‘Take care o’ that, Done,’ said Mike, flipping his own license with his thumb; ’they’re important.  I’ve heard em called tickets of admission to the new republic.’

‘What do they stand for, Mike?’

’One month.  For one month James Done is entitled to burrow for gold in Her Majesty’s mud hereabout, an’ for that time he’s reckoned to have a right to be alive.  At the end of the month he trots up to renew, and the price is thirty bob every time.’

‘But if James Done doesn’t happen to have thirty bob?’

’Then his right to be alive is null and void, and if he’s caught so much as scraping dirt to bury a pup he’s dealt with according to law.  If in his month’s work he doesn’t earn enough to buy grease for his windlass, he must take out his miner’s right or run the chance of being scragged.’

‘That seems strangely out of place here.  And the men stand it?’

’And heaps more.  This license qualifies a miner to be dragged out of his hole at any moment, like a blasted wombat, by the scruff, to be bully-damned from Geelong to breakfast by some lag-punching, lop-eared ex-warder with a string of troopers at his heels!’ Jim saw his mate in a bitter mood, for the first time.

‘But why the license, if it confers no benefit?’

’To rob the diggers mercilessly, and to provide swine like those in there with a chance of riding the high horse over better men!’ Mike was mixing his metaphors in his wrath.  ’But you’ll know all about it in time.  If you’re in the habit of using your hands, keep ’em tight in your pockets when the traps are out man-hunting.  It’s worse than manslaughter to punch a trooper.  They’d have you in the logs in ten ticks less ‘n no time.’

Done refused to be depressed by the prospect.  He understood that with his right in his pocket a miner was safe, and the charge did not seem to him a serious grievance in this land of plenteous gold.

The mates had a crib with Duffy, the blacksmith; and after the meal, armed with wooden pegs, a pick, and a shovel, they set out to secure a claim.  Acting on the urgent advice of Duffy, they headed for Diamond Gully, nearly two miles off; and here Mike loitered about amongst the claims, chatting with the men on top, keeping his eyes wide open, and gathering information as he went.  The majority of the miners were quite enthusiastic; they were doing well, and had no desire to conceal the fact.  One showed a prospect in the tin dish that wrung a wondering oath from Mike, and yet he moved on.  Done could not understand.  There was plenty of free land on either side, extending for miles.

‘Why not here, Burton?’ he asked, indicating a pleasant spot.

‘Off the lead, probably,’ answered Mike.  ’We don’t want to waste time bottoming shicers—­sinking duffers,’ he added in explanation.  Done was still unenlightened.  ‘Putting down shafts where there isn’t a colour,’ continued Burton.  ’We’ll get right on the lead, or I’m a spud-miner from Donegal.’