The Gold-Stealers A Story Of Waddy by Edward Dyson (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

'Well,  If He Should Come To See You,  Will You Give Him This?' So I Took

It,  An' There You Are.'

Dick Read The Letter Slowly; It Was A Very Artful Letter,  Most Pathetic,

And Sprinkled With Drops Which Might Have Been Tears. The Writer Spoke

Despondingly Of Her Loneliness And Her Desolation,  And The Fears She

Endured When By Herself In The House At Night,  Knowing There Was A Camp

Of Blacks In The Corner Paddock,  And So Many Rough Cattlemen About. She

Was Entirely Helpless Since Her Only Protector Had Deserted Her,  And She

Supposed That It Only Remained For Her To Be Resigned To Her Fate. She

Signed Her Self,  'Your Forsaken And Sorrow-Stricken Mother.'

When Dick Had Finished Reading He Started To Put On His Clothes.

'What'S Up,  Morgan?' Asked Phil.

'Knock Off!' Was The Brief Reply.

'But What Yer Goin' To Do?'

'I'M Goin' Home.'

'Home!' Cried Peterson. 'Why?'

'Because!'

Dick Had The Instincts Of A Leader; He Demanded Reasons For Everything,

But Gave None.

Before The Lads Parted That Night Young Haddon Proffered Ted Mcknight

Excellent Advice.

'Your Dad'S Night Shift,  Ain'T He?' He Said. 'Well,  Don'T You Go In Till

Near Twelve. He'Ll Be Gone To Work Then,  An' When He Comes Off In The

Mornin' He'Ll Be Too Tired To Lick You Much.' This,  From An Orphan With

Practically No Experience Of Paternal Rule,  Argued A Fine Intuition.

Dick Haddon Did Not Enter His Home Immediately After Parting With His

Mates. Mrs. Haddon'S Little Cottage,  Four Roomed,  With A Queer Skillion

Front,  Was Surrounded By A Tumbled Mass Of Tangled Vegetation Miscalled A

Garden,  And Dick Loitered In The Shadow Of The Back Fence To Consider

What Manner Of Entrance Would Be Most Politic. He Was Shrewdly Aware That

His Mother Might Be Tempted To Make An Attack On The Impulse Of The

Moment,  Her Most Pathetic Letter Notwithstanding,  And It Was A Point Of

Honour With Him To Offer No Resistance And Make No Evasion When Mrs.

Haddon Felt Called Upon To Administer Corporal Punishment. To Be Sure The

Maternal Beatings Occasioned Very Little Physical Inconvenience; But They

Gave Rise To Much Unpleasantness,  And Were To Be Avoided When Possible.

As It Happened,  Dick Was Not Put To The Necessity Of Making A Choice

To-Night. In The Midst Of His Cogitations He Felt Himself Seized From

Behind In a Pair Of Long,  Strong Arms. With The Quick Instinct Of A

Wrongdoer He Suspected Evil,  And Kicked Sharply Back Ward At The Shins Of

The Enemy.

'Le' Go! You Le' Me Go,  See!' Gasped The Boy,  Struggling And Fighting

Fiercely.

Resistance Was Quite Useless. Dick Was Dragged Through The Gate,  And Up

To The House. The Door Was Opened,  And He Was Bundled Unceremoniously

Into The Kitchen. Then Ephraim Shine--For It Was The Superintendent Who

Had Fallen Upon Dick In The Darkness--Thrust His Sparsely-Whiskered,

Leathery Face Into The Well-Lighted Room,  And Said Shortly:

'Your Boy,  Ma'Am!'

Shine Withdrew Instantly,  Closing The Door Noiselessly After Him,  And

Left Dick Flushed And Furious.

'He Didn'T Take Me,' He Cried. 'I Was Comin' Home,  An' He Grabbed Me Just

Outside There--The Beast!

Dick Stopped Short,  Suddenly Conscious Of The Presence Of Visitors. Mrs.

Hardy Was Sitting Opposite His Mother By The Wide Fireplace--The Tall,

White-Haired Gentlewoman In Whose Society He Always Felt Himself

Transformed Suddenly Into A Sort Of Saintly Fellowship With The

Remarkably Gentlemanly Little Boys Whose Acquaintance He Made In The

Books Provided By The Chapel Library. At The Table Sat Gable,  The Grey,

Chubby-Faced Third-Class Scholar Whom Joel Ham Had Forgiven Because Of

His Extreme Youth. The Old Man Had A Circular Slab Of Bread And Jam In

His Left Hand,  And Was Grinning Fraternally At Dick. There Was A Third

Visitor,  A Stranger,  A Brown-Haired,  Brown-Skinned,  Bony Young Man,

Dressed After The Manner Of A Drover. He Had A Small Moustache,  And A

Grave,  Taking Face. He Looked Like A Bushranger,  Dick Thought Admiringly.

'This Is Richard,  Henry,' Said Mrs. Hardy.

'You Don'T Know Me,  Eh,  Coppertop?' Said The Young Man,  Taking The Boy'S

Hand.

'Harry Hardy,' Said Dick At Random.

'Well,  That'S A Good Enough Guess,  Young Fellow

Dick Fell Back Quietly. It Was,  He Felt,  A Moment When An Air Of Sadness

And A Retiring Disposition Would Be Likely To Be Most Becoming In

Him--And Most Effective. He Declined His Mother'S Invitation To Supper

With Such Meekness That The Little Woman Found It Difficult To Hide Her

Concern. Could She Have Peeped Into The Drive Of The Mount Of Gold,  Where

Was Scrap-Food Enough To Victual A Small Regiment,  Not To Mention Pillage

From Wilson'S Orchard,  She Might Have Been More At Her Ease--Or Have

Found Fresh Occasion For Uneasiness. Dick Had None Of His Mother'S

Apple-Like Roundness--The Widow,  Who Was Not Yet Thirty-Five,  Always

Suggested Apples And Roses--He Had Inherited His Father'S Flame-Coloured

Hair,  And A Pale Complexion That Was Very Effective In Turning Away

Maternal Wrath When Allied With An Appearance Of Pensive Melancholy And A

Fictitious Pain In The Chest.

