CHAPTER VI

An unusually large ‘clean up’ was expected for the Christmas month; bets had been made that no yield in Australia would rival it. It was to go down by private escort, that is, by the waggonette belonging to the lease, which would be driven by one of the men employed in the mine, who was a relation of the chief shareholder, and had turned up a few months since. He had been out of luck lately, but being a remarkably good all-round man, a noted bushman, and ‘as hard as nails,’ preferred work as an ordinary hand on the mine to doing nothing, and was earning his £3 or £4 a week by manual labour. Among his accomplishments—and he had many—were the arts of riding and driving. Everything belonging to the use and education of ‘the noble animal’ had been familiar to him since childhood. It was therefore arranged that he should take charge of a four-in-hand team with the precious cargo from Pilot Mount to the nearest railway station; and, with Newstead, who would embrace that opportunity of ‘going home,’ be responsible for the gold until delivered to the Master of the Mint. All necessary arrangements were made—the solid, iron-clamped boxes, heavy to lift, mysterious and secret of appearance, were duly weighed, counted, and placed ready to go into the body of the strong though light-running vehicle.

In the early days of the vast goldfields, where now a city stands, with ten thousand inhabitants, having shops and buildings, water supply, electric power and light, the value of each consignment of gold to the ‘port’ was accurately known. There were people who considered this to be imprudent, inasmuch as the fact of there being from thirty to fifty thousand pounds’ worth of gold on any given vehicle, with only four or six men as a defence force, would operate as a powerful temptation to a class of criminals well represented on any rich goldfield. But nothing in the way of violent spoliation had taken place so far. The waterless character of the country had been against highway robbery, rendering such enterprises less difficult to interrupt or follow up. Still, experienced police officers held the opinion that it might not always be so. Miners and companies had grown careless, by reason of the offences at present being confined to trifling sums and localities in the city. It was well known that criminals of the class of ‘Long Jack,’ ‘The Nugget,’ and ‘The Gipsy’ were on the field—daring, not to say desperate men—with a long list of convictions behind them; ready to stick at nothing when a robbery of the first class, such as they would term ‘a big touch,’ might be brought off. A clever disguise, with a ticket for the mail steamer, would land the actors far away from all chance of arrest. There were good police and sharp detectives around Pilot Mount, but up to this stage of the field their energies had been comparatively wasted.

Compared with the more important tragedies from time to time enacted in New South Wales and Queensland, the ‘Golden Belt,’ as the auriferous district had been named, was wonderfully free from the higher developments of criminal activity. This, however, in the opinion of the Chief Commissioner of the police department, could not be expected to continue. As the output of gold, increasing in value and volume, swelled the monthly reports, while as yet no adequate scheme of defence had been organised, the more satisfied was he that a novel and original raid on the treasure claim might at any moment be looked for. Perhaps even now one might be maturing.

In the meantime, the start for the coast could not come off for several days, which were devoted to preparing for the important journey. The waggonette was carefully examined: wheels, axles, and springs tested—in some cases strengthened, as a breakdown on the road would be a serious affair, and repairs difficult, if not impossible, to effect. Nearly a week was devoted to this needful precautionary work. In the meanwhile, the English mail steamer had arrived at Fremantle, and among the letters forwarded to Arnold Banneret, Pilot Mount, ‘Last Chance Mine,’ was an offer from an influential Syndicate, with more than one noble, world-renowned name upon the Committee, to purchase the right, title, and interest of the adjoining leases, including the Reward Claim of that name. The Prospectus was elaborate, setting forth that the large yields of the past foreshadowed an even more stupendous income in the future. It pointed out that the management might be simplified, and working expenses reduced, by association with a group of well-known dividend-paying mines, already owned, or controlled, by the Syndicate, while the profits would be proportionately increased, and the dividends accruing to shareholders might be confidently stated to be such as no modern mine, with the exception of Mount Morgan, in Queensland, had ever touched. Of course it would be necessary to issue a largely increased number of shares, the capital value of which would run into millions, but the guarantee of ‘The Southern World Associated Gold Mines Companies’ would, while assuring shareholders of unusual dividends, make the shares negotiable at their face value all over the English-speaking world. The present shareholders would receive 500,000 shares—present value £500,000—with £100,000 in cash,—estimated to represent one-half of the value of the mine. If the present monthly output remained stationary, the dividends would be exceptional. But if, as was almost certain, they were increased proportionately to the improved machinery and up-to-date management proposed to be inaugurated without delay, there would not be an investment in Australia or South Africa which would bear comparison with it.

