Mr. Gorrie, who pegged out Bayley's No. 1 South, he came upon a beautiful pocket, which held in its treasure-chamber a piece of quartz fully charged with gold, and returning thirty ounces. Again, on the same day, while turning over some solid bodies of stone, he discovered twenty ounces of rich "flaky" gold, making fifty ounces for his day's work. Perhaps there was an element of romance in this gold digging, especially when one obtains the rewards, but the heavy manual toil was more than Mr. Clare's reduced constitution could bear. The turning point of his goldfields career came with a conversation with Captain Begelhole. Said Mr. Clare, in homely language—"I am full up of this sort of work. I'm a journalist, and am unused to it." Replied Captain Begelhole—"Why, look at the way this place is growing—a paper would pay here." It was as seed sown in volcanic soil; the idea germinated at once. Mr. Clare expressed a desire to found a newspaper, and the good-natured captain merely said—"You can 'knock off' work now and go and interview some of the storekeepers, with the object of forming a syndicate to start a paper."
Mr. Clare was only too glad to avail himself of the opportunity. He threw away his pick, and started on his errand. The old goldfields' people were not in the least negative in their virtues, and the idea of having a newspaper among them was mightily pleasing. Mr. Clare knew how to stir them up; a sub-committee was formed, and on a Sunday morning the promoter of the scheme met them in free and easy conclave, and supplied the details of the journalistic infant. It was impossible to give anything like a correct estimate of cost, for in the matter of carriage alone there were at times diurnal fluctuations in the price per ton of from ten to twenty pounds. Eventually it was agreed that Mr. Clare should go to Perth, but a serious difficulty arose; the teamsters were "out" on strike. There was nothing before him but a walk to York, and that was quite enough. Owing to the strike, food supplies in Coolgardie were very short, and our journalist stoutly began his 280 miles walk over a foodless wilderness with five pounds of flour, a two pound tin of oxhead brawn, and a water-bag containing a gallon of condensed water. After many days and nights in the depressingly dull and desolate bush, he reached Merridin in a state of exhaustion. The solitary march was relieved only by an occasional few words with some miner on the path, from whom he obtained rations from time to time. At Merridin he needs must sell his catskin rug in order to purchase "tin dog" and flour. There was here a "Shanty on the Rise," and its inmates, with that fine fellowship characteristic of lonely people in the Australian bush, were glad to give him an unlimited stock of directions as to the track, and the water holes to be found upon it. Away there in the monotonous solitudes your travellers welcome the stranger and exhibit a primitive curiosity concerning him, and, in a rugged manner, show respect and regard for those so unfortunately situated as themselves. Mr. Clare was directed to a watered track which had been used in former days, and which ran through, perhaps, the longest-wooded stretch in Western Australia—Tootalgin forest. If he had had a depressing journey before, he was destined to experience another even more abandoned. For eight successive days he tramped through the dispiriting bush, seeing no human being, and not even the proverbial "gohanna," merely meeting a few white ants, companions which count for very little, except that, like himself, they were alive. While plodding along he remembered that there was a plug of tobacco and a pipe in his pocket. He had never smoked before, but while resting in the lonely night he produced them with the idea of getting the soothing effect which my Lady Nicotine seems to possess. Poor Clare had struck a particularly ghastly brand of tobacco, but he wrestled with it most heroically. With sand as a luxuriant mattrass, with the stems and thin leaves of tenacious gum trees as bed-posts and draperies, he lay on his back and very promptly watched the "everlasting stars," thinking, the while, whether there really was anything in the poetical platitudes concerning the charm of the weed which he was so devotedly consulting. His wavering views were soon determined, and he adjourned himself sine die, and after very slight meditation came to the conclusion that the poets were all wrong, and that the man who had sold him the tobacco had designs on his life. Since that night he has not touched that particular brand of tobacco.
His provisions were now done, but meeting a native Mr. Clare magnanimously exchanged his tobacco for some kangaroo flesh, and, though it was not particularly dainty, he ate it with considerable relish. Then he struck the homestead settlement of one Flyme Martin, and when he had said that he was a wayfarer from Coolgardie, all the inmates gathered round him, whilst he told, in Goldsmith fashion, of the richness of Bayley's Reward and Hannan's. He was made an honoured guest, and when his fund of information on his travels had given out, the host told a story of "as how they knew there was gold in Coolgardie nearly seventeen years before." He then went on to tell Mr. Clare how a syndicate to go and explore the golden region was formed, "but," said he, with swelling indignation, "a crazy 'blanky' poet killed the whole affair." Mr. Clare was anxious to discover a poet's powers of syndicate annihilation, and asks, "How did he do it?" retorted the raconteur, "why, he simply went and wrote some poetry about it, and it killed our syndicate. I tell you I might have been a rich man if he hadn't written that blooming verse." "Let's hear it?" and Flyme then gave, with melodramatic effect, "the verse that ruined him."
"Let Stirling guide, and Flyme gas, and Cuttening give the figures,
But when they get to Coolgardie the ground is only fit for niggers."
Mr. Clare wondered no longer; he was satisfied that such a "verse would kill anything but the man who wrote it." He left the disgusted Flyme next morning, after being presented with a bottle of pickled radishes, which he feelingly abandoned a few miles away on the roadside. When some miles distant from York he grew hungry, and meeting a teamster he asked him for something to eat, and the jolly waggoner drew forth the gaunt remains of a ham bone, which Mr. Gaunt attacked with undisguised enthusiasm. That night he camped with the teamster on the banks of the Avon, but on the following evening he did himself the honour of sleeping in a house. On the outskirts of the town he saw a baker's shop, with a captious legendary sign, "Accommodation for Travellers." It was a pleasant Sunday night, and in meeting the proprietor, Mr. Clare pointed out that, as "a change," he would like to sleep under a roof, explaining that he had come from Coolgardie. He was ushered into a large dining-room, where he was eagerly questioned, and subjected to quite a severe scrutiny. Asked what he would like to eat, Mr. Clare, who was famished, airily offered to take "anything." The hostess put a plate of ham and eggs before him; and never was dish more welcome. But he found that sleeping under a roof may have its disadvantages; he was ushered to a bench in the bakehouse. At two o'clock a.m., after a well-deserved repose, he was rudely disturbed by the bakers coming in to knead their dough. He was roused from his couch, and shown to a corner, from which he watched, with heavy eyelids, the interesting ceremony of bread-making, occasionally relieving the tedium by telling the powdered officials impossible stories about Coolgardie.
