

“Then shoulder your traps, and I’ll show you my shanty.  You can sleep there to-night, and, let me tell you, it’s a favor that I wouldn’t grant to half of my countrymen.”

As we considered pride out of place in that country, we readily accepted his offer, and in a few minutes were walking through the streets of Melbourne with a convicted felon.

We found his hut to be built of rough boards, with but one room; and the furniture consisted of a stove, wooden benches, a pine table, and a curiosity in the shape of a bedstead.

That night we learned more of the customs of the Australians from our host, who gave the name of Smith as the one which he was to be called by, than we should have found out by a six months’ residence.

Over a bottle of whiskey, which was made in Yankeeland, we spent our first night in Australia.

“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.