This proposal, when all mining property was going up by leaps and bounds, met with the fullest support from all the local, and indeed the colonial press generally. It seemed from the eulogistic notices which poured in from all sides, British, foreign, and provincial, as if any man or woman, with a capital exceeding a ten-pound note, must be wanting in ordinary intelligence, criminally indifferent to the interests of his family, of the colony in which he dwelt, or the Empire to which he owed fealty, if he or she did not immediately take advantage of this wonderful opportunity to enrich himself and his family, his friends and his countrymen.

This proposal, however, did not find favour in the eyes of the principal shareholder. He had seen the decline and fall of so many magnificent projects—over-capitalised, and ‘boomed’ up to highly speculative if not fictitious values, with flattering reports and favourable surveys, dwelling more upon the visions of the future than the facts of the present. They had soared to an aerial height, only to waver, and finally, after irregular gyrations, fell to rise no more, involving all connected with the enterprise in ruinous loss, besides damaging the reputation of solid, legitimate mining properties. He preferred to accept the honestly earned profits of the mine, carefully worked and safely managed; issuing monthly reports, regularly supplied to the press, and open to all men for general information. He placed his views so strongly before the shareholders and partners in the ‘Last Chance Proprietary Mine, Limited,’ at a special meeting summoned to decide upon the offer of the Syndicate referred to, that it was respectfully declined.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the city, which had grown and flourished around the once bare, solitary Pilot Mount, had reached a stature—a transformation, indeed, resembling one of the dream-cities of the Eastern story-teller,—broad streets, bright with electric lamps, and gardens watered by an aqueduct fed from a reservoir miles distant. Thronged, too, with every kind of vehicle, every kind of beast of burden; every kind of horse, from the Clydesdale to the thoroughbred, from the dog-cart trotter to the polo pony; bullock teams and camel trains jostled one another; while well-horsed coaches daily, hourly indeed, brought mails and passengers from distant goldfields and lately discovered ‘rushes.’ These last were often founded upon ‘Great Expectations,’ which too often proved unsubstantial, if not illusory. Nevertheless, progress _was_ made notwithstanding; and the monthly output remains to testify to the stability of the Great Industry, energy of the population, and the increasing richness of the auriferous area. Wonderful hotels, livery stables containing saddle-horses sufficient to remount a squadron, arose on every side, with race-courses and polo grounds where the young bloods of the ‘field’ disported themselves—where, indeed, such prizes as the Golden Belt Handicap, value one thousand pounds—second horse, two hundred, were competed for. All these, and other wonders and marvels, had been produced—had arisen literally _out of the earth_—the auriferous earth—so miraculously productive, by methods compared with which the ancient processes of the sower and the reaper were contemptibly ineffective. Think of a month’s output such as this!

* * * * *

It was the evening before the great event. Every one in the camp had been working at high pressure since daylight. All things had been arranged—all hindrances foreseen and provided for. The horses, well fed and well groomed, were tried, staunch, and equal to long stages at a high rate of speed. In addition to Arnold Banneret, Newstead, and the acting coachman, another personage had been granted a seat after consultation with old Jack. This was the miner Dick Andrews, who had urgent private reasons for getting to Perth, and made petition to Mr. Banneret to that end. Having, as he told that gentleman in a conversation a few days previously, fallen upon a stroke of luck, he was anxious to leave West Australia, and, taking his wife and children with him, to settle in the Argentine, where, among people who had neither seen nor heard of him before, he might lead a new life, and cut himself clear of old ties and associations.

