“What is it, Will?” asked the newcomer.

“A plant.”

“This one in it?”

“Yes!  This is too public, come to Bevan’s store.”

CHAPTER LVIII.

“GEORGE, I want you to go to Bathurst.”

“What for?”

“To buy some things.”

“What things?”

“First of all, a revolver; there were fellows about our tent last night, creeping and prowling.”

“I never heard them.”

“No more you would an earthquake—­but I heard them, and got up and pointed my revolver at them; so then they cut—­all the better for them.  We must mind our eye, George; a good many tents are robbed every week, and we are known to have a good swag.”

“Well, I must start this moment if I am to be back.”

“And take a pound of dust and buy things that we can sell here to a profit.”

George came back at night looking rather sheep-faced.

“Tom,” said he, “I am afraid I have done wrong.  You see there was a confounded auction, and what with the hammer, and the folk bidding, and his palaver, I could not help it.”

“But what is it you have bought?”

“A bit o’ land, Tom.”

Robinson groaned; but, recovering himself, he said gayly: 

“Well, have you brought it with you?”

“No, it is not so small as all that; as nice a bit of grass as ever you saw, Tom, and just outside the town of Bathurat; only I didn’t ought to have spent your money as well as my own.”

“Stuff and nonsense—­I accept the investment.  Let me load your new revolver.  Now look at my day’s work.  I wouldn’t take a hundred pound for these little fellows.”

George gloated over the little nuggets, for he saw Susan’s eyes in them.  To-night she seemed so near.  The little bag was placed between them, the day’s spoils added to it, and the tired friends were soon asleep.

CHAPTER LIX.

“HELP! help! murder! help! murder!” Such were the cries that invaded the sleepers’ ears in the middle of the night, to which horrible sounds was added the furious barking of Carlo.

The men seized their revolvers and rushed out of the tent.  At about sixty yards distant they saw a man on the ground struggling under two fellows, and still crying, though more faintly, “murder” and “help.”

“They are killing him!” cried George; and Robinson and he cocked their revolvers and ran furiously toward the men.  But these did not wait the attack.  They started up and off like the wind, followed by two shots from Robinson that whistled unpleasantly near them.

“Have they hurt you, my poor fellow ?” said Robinson.

The man only groaned for answer.

Robinson turned his face up in the moonlight, and recognized a man to whom he had never spoken, but whom his watchful eye had noticed more than once in the mine—­it was, in fact, the peddler Walker.