We met parties of men from Bendigo—­unlucky diggers, who offered to sell their thirty-shilling licenses.  By this time my cash was low; my twenty-dollar gold pieces were all consumed.  While voyaging to the new Ophir, where gold was growing underfoot, I could not see any sound sense in being niggardly.  But when I saw a regular stream of disappointed men with empty pockets offering their monthly licenses for five shillings each within sight of the goldfield, I had misgivings, and I bought a license that had three weeks to run from William Matthews.  Ten other men bought licenses, but William Patterson, a canny Scotchman, said he would chance it.

It was about midday when we halted near Bendigo Creek, opposite a refreshment tent.  Standing in front of it was a man who had passed us on the road, and lit his pipe at our fire.  When he stooped to pick up a firestick I saw the barrel of a revolver under his coat.  He was accompanied by a lady on horseback, wearing a black riding habit.  Our teamsters called him Captain Sullivan.  He was even then a man well known to the convicts and the police, and was supposed to be doing a thriving business as keeper of a sly grog shop, but in course of time it was discovered that his main source of profit was murder and robbery.  He was afterwards known as “The New Zealand Murderer,” who turned Queen’s evidence, sent his mates to the gallows, but himself died unhanged.

While we stood in the track, gazing hopelessly over the endless heaps of clay and gravel covering the flat, a little man came up and spoke to Philip, in whom he recognised a fellow countryman.  He said: 

“You want a place to camp on, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Philip, “we have only just come up from Melbourne.”

“Well, come along with me,” said the stranger.

He was a civil fellow, and said his name was Jack Moore.  We went with him in the direction of the first White Hill, but before reaching it we turned to the left up a low bluff, and halted in a gully where many men were at work puddling clay in tubs.

After we had put up our tent, Philip went down the gully to study the art of gold digging.  He watched the men at work; some were digging holes, some were dissolving clay in tubs of water by stirring it rapidly with spades, and a few were stooping at the edge of water-holes, washing off the sand mixed with the gold in milk pans.

Philip tried to enter into conversation with the diggers.  He stopped near one man, and said: 

“Good day, mate.  How are you getting along?”

The man gazed at him steadily, and replied “Go you to hell,” so Philip moved on.  The next man he addressed sent him in the same direction, adding a few blessings; the third man was panning off, and there was a little gold visible in his pan.  He was gray, grim, and hairy.  Philip said: 

“Not very lucky to-day, mate?”

The hairy man stood up, straightened his back, and looked at Philip from head to foot.