‘I’ve nigh on five hundred ounces in this bag, sir,’ he said, ‘and if you’ll have it put up with your lot you can hold it as security, like, till you’re banking your own. It’s been weighed all right, and there’s Mr. Stewart’s handwriting along with it in the wash-leather bag. I don’t read, nor write either, as you know—more’s the pity—but I seen him take it from the scales, and write on it, and seal it up all reg’lar. Life’s uncertain (as the parson says), and our lot’s not the sort to make old bones. I’d trust you, Commissioner, with my life. It’s no great odds off that now, I reckon. And you’ll stand by me now, won’t you? I’ve been a bad chap, but I’ve not had much of a chance. A little thing would have turned me on the right track—and that little I didn’t get. You never knowed me do anything crooked, sir? and the shootin’ racket was straightforrard between man and man.’

‘I don’t know that I’m doing right, Dick, in helping you off the field this way, but I saw your wife and the boy and girl at Southern Cross. I’ll chance it for their sakes—I’ve heard you were always good to them.’

The man called ‘Dick’ did not speak—perhaps the words would not come—but as he turned his head away with an indistinct murmur, a keen observer might have seen in those eyes, which had looked so often upon danger, and fronted Death unfalteringly, an unfamiliar moisture—scarcely to be distinguished from a tear.

The day closed murkily, and with a faint pretence of storm and shower, such as, on a hundred former occasions, had resulted in the usual disappointment to the dwellers in that sun-scorched land. Wind probably, thought the Camp generally, or perhaps a ‘Darling River shower’—four drops upon five acres! Meanwhile the sky grew black, the air became heavy, the sultry heat oppressive—appearances such as in any other land would have immediately preceded a thunderstorm, with a fall of rain: an unspoken call to the elements to clear the air and relieve the o’erburdened senses; but none answered. Gradually the clouds dispersed, the sun receded below the dim, distant horizon, and, save the occasional flicker of sheet-lightning, nothing remained as result of the portentous threatening which so lately seemed to disturb the illimitable waste, hardly less solitary, save for this ephemeral gathering, than the unbounded sea.

The evening meal had been long concluded. The different groups sat smoking, or conversing in low tones. The skies were again clear, and the heavenly host lit up the dark-blue firmament, throwing a kindly mantle over the homelier features of the desolate levels upon which the Pilot Mount looked down.

Mr. Newstead was calmly smoking, and playing with his pet fox-terrier, a well-bred animal, boasting a pedigree from distinguished English prize-winners. ‘Yes, Minniekins,’ said he, ‘I’m going home, and you’re going too, first cabin. Isn’t it a lark? don’t think I ever saw a dog of your age show so much class. You’ll scoop all the prizes in our County Show next year—if you don’t get sea-sick and ruin your constitution, as some passengers do. Won’t we have a jolly time when we see Old England, eh, Minniekins? You’ve never seen grass yet, y’know, nor rain either. That sounds droll, doesn’t it? You’re only two years old, and it rains once in five years here, don’t y’know? Droll country—no rain, no grass, no grain; grows nothing but gold. That’s good enough, though. Won’t we talk to them when we get to the little village, eh? Now what are _you_ thinking of, Minniekins—smelling a nigger, or a dingo? No camels in sight. What is it? I can see you’re nervous—what an excitable little woman it is! You mustn’t bite the butcher again, or we’ll be brought before the beak for keeping a ferocious dog, don’t y’know?’

The terrier raised herself quietly, and stood looking out into the starlit night. She was a remarkably intelligent animal, much attached to her master, who had given a fancy price for her, and often stated that a plainer dog in England, of her class, had cost him £50. She stretched her neck, as if looking for something, and gave vent to a low, querulous whine. Still uneasy, she continued to exhibit the same anxious air of disapproval, though, as yet, not committing herself to the arrival of an enemy, possibly only a suspicious stranger. Once before, when camped out near a lonely ‘soak’ with Denzil Southwater, he had been warned by her long before the approach of a thievish aboriginal, and had therefore time for preparation, which enabled them to rout the ‘Injun’ with loss. Since then the character of Minniekins had stood deservedly high in the camp, where she took rank as a general favourite, to be petted, and bragged about by every man on the pay-sheet of the ‘Last Chance Proprietary, Limited.’

