A dramatic series of coincidences. The first Christmas Day saw the parting of the four "mates" under curious circumstances; the second and third — separated, however, by many years — saw the author's tragic meetings with the men who had betrayed their trust.

THE FIRST. — CASCADE CREEK.

TOWARDS the latter part of December, 1855, I formed one of a party, four in number, working on the "deep lead" at Springdallah, Victoria, and camped upon rising ground on the western side of the creek, amidst a forest of young gum saplings. As we had but recently taken up the claim and only some few weeks previously pitched our tent, we were regarded as new-comers, and were quite unknown to the miners camped in the vicinity. Consequently, when, on Christmas Eve, we struck work a trifle earlier than usual, we, for lack of outside companionship, found ourselves left to our own resources as to the manner in which we should commemorate the festive season. Church was out of the question, even had we been that way inclined — there wasn't one within fifty miles. Of course, there were plenty of shanties down the main camp where the celebrations were likely to be fast and furious, but that sort of thing was not to our taste. So, after numerous suggestions, it was agreed we should "rest" — make a bush Sunday of it, in fact — do our bit of washing, and have a jolly good dinner; and, in special honour of the special occasion, Alf McAuley, who was regarded by us as an artist in the cooking line, volunteered to make a very particular "plum duff," otherwise a Christmas pudding. To that end he set to work after supper, and, having obtained as many of the ingredients as were procurable, mixed them up in our fossicking tin dish, and was about to tie the result up in the leg of an old pair of moleskin trousers when Corney Blake, the funny man of the party, called out:—

      "I say, Mac, isn't it the right thing to put in a coin?"

      "I haven't got one," replied Mac; "leastways, not one small enough."

      "Well, put this in," said Blake, throwing over to McAuley a small piece of gold.

      "Why, that's George's pet nugget!" remarked Mac. "He'll cut up rough if we play larks with that."

      "Oh, that's all right," returned Blake; "you put it in. He'll never miss it, and it will be fun to see his face when he finds it in the pudding to-morrow."

      "Very well," agreed the cook; "but you'll have to take the blame."

      And into the mixture the nugget went, the improvised pudding-bag being tied up and put into an iron bucket on the fire outside. Mac having insisted that a proper Christmas pudding should boil at least twelve hours, it was agreed that we should take turns during the night to get up and replenish the fire and see that the pudding was cooking properly. That point having been settled and sufficient wood gathered to keep the fire going for twenty-four hours, we devoted the rest of the evening to discussing the probabilities of Mac's experiment, interspersed with a little extra refreshment in honour of the occasion, the result being that, after turning in about midnight, everybody forgot to wake up to attend to the fire.

      Next morning the cook's anger was fearful to behold and almost as dreadful as his language, but all troubles come to an end some time or other. The sodden "duff" was ignominiously thrown on one side, and Mac, recovering his good humour, set to work and made up for the mishap of the night by providing us with an excellent Christmas dinner. We were just at the end of it, having enjoyed the good fare immensely, the whole front of the tent being thrown wide open to give plenty of room, plenty of air, and plenty of view, when across the outlook stalked the tall and imposing figure of Karm-Karm, the one-time powerful chief of the Kuurndil, or Springdallah, tribe of aborigines. Following him were his four wives, two old and repulsive in aspect and two less ancient, the younger, Peecharm, or Blossom, being well favoured, and, like her more civilized sisters, tolerably well aware of it.

      Drawing his mantle of 'possum skins closely around him and motioning with his spear to his household to take a position in the rear, the chief advanced to where we sat at our improvised table and thus delivered himself:—

      "Merrijig, massa," with a comprehensive glance at all present, which rested finally upon the remains of the feast. "Black fellow big one hungry." Then, with a wave of his weapon to the rear, he continued: "Lubra all big one hungry; want him tucker."

      This remark elicited a chorus of approval from the retinue behind.

'YOU ARE TOO LATE, KARM-KARM,' I REPLIED.

      "You are too late, Karm-Karm," I replied, being more accustomed to the natives than were my companions; "we've eaten up all the grub."

      "You gib it poor black fellow lappisch," he said, with a longing look at the bottles on the table. "Karm-Karm big one sick," and he put out his tongue as though he wished to be medically examined.

