over part of the mullock heap, and in this shade, seated on an old coat, was a small boy of eleven or twelve years, writing on a slate.
He had fair hair, blue eyes, and a thin, old-fashioned face―a face that would scarcely alter much as he grew to manhood. His costume consisted of a pair of moleskin trousers, a cotton shirt, and one suspender. He held the slate rigidly with a corner of its frame pressed close against his ribs, whilst his head hung to one side, so close to the slate, that his strangling hair almost touched it. He was regarding his work fixedly out of the corners of his eyes, whilst he painfully copied down the head line, spelling it in a different way each time. In this laborious task he appeared to be greatly assisted by a tongue that lolled out of the corner of his mouth and made an occasional revolution round it, leaving a circle of temporarily clean face. His small clay-covered toes also entered into the spirit of the thing, and helped him not a little by their energetic wriggling. He paused occasionally to draw the back of his small brown arm across his mouth.
Little Isley Mason, or, as he was called, 'His Father's Mate,' had always been a general favourite with the diggers and fossickers, from the days when he used to slip out first thing in the morning and take a run across the frosty flat in his shirt. Long Tom Hopkins would often tell how Isley came home one morning from his run in the long, wet grass as naked as he was born, with the information that he had lost his shirt.
Later on, when most of the diggers had gone, and Isley's mother was dead, he was to be seen about the
