arrels the street-public were allowed to "dab" with a fork, at
the rate of a penny a time, for discarded fragments of food.
Occasionally a rich reward would fall to the enterprising "dabber."
Joe's most dazzling stroke of luck happened once when he dabbed out a
whole fowl (feaoul, he called it). This must have been rendered
possible through some extraordinary lapse of culinary carefulness.
The description was so appetizing that I am sure the wraith of that
long-digested bird hovered over our meager banquet.

The second pilgrim was a Jew named L.

He was extremely short of stature, but wore the biggest boots I have
ever seen; literally, they covered him to the waist. L, never having
previously roughed it, was the greatest sufferer; his misery was so
great that he wept bitterly, refusing to be comforted. He sickened us
through his utter want of grit. When, towards morning, he slept, I took
his boots and hid them behind a bush some distance away. His
lamentations on missing them were long and loud.

The third of my companions was a mere tramp, sodden with drink a man
utterly without significance, except as an example of what to avoid.

Some months afterwards, at Pilgrim's Rest, L attempted to commit
suicide by hanging himself. He was cut down before life was extinct,
and on recovery was prosecuted for felo-de-se. At the time Major
Macdonald, the Gold Commissioner, happened to be away, his place being
temporarily filled by Mr. Mansfield, the postmaster. The terms used by
the latter in sentencing L caused great amusement.

They were as follows:

"As you have been guilty of an attempt only, I will fine you 5, but if
you had succeeded I should have felt bound to pass a much more severe
sentence."

"Artful Joe" and I were the only two members of the party who were fit
to travel next day, so after leaving the others the largest share of
our joint stock of provisions (meal and tea), and restoring the boots
to their disconsolate owner, we went on. We abandoned the road and
traveled by a footpath across country in the compass direction of our
objective. It was in the middle of a calm, sunny afternoon that we
reached the eastern edge of the mountain plateau overlooking the Blyde
River Valley. The prospect was a magnificent one. North and south the
great mountain ranges rolled away, seemingly to infinity. Before us,
winding down through the range on the opposite side of the valley, lay
Pilgrim's Creek, the goal of our long en