Minniekins growled in a low, menacing manner. Then suddenly dashing forward, she barked furiously, and rushed at a man who was advancing rapidly on the camp. A smothered oath, and a savage kick which sent the poor little thing yards away, with a broken leg, told of a frontal attack by the enemy. At the same moment, as it appeared, the man, and a dozen others, mysteriously emerging from the shadows at different points, made a rush for the room in which the gold-boxes had been stacked, firing their revolvers as they came on. The unarmed inmates of the camp—two shift bosses and Mr. Newstead, with three or four wages men—were taken completely by surprise.

Denzil Southwater was in his tent writing a home letter. For a moment it seemed, as the compact body of strangers moved up perilously near to the treasure-room, that the fort would be carried by assault.

But two of the garrison were neither unarmed nor unprepared: these were the man called ‘Dick,’ and old Jack. The latter was dressed for a walk to the township, a ceremonious visit which included a revolver in his hip-pocket loaded in every chamber. ‘Nothin’ like bein’ “heeled,” as we used ter say in the States,’ he would answer to any remark made on this as a superfluous precaution. ‘It’s come in handy mor’n once or twice either, since then; yer never know what’ll turn up on a goldfield.’ His habit was justified on this occasion. The tall robber had fired point blank at Mr. Newstead, who, struck on the point of the shoulder, fell as if badly wounded, when Dick Andrews sprang forward, firing two shots with lightning quickness.

The tall man dropped on his face, and lay still, while a shorter ruffian, apparently bent on reaching the camp, staggered wildly, then fell backwards, discharging his revolver in the act. A younger man had been badly hit by old Jack, while another had been captured by Denzil Southwater, who, dashing at him, unarmed, knocked up his revolver, and catching him a half-arm blow on the ‘point,’ held him, dazed, with a broken jaw, till the mine hands came up, and tied his hands behind him. The other men, seeing that the game was up, took to their heels, and lost themselves in the crowd which was pouring with increasing volume up the slopes of the Pilot Mount. The tableau was imposing—Minniekins on three legs, still barking furiously; the tall man, easily identified as ‘Long Jack,’ a criminal of many aliases, lying on his face, stone dead! while Mr. Southwater’s prisoner, bound and blasphemous, stood in the centre of an excited crowd apparently anxious to lynch him then and there. However, Inspector Furnival, arriving with a strong body of police soon after, carried him off in the name of the Law, much to the disappointment of the public, who openly expressed their regret that Judge Lynch was not afforded an opportunity of proving the superiority of prompt trial and decisive action to the tardy verdict of an Assize Court. In the camp the casualties were: Arnold Banneret, bullet graze on temple; Newstead, wound in left shoulder; Minniekins, broken fore-leg; while the man called ‘Dick,’ shot through the lungs, was in a serious, if not dangerous condition.

What a change from the gay hopes of the morning, when all had risen with the prospect of welcome travel—a respite from the monotonous toil of goldfield life; and, in the case of the escort party, returning to the luxuries of city life—to the society of friends and relatives, with the prestige of successful adventurers!

How narrowly, thought Arnold Banneret, had he himself escaped the fate of the robber, slain in his last fight against society; a shade nearer to the vital centre, and he would have lain ready for his coffin, even as the outcast criminal who, indeed, had paid the last penalty of a life of crime, in which even murder had been familiar. What a termination to the joyous imaginations with which he and his wife had regarded the speculation which promised so fairly! Fancy the headlines of the local papers:—

‘The Last Chance Mine.’ Attempt to carry off the Escort Gold! Five-and-twenty thousand ounces! Desperate encounter. Two men killed: Mr. Banneret and ‘Long Jack.’ Several of the Escort wounded. Immense excitement on the Field.

* * *

Special Evening Edition of The _Clarion_.

Our Contemporary misinformed: Mr. Banneret not killed. He and Dick Andrews, the well-known Miner, dangerously wounded—the latter, while defending the Escort heroically, shot through the body. ‘The Gipsy’ captured by the Honourable Denzil Southwater, a Shareholder, who was unarmed. Lord Newstead suffering from a broken arm. Full particulars in our morning issue.

