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he water was nearly level with the top of the hole, and all hope of saving him was gone. The brothers had often been warned of the danger they were running. Shuddering at the thoughts of this awful death we turned away, but no change of scene could dissipate it from our minds--the remembrance of it haunted me for many a night. Jessie seemed pleased to see us on our return--we had left her behind with Gregory to his great delight--we abstained from mentioning before her the fearful accident we had but witnessed. That evening we wandered about Forest Creek. We had not gone far before a digger with a pistol in his hand shot by us; he was followed by an immense mob, hooting, yelling, and screaming, as only a mob at the diggings can. It was in full pursuit, and we turned aside only in time to prevent ourselves from being knocked down in the confusion. "Stop him--stop him," was the cry. He was captured, and the cry changed to, "String him up--string him up--it's useless taking him to the police-office." "What has he done?" asked my brother of a quiet by-stander. "Shot a man in a quarrel at a grogshop." "String him up--string him up--confront him with the body," vociferated the mob. At this moment the firmly-secured and well-guarded culprit passed by, to be confronted with the dead body of his adversary. No sooner did he come into his presence than the CI-DEVANT corpse found his feet, "showed fight," and roared out, "Come on," with a most unghostlike vehemence. The fury of the mob cooled down; the people thought the man had been murdered, whereas the shot, fortunately for both, had glanced over the forehead without doing any serious injury. Taking advantage of this lull, the fugitive declared that the wounded man had been robbing him. This turned the tables, and, inspired by the hootings of the now indignant mob, the "dead man" took to his heels and disappeared. The diggers in Pennyweight Flat, Nicholson's Gully, Lever Flat, Dirty Dick's Gully, Gibson's Flat, at the mouth of Dingley Dell, and in Dingley Dell itself, were tolerably contented with their gains, although in many instances, the parties who were digging in the centre of the gullies, or what is called "the slip," experienced considerable trouble in bailing the water out of their holes. Some of the names given to the spots about Forest Creek are anything but euphonious. Dingley Dell is, however, an exception, and sounds quite musical compared to
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