The Conversation,  Which Had Been Interrupted By Dick'S Entrance,  Was

Presently Resumed. The Women Were Recounting The Story Of Frank Hardy'S

Arrest And Trial For Harry'S Information. The Subject Was One Of Profound

Interest To Dick,  And From His Retreat At The Far End Of The Table,  Where

He Sat Disregarded,  His Crimes Tacitly Ignored For The Time Being,  He

Listened Eagerly. When Gable Kicked Him To Attract His Attention,  And

Gleefully Exhibited A Handful Of Loaf Sugar That He Had Slyly Abstracted

From The Basin,  The Small Boy Frowned The Old Man Down With A Diabolical

Scowl.

Gable Was Mrs. Hardy'S Brother,  And Although Over Sixty Years Of Age,  His

Mind Had Remained The Mind Of A Child; Mentally,  He Never Grew Beyond His

Eighth Year. He Was A Child In all His Ways And Wishes,  Was Happiest In

The Society Of Children,  And Was Regarded By Them,  Without Question And

Without Surprise,  As One Of Themselves. He Was Sent To School Because It

Pleased Him To Go,  And It Kept Him Out Of Mischief,  And Every Day He

Learned Over Again The Lessons He Had Learned The Day Before And

Forgotten Within An Hour. His Admiration For Dick Haddon Was Profound,

The Respect And Appreciation The Boy Of Eight Has For The Big Brother Who

Is Twelve And Smokes.

Abashed By Dick'S Frown,  The Old Man Devoted Himself Humbly To His

'Piece,' And The Boy Gave His Whole Attention To The Conversation. He Was

Eager To Get An Inkling Of Harry'S Line Of Action. For His Own Part He

Had Thought Of A Desperate Band,  With Harry At Its Head And Himself In a

Conspicuous Position,  Raiding The Gaol At Yarraman Under A Hail Of

Bullets,  And Bearing Off The Prisoner In Triumph; But Experience Had

Taught Him That The Expedients Of Grown-Up People Were Apt To Be

Disgustingly Common Place And Ludicrously Ineffective.

'If He'D An Enemy,' Said Harry,  'There'D Be Something To Go On. Was 

Nobody,  No One At All,  That He'D Had Any Row With--Nobody Who Hated Him?'

Mrs. Haddon Shook Her Head.

'Nobody,' She Said. 'But He Declared The Real Thieves Had Done It,  Either

To Shift Suspicion Or To Be Rid Of Him. He Thought It A Disgrace That All

The Men At The Stream Should Be Marked As Probable Thieves Because Of One

Or Two Rogues; An' He Was Always Eager To Spot The Real Robbers. It Was

Known Gold-Stealin' Had Been Goin' On For Some Time. That'S Why They Put

On The Searcher.'

'Shine. Mightn'T He Have Had A Finger In It?'

'No,  No. It Doesn'T Seem Likely. Why Should He?'

'I Can'T Say. God Ks Upon Earth!"

Conclusion.

    He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content,

  Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get.

  I To The World Am Like A Drop Of Water,

  That In The Ocean Seeks Another Drop;

  Who,  Falling There To Find His Fellow Forth,

  Unseen,  Inquisitive,  Confounds Himself.

                                  Comedy Of Errors.

Three Eventful Years Have Passed,  And A General Peace Is Giving Rest

To Exhausted Europe. The War Has Cut Off Many A Brave Man; But It

Remained For Peace To Terminate The Military Career Of A Rising

Soldier In L'Isle'S Person; And Sad To Say,  Before He Was Either Major

General Or Knight Of The Bath; Though Sought In Many A Dangerous Path,

He Had Not Found His Golden Spurs.

Regiments Have Been Disbanded,  His Comrades Are Scattered,  And He

Himself Has Nothing To Do,  Not Even The Poor Resource Of Having To

Study Economy On Half-Pay,  Or Of Looking For More Additional Means To

Eke Out A Living.

It Is The Curse Of Those Entirely Engrossing Pursuits,  Which Excite

All Our Enthusiasm,  And Task Every Energy,  And Of Which The

Statesman'S And The Soldier'S Callings Are The Best Examples,  That,

When They Fail Us,  We Can Find No Substitute. All Things Else Are,  By

Comparison,  Stale,  Flat,  And Unprofitable. Can The Brandy Drinker

Cheer Himself With Draughts Of Small Beer? Screw Up His Nervous

Energies To Their Accustomed Tone With Slops?

Tired To Death Of Fox-Hunting,  Pleasant Shooting,  And Country

Neighbors; All The Means Of Excitement Around Him Exhausted,  L'Isle

Lounged In The Library At C----D Hall,  With Half A Dozen Open But

Discarded Volumes Before Him,  Revolving In His Mind All Possible Means

Of Occupation. At One Time He Would Resolve To Travel The World Over,

And Get Up A Personal Narrative,  Attractive As That Of Humboldt,  And

Views Of Nature,  That Should Look Through Nature'S Surface To The

Recognition Of Nature'S God,  Whom The Philosopher Seems Never To Have

Found In all His Works. At Another Time,  In Order More Effectively To

Counteract The Ill Effects,