The effect of this and similar announcements may be imagined. Public feeling was stirred to its inmost depths. The police force, as usual, was denounced for incapacity and indolence, and the Government of the day arraigned for want of foresight, unreadiness, and general ignorance of its duties. As to the administration of law and order on this, the richest, the most extensive goldfield in Australia—the only parallel case commensurate with its abnormal inefficiency was that of the British War Office. But the West Australian Cabinet might yet earn the notoriety of having sacrificed a colony if this sort of thing was allowed to go on unchecked—and so on, and so on. The opposition journal of course discounted ‘the habitual exaggeration of a contemporary, the editor of which could not allude to an attempt at the looting of a rich treasure-cargo—an attempt which had signally failed, moreover—without dragging in absurd parallels equally out of date and out of reason. Omniscient as he claimed to be, he had not become acquainted with the fact, now for the first time divulged to their reporter, a gentleman of wide experience in Australian and American mines, that “Dick Andrews,” a working miner, and shareholder in the Reward Claim, who shot dead the well-known desperado “Long Jack” and wounded “The Nugget”—formerly of Port Arthur—was no other than the notorious Richard Lawless, the brother of Ned and Kate, concerned in the killing of Inspector Francis Dayrell, in pursuance of a vendetta cherished for years by the Lawless family. They eventually accomplished his death. Lured into an ambush, thus fell one of the most daring and energetic officers of the Police Force of Victoria. They had evaded the warrants issued for their apprehension, disappearing in the “Never-Never” regions of Queensland, chiefly populated, if all tales be true, by refugees of their class and character. From this “land of lost souls” Kate Lawless returned to die by her own hand on the grave of her child at Running Creek on Monaro; while her brother Richard, a marvellous bushman and all-round worker, as are many of his compatriots, has been employed under the very noses of the police as “Dick Andrews,” remarkable only for his steady, hardworking habits and inoffensive general demeanour. Tall, spare, and sinewy, wearing the ordinary beard of the dweller in the Waste, he was in no way distinguishable from the thousands of Australians whom the magnet of the “Golden Belt” has drawn with resistless force to our colony. There is no intention, we hear, of putting the law in force against him; for he will be arraigned before a Higher Court, a more august Judge, than Australia can furnish. His wounds are mortal. His hours are numbered. And before to-morrow’s sun leaves Pilot Mount in darkness, the soul of the erring, but not wholly lost homicide, whom men knew as Dick Lawless, will have quitted its earthly tenement for the final audit.’

The editorial dictum was prophetic. Mr. Banneret and Denzil Southwater, watching by the dying man’s couch, listened to his last words while the labouring breath grew faint—then failed for ever. One bullet had pierced his left lung; another had lodged in the spine. Both injuries were mortal. It was a question of hours—of few of them indeed.

‘I stopped “Long Jack,” Commissioner!’ he said, while a slow smile of satisfaction lit up the calm features, ‘afore he got in another pot at you. He’d not have missed twice. I’m goin’ out, and except for the wife and kids I don’t know as it’s much odds; there’s enough to keep them when she gets back to Tumut, where her people live. Land’s easy got there; a bit of corn-flat with a few cows ’ll keep her easy and comfortable. The boy and girl ’ll get schoolin’ till they’re out in the world, and their mother won’t tell ’em too much about me—their poor father, as died in his right place—a-standin’ off them as tried to collar the gold he’d worked hard for. You write it out, Mr. Southwater—all as I’ve said, and just put Richard Lawless his mark at the foot. The Commissioner might witness it—if he’ll be so good—and you too, sir.’

They complied with the sufferer’s request. Great drops of blood welled up from the shattered lung, as between gasps he laboriously formed the cross which validated his will, made for the benefit of the woman who had followed him from the green, fertile valley, where the sparkling river comes leaping down from the snow-crowned alp. With her he had been ever mild and patient—a tireless worker when work was to be had—often away for months at a time, but reserved as to his occupation. Brokenly, and with hesitation, he said: ‘Commissioner! I’ll die easier like if you’ll shake hands afore I go. It’s a suspension o’ labour in a manner of speakin’.’ And with a quiet smile on his lips at an old goldfields jest, the soul of ‘Dick Andrews,’ otherwise Richard Lawless, fled away from its earthly tenement, leaving the hand of Arnold Banneret, ex-Commissioner of Barrawong, New South Wales, still enclosed in a dead man’s rigid grasp.

