Done’s admiration for his mate was growing rapidly.  Mike looked like a model in new copper, kneeling by the fire, his face thrown back, reflecting the glow of the flame in the surrounding dusk.  Jim realized what had gone to the making of that hard, lean frame, and, proud as he was of his own strength, envied the other his endurance.  He knew that Burton had been making concessions to him throughout their journey, that he could have walked miles further in the time without fatigue, carrying his swag as jauntily as if it were a butterfly poised on his back.  His boyish exuberance of manner when stirred was in direct contrast to the quiet assurance with which he went about ordinary affairs.  He was never in difficulties, never at a loss; the Bush was his living-room, bedroom, and larder.  He had already shown himself independent of what the stores could provide when a meal was wanted.  Mike might have been a pink Adonis in another climate and under other conditions; his gray eyes and fair moustache were in almost ludicrous contrast with his tanned hide—­he appeared to be bound in morocco.

After their meal Jim spread himself upon the ground, his head pillowed on the swag, stretching his tired limbs.  Mike sat smoking, and there was silence over and about them.  One of those brief hushes, when all the night voices are stilled and the trees merge into black, motionless masses, was upon the Bush, and it infected the men.  All day they had marched with the throng; their tramp had never been lonely, thousands of men were moving upon Forest Creek, and every now and again they passed a toiling party burdened with tools and utensils, or were passed in turn by more enthusiastic spirits pushing on, eager for a share in the treasure of Red Gully, Diamond Gully, and Castlemaine.  The shouts of the joyous travellers were still echoing in Done’s ears.

He had seen diggers on the track under varying fortunes, cursing dreadfully by broken-down teams, urging on their dull bullocks—­slow, but very sure—­singing exuberantly as they paced by, carrying heavy swags with light hearts, shouting as they went, under the impulse of a common hope that begot friendliness in all; and yet each man was armed now—­there was a revolver or a pistol in every belt.  They came out of the Bush, and the Bush swallowed them again—­strange groups.  Two Jim passed he recognised as sailors off the Francis Cadman:  one was in the shafts of a loaded wheel barrow, the other, with a rope over his shoulder, trudged ahead, towing manfully, both as merry as boys at play, despite the ten days’ journey ahead of them.