      "You know we mustn't give you spirits to drink, you old schemer," I answered. "A nice orgy there would be at your mia-mia if we did. Besides," I added, "we haven't any left," and I turned an empty bottle upside down.

      The four lubras pressed forward on each side of their lord and master and, with extended palms, commenced a chorus.

      "What for you yabber like it that one? Merrijig, massa! You gib it poor lubra hickpenny" (sixpence).

      I was about to explain to them that collections were only usual in church, when Mac leaned forward. "By Jove!" he said, "where's that pudding? It will make a feed for the lot of them!"

      "So it will," observed Blake. "But is it safe? It's about strong enough to kill the whole tribe."

      "I'll chance it, anyhow," said Mac; and going behind the tent he returned with the derelict in his hands. "See here, Karm-Karm," he continued, "I'm going to give you and your wives a treat — a real Christmas pudding, made on purpose for you. And here's a couple of bottles of beer to wash it down with."

      The old chief's eyes sparkled with delight as he received the present. Passing the food on to the nearest lubra, he attempted to unfasten a bottle, and was intimating by signs that he wanted a corkscrew, when Mac interrupted him. "Now, then, Karm-Karm, none of that you know. You've got to eat some duff first, before you have any drink."

      Seeing that the white man was in earnest, the black fellow sat himself down on the ground, his lubras squatting around him, and proceeded to extricate the pudding from its covering. Having, in obedience to Mac's command, done so, he gave a small portion to each of his wives and proceeded to devour a much larger piece himself. For a moment or two the five dusky diners sat munching with evident and increasing enjoyment, when suddenly, with a howl of anguish, the old man sprang to his feet and, clapping his hands to his mouth, danced about like a madman.

      "Why, what is the matter, Karm-Karm?" I inquired, as he gradually became quieter.

      "No good, that fellow," he said, angrily, taking a lump of pudding from his mouth and looking at it. "Big one bite me along a here," pointing to an old stump in his jaws.

      We all rose up, and as I realized the situation I burst out laughing.

      "By thunder," cried Blake, "the old fellow's got hold of George's nugget! We forgot all about it, Mac."

      George Woods looked from one to the other for explanation, and as I tried to pacify him the old chief, whose contorted visage evidenced the pain he was suffering, held out the piece of gold in his hand, exclaiming:—

      "Baal, baal that fellow; no good that one."

      "Isn't it, though?" cried Blake, coming forward. "You just give it to me."

      "Baal me keep him," said the black fellow, throwing it down. "That one no good. Plenty one that fellow along a piccaninny waterhole."

      "What do you mean, Karm-Karm?" I asked.

      The old chief shook his head, and picking up a small stone threw it away contemptuously, saying, "Like it that one, no good."

      We looked at each other curiously, and taking the nugget from George I held it up before the old man and said, slowly, "Do you mean to tell me, Karm-Karm, that you know a place where plenty one fellow like it this one?"

      The chief nodded his head vigorously, but did not speak.

      "Where is it?" I asked. "Along a range, piccaninny creek," he answered, pointing towards the hills.

      "Far?" I inquired. He again shook his head. "Pull away now," he said, after a pause, "along a camp again before big one dark."

      Finally it was arranged that the lubras should be sent to their mia-mia with two more bottles of beer and the balance of the pudding; that Karm-Karm should conduct us to this golden stream, and, should his account prove correct, he was to be rewarded with a new rig-out of old clothes, a little money to put in his pocket, and a bottle of "lappisch" — the latter at his most particular request.