‘Poor Dick! poor chap!’ said Banneret; ‘there goes a man’s life made for better things. I suppose he _did_ save mine—barring accident. That long ruffian wouldn’t have missed twice. With the exception of the vendetta business with Dayrell—and there are two versions of that story—I never heard of his doing anything mean or dishonest—that is “crooked”’—he added reflectively—having regard to the prevailing tone of Monaro morality.

* * * * *

The fervour of the editors of all the journals, printed within a thousand miles or so, having exhausted itself and the public interest, matters returned to their normal state and condition. The escort waggonette, artistically tooled by Gore Chesterfield, cleared out for Perth at sunrise one fine morning, ‘laden’ (as the local mining organ put it) ‘with gold, ammunition, firearms, and decayed gentlefolk.’ On the box-seat, between Mr. Banneret and the charioteer, sat an aristocratic society dame of ducal connections, who, originally voyaging to Fremantle with maternal solicitude, had remained to take a hand in the mining adventure of the period. Having been down the deepest mine of the ‘field,’ and across the desert on a camel as far as the famous ‘Leonora’ and ‘Mount Idalia,’ in both of which ‘shows’ she had invested sensationally, she was not to be daunted by the off-chance of a bullet wound on the present journey. The perils of this passage through the wilderness were, however, minimised by the attendance of a doubled police escort and half a hundred volunteer guards, who (shares in the popular investment of the day, the ‘Rotherwood’ mine, being at a premium and rising fast) resolved to combine the performance of a patriotic duty with the excitement of a ‘jamberoo’ in Perth, and ‘a whiff of the briny’ long looked forward to, and, before this happy conjunction of profit and pleasure, almost despaired of. When it is considered that most of the men who composed this advanced guard were young, or youthful-seeming—that the prospects of the majority were like the climate, sunny in the extreme—that fortune had lately showered favours upon nearly all,—it may be imagined what a joyous cavalcade, dashing at reckless speed through plain and thicket—waking the long-silent, solitary champaign with song and shout—the ‘Last Chance’ escort must have appeared to the ordinary wayfarer.

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

The treasure was duly deposited in the banks of the period; certain favourites of fortune, among them the lady of the box-seat, took passage by the outgoing mail-steamer. Lord Newstead was bound for ‘England, home, and beauty,’ whence his return was problematical; Arnold Banneret for Sydney; while Messrs. Chesterfield and Southwater would return to the vicinity of Pilot Mount, not having as yet acquired the ‘pile’ which was to crown the pyramid of a life’s endeavour. Arnold Banneret made a final adieu to the ‘Reward Claim,’ having by wire received a declaration from his wife that, ‘no matter how many ounces to the ton the “Last Chance” produced, never again would she consent to his putting foot on that goldfield; even if his presence was indispensable to prevent Pilot Mount from being turned into a volcano in full working order, her resolve remained unalterable. What she had suffered when she heard the news (false as it turned out to be) of his death, could never be endured twice. So now, he knew.’ When Mrs. Banneret concluded an argument with these words the ‘incident was closed.’ Her sympathetic partner ‘for better for worse’ resigned himself to a future existence hampered only by the necessity of finding use for a capital of a hundred thousand pounds or two, ‘with all the woes it brings.’

He promised himself the satisfaction, however, of revisiting Tumut, and personally assuring the future of Mrs. Richard Lawless and her children, which, as he had always loved and admired the place and people, he regarded as a sacred duty, and a delightful holiday not to be neglected. Thus, filled with anticipations of home-returning joys, as he trod once more the deck of the P. & O. liner _Baghdad_, marked once more the Oriental garb, and heard the familiar-sounding voices of the Lascar crew, his heart swelled within him, as in ‘the dear, dead days beyond recall.’

* * * * *

The return voyage in the _Baghdad_ was pure unmixed delight. Very rarely is it otherwise in the ‘floating clubs’ of the P. & O. ‘The liner she’s a lady,’ in every sense of the word. In the eyes of the outward-bound passengers for England Arnold Banneret and Lord Newstead were heroes and ‘conquistadores,’ rivalling the comrades of Pizarro returning from Peru laden with the treasure of the Incas. Lord Newstead secured the larger share of admiration—young and handsome, heir to an historic name, wounded in the fight, what modern gallant could hope to rival him in the good graces of the lady passengers? His right arm still supported by a sling, and his disabled condition, called forth many proffers of active sympathy.

