The Eureka Stockade by Raffaello Carboni
page 6 of 226 (02%)
page 6 of 226 (02%)
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the yellow boy was all there,--my eyes were sparkling,--I felt a sensation
identical to a first declaration of love in by-gone times.--"Great works," at last was my bursting exclamation. In old Europe I had to take off my hat half a dozen times, and walk from east to west before I could earn one pound in the capacity of sworn interpreter, and translator of languages in the city of London. Here, I had earned double the amount in a few minutes, without crouching or crawling to Jew or Christian. Had my good angel prevailed on me to stick to that blessed Golden Point, I should have now to relate a very different story: the gold fever, however, got the best of my usual judgment, and I dreamt of, and pretended nothing else, than a hole choked with gold, sunk with my darling pick, and on virgin ground.--I started the hill right-hand side, ascending Canadian Gully, and safe as the Bank of England I pounced on gold--seventeen and a half ounces, depth ten feet. Chapter III. Jupiter Tonans. One fine morning (Epiphany week), I was hard at work (excuse old chum, if I said hard: though my hand had been scores of times compelled in London to drop the quill through sheer fatigue, yet I never before handled a pick and shovel), I hear a rattling noise among the brush. My faithful dog, Bonaparte, would not keep under my control. "What's up?" "Your licence, mate." was the peremptory question from a six-foot fellow in blue shirt, |
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