      We lost no time in setting out, and, following our guide across country and over some difficult ranges, arrived in a couple of hours' stiff walking at a spot where a number of steep gullies descended from a rather high range of hill. Stalking along a spur, Karm-Karm led us to one ravine, not so steep as the others, down which a small stream flowed, over a clear, pebbly bed, to the valley below, being fed from a little waterfall which broke over a ledge of rocks half-way up the range. Selecting a spot where the water widened out into a small, shallow pool, dammed at its lower end by a bar of slaty reef, which crossed it from side to side, he knelt down and began scraping up the sand and gravel with his fingers. Soon he put some in my hand, and upon close examination I could plainly detect small particles of gold. Using a short stick, he poked about the gravel near the bar where the water and soil were deepest. Presently he brought up a fistful of gravel: then he opened his hand, and we saw several pieces of gold quite as large as George's nugget. That was sufficient for us. We were convinced we were in possession of a veritable El Dorado, and our thanks and promises to Karm-Karm were profuse. That intelligent black fellow was stoically indifferent to our expressions of regard, but pointedly suggested that a drink would be the proper thing upon such an occasion, and he was promptly accommodated from McAuley's flask.

"PRESENTLY HE BROUGHT UP A FISTFUL OF GRAVEL."

      When our excitement had cooled down it was decided that we should all return to camp, under Karm-Karm's guidance, marking the track on our way, and that two of our number should that night come back to the gully and remain there in order to guard the treasure. We were soon at Springdallah again, and, having put a few tools and blankets together, Blake and George Woods started back to camp for the night at the new find, leaving Mac and myself to follow in the morning with the tent and the rest of the baggage.

      It was a beautiful night, and, as my mate and I sat outside the tent smoking, our conversation naturally turned upon the very unexpected events of the afternoon.

      "It was a bit of luck," said Mac, "that Corney thought of dropping that nugget in the 'duff.'"

      "Yes," I replied, "and it was just as lucky that you happened to give the pudding to the black fellow."

      "It was," said Mac, thoughtfully. "By Jingo! it's a rum Christmas, isn't it? If that hole is as good as it looks I wonder what will be the end of it? I don't suppose we shall be all together next Christmas Day."

      "Anything may happen," I remarked. "It is quite possible we four ma y be together next Christmas, but probably our newly-found wealth will separate us, and future Christmas Days find us scattered to all parts of the world."

      Little did I then think of what really would separate us, or of the strange and tragic circumstances under which some of us would meet again!

"WALKING QUICKLY TO THE LITTLE SHALLOW POOL WE SAW AT A GLANCE WHAT HAD HAPPENED."

      Next morning Mac and I struck camp and started early for the new scene of operations, handing over our work on the lead, in the meantime, to a party of hired me n. As we approached the new find — which we had already christened Cascade Creek — we failed to observe any signs of occupation, and concluded that our mates had spent the night lower down in the valley. On reaching the location of the previous day's discovery, however, we were puzzled to notice mining tools lying about which, upon inspection, proved to be our own, but no one was there; there was no camp, no fire — nothing. We cooeed, but had only the echo for reply. Walking quickly to the little shallow pool we saw at a glance what had happened. A few yards higher up the stream had been dammed and turned, the gravelly bottom laid bare, and the cavity or pocket completely cleared out, not a vestige of the golden treasure remaining.

      Our two mates had proved traitors. The temptation had been too strong for them. What would be a rich find when divided amongst four was a little fortune for two, and the gold and our treacherous companions had vanished, as we supposed, for ever. It was useless to attempt to follow them. They were gone. It was a breach of trust — not theft. The gold was there for the first comer. They had taken it for themselves and left us to find more in the creek, if we could. We did try, but without success. As happened in another of my experiences, this cavity in a rather steep declivity had caught all the heavy gold, the lighter being carried away by the falling water. Although the "colour" was to be seen in every dish we tried, no gold could be found in payable quantity, so we gave up the quest and returned to our claim on the lead at Springdallah, saying nothing to anyone of our adventure or of our absent companions.

 

THE SECOND. — CORIO BAY.

      DURING a summer in the late sixties I was spending a brief holiday in Geelong, at that time a favourite sea-bathing resort. The pretty town, however, had other attractions, one being the exceptional facilities for boating afforded by the beautiful inner harbour, known as Corio Bay. At the time of my visit the local yacht club — of which I was formerly a member — had arranged a series of scratch matches, in which I was invited to take part. The principal of these were to be held on Boxing Day, and my friends having suggested a trial cruise on the afternoon of the day previous I very gladly consented to accompany them.