Mr. Banneret, on account of his age and patriarchal rank, was not so much an object of interest and admiration; nevertheless, the ‘scar on his brown cheek revealed’ if not ‘a token true of Bosworth Field,’ a genuine record of a ‘close call,’ as an American ‘shift boss,’ travelling east from ‘Great Holder,’ entitled the incident.

Their gold, now safe under hatches, was variously estimated at from fifty to a hundred thousand ounces, according to the experience or imagination of the narrator. The winds and waves were kind; the Great Bight was so smooth that ‘you’d hardly know it,’ as a fair voyager of experience in the South Pacific characterised it. And shortly after the dawnlight—clearer grown, and faintly roseate-hued—opened to view the sandstone portals of the harbour lake of the South, the _Baghdad’s_ passengers, in cabs, carriages, trams, and omnibuses, distributed themselves throughout the Sydney clubs and hotels, with an economy of time and trouble unattainable in any but the mother State.

* * * * *

Home again! Everything had gone well in his absence. For the twentieth time Arnold Banneret vowed that never again would he leave the domestic Eden for the outer world, how fair soever might be the lure held out by inconstant fortune. The girls were growing up; his boys, like every other man’s boys, needed the occasional parental warning—the guiding hand. His wife’s cheek paled as she traced the still visible track of the robber’s bullet. ‘What was sufficient repayment, what compensation adequate, for such risks? And if——’ but she would not suffer him to proceed with the conjectures of what _might_ have happened. The ‘if’ had remained undeveloped, so there was no use speculating on grisly possibilities.

Sydney was more beauteous than ever, with glorious gardens, and the daily ocean breeze. Say that the noonday heat was at times oppressive, what was it in comparison with the terrible sun-rays of the West—a tent only between the dweller therein and the cloudless, relentless sky? The glorious semi-tropical foliage of the sea-girt city, the lawns so freshly verdurous, the stately pines, the flowering shrubs, the rose thickets, the carefully tended, if somewhat narrow roads, which, winding around the harbour cliffs, open out such enchanting views of sea and shore, earth and sky—specially arranged for the delectation of strangers and pilgrims! The swift-winged yachts and pleasure-boats still floated like sea-gulls above the translucent wave. All these delights and refreshments smote the senses of the home-returning wayfarer almost as freshly as if tasted for the first time.

Then the delicious awakening in the fair, sweet dawn of the early summer, with the certainty that there was now no need for doubt or anxiety touching the family fortunes. A competence, nay, more than a sufficiency for all their needs, was assured. Their luck had turned. No more was it necessary to go stolidly on with the daily work which gained the daily bread. There was not, could not be again, the necessity for calculation as to what liability required to be arranged for—what pressing account to be paid in full, or if not, compromised by payment on account. Such things had been in the past—in that shadowy region now so dim and distant-seeming. No, thank God! and a wave of gratitude passed through his every sense and faculty as he realised that those days and their accompanying sacrifices had passed away for ever. Were they happier now? In his musings by the seashore, at eve or moonrise, he sometimes asked himself the question. The reply was not always in the affirmative. They had been happy—truly, consciously happy, then. If there were difficulties, they had overcome them. If there had been debts and doubts, anxiety never far distant, succour unexpected had come in time of need. The responsibilities of official position had been great—at times almost overpowering, but their very magnitude had stimulated his energies—he had never faltered; strong in the resolve to deal justly, impartially, with the high questions committed to his judgment, he had fought through opposition, misrepresentation, and discouragement, to emerge at last, with the approval of his conscience and the confidence of the heterogeneous workers whom he had ruled for a quarter of a century.

And now, having passed through the _Sturm und Drang_ of early manhood, he had reached a period of life when youth had flown—when strength and activity could no longer be looked for—when whatever changes took place must necessarily be, in some respects, for the worse. What would the future be? In what direction would the rising generation of the family, nay, of Australia, be impelled?