Postmaster, as well as butcher and storekeeper, was Mr. Benstead, a kind-hearted, hard-working man, and a good friend to us in our early struggles.  What a wonderful post-office it was too!  A proper match for the so-called coach that brought the mails.  A very dilapidated buckboard-buggy drawn by equally dilapidated horses, used to do the journey from the Southern Cross to the new fields very nearly as quickly as a loaded waggon with eight or ten horses!  The mail-coach used to carry not only letters, papers, and gold on the return journey, but passengers, who served the useful purposes of dragging the carriage through the sand and dust when the horses collapsed, of hunting up the team in the mornings, and of lightening the load by walking.  For this exceedingly comfortable journey they had the pleasure of paying at least five pounds.  It was no uncommon sight at some tank or rock on the road, to see the mail-coach standing alone in its glory, deserted by driver and passengers alike.  Of these some would be horse-hunting, and the rest tramping ahead in hope of being caught up by the coach.  There would often be on board many hundred pounds’ worth of gold, sent down by the diggers to be banked, or forwarded to their families; yet no instance of robbing the mail occurred.  The sort of gentry from whom bushrangers and thieves are made, had not yet found their way to the rush.

Many banks were failing at that time, and men anxiously awaited the arrival of news.  The teamsters, with their heavy drays, would be eagerly questioned as to where they had passed Her Majesty’s mail, and as to the probability of its arrival within the next week or so!  The distribution of letters did not follow this happy event with great rapidity.  Volunteers had to be called in to sort the delivery, the papers were thrown into a heap in the road, and all anxious for news were politely requested to help themselves.  Several illustrated periodicals were regularly sent me from home, as I learnt afterwards, but I never had the luck to drop across my own paper!

On mail day, the date of which was most uncertain as the coach journeys soon overlapped, there was always a lengthy, well-attended “roll-up” at the Store.  Here we first made acquaintance with Messrs. Browne and Lyon, then negotiating for the purchase of Bayley’s fabulous mine of gold.  No account of the richness of this claim at that time could be too extravagant to be true; for surely such a solid mass of gold was never seen before, as met the eye in the surface workings.

Messrs. Browne and Lyon had at their camp a small black-boy whom they tried in vain to tame.  He stood a good deal of misplaced kindness, and even wore clothes without complaint; but he could not bear having his hair cut, and so ran away to the bush.  He belonged to the wandering tribe that daily visited the camp—­a tribe of wretched famine-stricken “blacks,” whose natural hideousness and filthy appearance were intensified by the dirty rags with which they made shift to cover their bodies.  I should never have conceived it possible that such living skeletons could exist.  Without begging from the diggers I fail to see how they could have lived, for not a living thing was to be found in the bush, save an occasional iguana and “bardies,*” and, as I have said, all known waters within available distance of Coolgardie were dry, or nearly so.