      Christmas Day of 1868 was particularly bright and warm, and the bay was dotted over with pleasure craft of every description, including large sailing boats, carrying excursionists from Melbourne and elsewhere. The Fairy Queen, on board of which I was a volunteer, was a smart little cutter of five to us, and carried a crew of half-a-dozen amateurs when, on that Christmas afternoon, she started to sail round the course. in company with several other competitors for the morrow. The run round was, in point of fact, a trial race, and was watch ed with interest both from the shore and by the many pleasure parties afloat.

      Starting from Limeburner's Point we rounded the fairway buoy, off the wharves, with a fair wind, and then sat d own for a long beat to windward in order to reach the black dolphin in the ship channel. Presently, on the starboard tack, about half-way to Cowie's Creek, we noticed a large pleasure boat crowded with passengers who appeared to be enjoying themselves quite regardless of the safety of their vessel. Giving them a passing hail and advising them to be cautious we continued our way, until, going a bout again, we laid a course which would bring us a little to the south of the creek headland and close to the municipal abattoirs, around which large sharks were known to be numerous.

      As we neared the land we again saw the same craft about a mile from the shore. A sudden gust of wind, coming down an opening in the bluff, laid us for a moment on our beam ends, and when the Fairy Queen righted herself we saw that the larger boat had capsized and h er passengers were struggling in the water! In company with several other craft we immediately bore down to the rescue. As the sinking boat lay somewhat to windward, however, we were unable to get close up without making a short tack, and lost no time in doing so. As we neared the spot we found other boats were already picking up the struggling and screaming crowd, so, backing our head sails, we "lay to" and called to several men swimming aimlessly about to come to us.

      We had taken three or four on board when I noticed one powerful-looking man at some little distance swimming strongly and apparently undecided as to his course. Standing on the deck forward and waving a coil of rope above my head I hailed him at the top of my voice, when he turned and swam towards me. As he came nearer I fancied I knew the broad, sunburnt face with the dark curly hair and moustache, and when close up we both recognised each other.

      "Halloa, Blake," I called out, "is that you? Lay hold of the rope," and I flung the coil over his head.

      For a moment he seemed dazed; then, crying out "Great Scot! where did you spring from?" he turned on his side, still regarding me intently.

      "Come on, Corney!" I shouted, as the boat drifted slowly away from him. "Don't be foolish, old fellow; catch hold!" And I again threw him the rope, of which he had taken no notice.

      "Shall I?" he questioned, looking at me in a half doubtful way.

      "Of course," I answered; "come along quick."

HE LET GO HIS HOLD AND THREW UP BOTH ARMS.

      He made a few rapid strokes, not heeding the rope, which he made no effort to catch, and was alongside. Raising himself he clutched the gunwale with one hand, whilst I seized hold of the other. Others came to my assistance, and we were about to pull him into the boat when, with a dreadful shriek, he let go his hold, threw up both arms, and disappeared below the water. A moment after a crimson streak discoloured the waves, revealing the cause of the awful tragedy which had occurred before our eyes. Of the many lost from that ill-fated boat, several, besides my unfortunate mate, were known to have been destroyed by sharks; and, as his untimely fate set me thinking of our companionship in that earlier time, I suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Day!

 

THE THIRD. — FORTY-MILE BUSH.

      I HAD been staying for some months during the latter part of the year 1885 in the picturesque little township of Waipukurau, in the North Island of New Zealand. Christmas was drawing near, and I was expecting a visit from a medical friend in Napier, an ardent botanist, who had requested me to accompany him in a trip to the Forty-Mile Bush in search of rare ferns and undiscovered plants. He arrived in due course, and after a trip to the native pah at Porongahou, and a visit to the fern-clad hills at the foot of the Ruahine Mountains, we found ourselves on Christmas morning at Ormondvil!e, a small settlement in the bush, through which the Napier Railway passed to Makatoko, and distant from Waipukurau about twenty-five miles. We had not long been in our new quarters, and were preparing for a fern-hunting expedition to a gully reputed to be rich in beautiful specimens, when Ormondville was startled out of its usual quietude by a report that a series of dreadful murders had been committed that morning in the township. Upon inquiry the news was found to be only too true. A timber sawyer in the forest, who, with his family, occupied a hut on the outskirts of the hamlet, after a bout of heavy drinking the previous night, had that morning killed his wife and four children and escaped into the bush.

