unpleasant business over the mine at Lake Darlot,
which the syndicate wished to abandon, for reasons best known to
themselves, I was at length on the road for that district, with the
agreeable news that our mine was for sale, and would soon be off our
hands.

I had a rather more enjoyable journey than my previous one, for not only
was I free from fever, and the mine in a fair way to being sold, but
winter had changed the face of the bush from dull dead yellow to bright
smiling green, dotted here and there with patches of white and pink
everlastings. One could hardly believe it was the same country. Instead of
the intense heat a bright warm sun dissipated the keen and frosty air of
early morning, while the hoar-frost at night made one glad of a good
possum rug to coil oneself up in. I did not envy the cyclists, for
sometimes, failing to hit off a camp on the road, they had perforce to
make the best of a fire as a substitute for a blanket, and to be content
with a hungry stomach, in place of having a meal.

Before the erection of telegraph wires, which now connect all the more
important mining towns, cyclists made good money by carrying special
messages from Coolgardie to the outlying districts. Except where the sand
was deep they had a good track, well-beaten by the flat pads of camels,
and could do their hundred miles a day at a push. Travelling at express
rate, they were unable to carry blankets or provisions except of the
scantiest description, and took their chance of hitting off the camp of
some wayfarer, who would always be ready to show what hospitality he
could, to messengers of so much importance. To have to part with one of
your blankets on a cold night for the benefit of another traveller, is
one of the severest exercises of self denial.

These little kindly services are always rendered, for a man in the bush
who would not show courtesy and hospitality to a fellow-wayfarer is
rightly considered a cur. No matter what time one strikes a man's camp,
his first thought, whether for stranger or friend, is to put on the
"billy" and make a pot of tea.

Arrived at Lake Darlot, I found work being carried on well and with
energy, as could not fail to be the case where Dave Wilson was concerned.
Poor Jim and Paddy had had hard times, before Wilson arrived, to make the
provisions last out. Nevertheless they had worked away on the reef without
complaint, while others around them were waxing rich on the alluvial.

The