“Before entering the city we found that the whaler had left the harbour, and felt sure we would not be detained long, as nothing could be proved against us.  When we were brought before the beak Jonathan told our story, and showed several letters he had received from Boston, so he was discharged.  But I had nothing to show; they knew I was an Irishman, and the police asked for a remand to prove that I was a runaway convict.  I was kept three weeks in gaol, and every time I was brought to court Jonathan was there.  He said he would not go away without me.  The police could find out nothing against me, so, at last, they let me go.  We went aboard the first vessel bound for Melbourne, and, when sail was made, I went up to the cross-trees and cursed Van Diemen’s Land as long as I could see it.  Jonathan took ship for the States, but I went shepherding, and grew so lazy that if my stick dropped to the ground I wouldn’t bend my back to pick it up.  But when I heard of the diggings, I woke up, humped my swag, and ran away—­I was always man enough for that—­ and I don’t intend to shepherd again.”

When Philip returned from his excursion down the gully, he gave me a detailed report of the results and said, “Gold mining is remarkable for two things, one certain, the other uncertain.  The certain thing is labour, the uncertain thing is gold.”  This information staggered me, so I replied, “Those two things will have to wait till morning.  Let us boil the billy.”  Our spirits were not very high when we began work next day.

We slept under our small calico tent, and our cooking had to be done outside.  Sometimes it rained, and then we had to kindle a fire with stringy bark under an umbrella The umbrella was mine—­the only one I ever saw on the diggings.  Some men who thought they were witty made observations about it, but I stuck to it all the same.  No man could ever laugh me out of a valuable property.

We lived principally on beef steak, tea, and damper.  Philip cut his bread and beef with his bowie knife as long as it lasted.  Every man passing by could see that we were formidable, and ready to defend our gold to the death—­when we got it.  But the bowie was soon useless; it got a kink in the middle, and a curl at the point, and had no edge anywhere.  It was good for nothing but trade.

A number of our shipmates had put up tents in the neighbourhood, and at night we all gathered round the camp fire to talk and smoke away our misery.  One, whose name I forget, was a journalist, correspondent for the ‘Nonconformist’.  Scott was an artist, Harrison a mechanical engineer.  Doran a commercial traveller, Moran an ex-policeman, Beswick a tailor, Bernie a clogger.  The first lucky digger we saw, after Picaninny Jack, came among us one dark night; he came suddenly, head foremost, into our fire, and plunged his hands into the embers.  We pulled him out, and then two other men came up.  They apologised for the abrupt entry of their mate.