      The small community was thrown into a state of wild excitement. The nearest police were stationed at Makatoko, some twelve miles distant, and there was not a medical man nearer than Waipukurau. My friend at once offered his services, but, after ascertaining that all the victims were beyond his help, volunteered to assist in an attempt to capture the murderer. I could do no less than accompany him, and so, shortly after noon, a small party of six, including ourselves, set off along the railway line in search of the fugitive, other parties being dispatched, with the same object in different directions.

      Our progress at first was but slow, as the thick forest on each side of the line had to be carefully examined. After covering a couple of miles, however, we came to broken country, where the line crossed several ravines on open trestle bridges. One of these ravines, very deep and wide, was spanned by a strongly-built but fragile-looking structure of open-work timber and light spars quite sixty feet from the ground. We passed over and continued to search farther on without success, finally deciding to return. As we again approached the viaduct a gust of wind blew off the hat of one of our party, a man about whom there seemed to me to be an indescribable something which reminded one in a dreamy sort of way, of the long-forgotten past, and who, I had gathered from the general conversation, had spent some years in Australia. His name was Jones, but, after taxing my memory without result, I was satisfied I had never seen him before in my life. It was necessary for Jones to go after his hat, and down he went. Having secured it, he raised his head to look up at us as we waited for him on the bridge. Suddenly he started back with a cry of surprise, and, pointing to the upper woodwork of the bridge, he cried out, loudly, "There he is!"

      Immediately we all ran down, and there, sure enough, was the form of a man, high up on a trestle beam, crouching under the flooring of the bridge. He appeared to take no notice of our presence, but when he was addressed by name he shifted his position slightly and waved his arm as though motioning us away. Repeated attempts to induce him to surrender had no other effect than to produce signs of defiance, until at last Jones, who knew the man intimately and had worked alongside of him, volunteered to go up and persuade the wretched maniac — for he was then nothing else — to come down and give himself up. Divesting himself of his coat and waistcoat, Jones went half-way up the side of the gully and then, swinging himself on to a joist, worked along a tie-beam until he got to the cross-pieces immediately under the man, which he began to climb. It was not a difficult matter, requiring only a firm hold and a clear head, and we all watched his progress with interest.

      He had worked himself close up to where the man was seated, pausing every now and then to speak to and pacify him, when suddenly the maniac leaned over and, aiming a blow with a heavy stick, struck Jones heavily on the arm by which he was clinging to a cross-piece. The unfortunate fellow let go his hold and dropped straight to the bottom, striking the open woodwork here and there in his fall!

"THE UNFORTUNATE FELLOW DROPPED STRAIGHT TO THE BOTTOM."

      He was terribly injured; my friend the doctor gave but little hope, and the poor man himself evidently thought he had not long to live. A little brandy revived him somewhat, when, fixing his eyes upon me and motioning the others away, he said:—

      "Don't you know me, Josh?"

      It was the name by which I was known amongst my mining companions m the days gone by.

      I was startled and looked at him in surprise, trying to bring my thoughts to bear, but I could only shake my head in sorrowful silence.

      "Don't you remember George Woods?" he asked, looking at me with anguish and entreaty in his eyes. "I recognised you," he continued, "as soon as I heard your name."

      "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "Can it be possible? Are you really George Woods?"

      "Yes," he muttered, "I am George Woods, who took your gold that Christmas Day, but I am George Jones here."

      He looked at me piteously.

      "Poor George," I cried, "I am sorry for you, old friend. Don't worry about the past. That is all gone, long ago. Let us try and do what we can for you now."

      He looked at me gratefully as I pressed his hand and wiped the perspiration from his face.

"'OLD JOSH,' HE MURMURED, 'YOU WERE ALWAYS GOOD.'"

      "Old Josh," he murmured, "you were always good, but the wrong I did you will come back to me — and this is Christmas Day!"

      His voice died away weakly, and the doctor again took charge of him. He was removed to his hut at the township, where the following day he died, happy to know that one mistake of his early life had been forgiven. The murderer was eventually secured and hanged in Napier Gaol.