By Henry Lawson
Dave Regan， Jim Bently， and Andy Page were sinking ashaft at Stony Creek in search of a rich gold quartz reef whichwas supposed to exist in the vicinity. There is always a richreef supposed to exist in the vicinity； the only questions arewhether it is ten feet or hundreds beneath the surface， and inwhich direction. They had struck some pretty solid rock， alsowater which kept them baling. They used the old-fashionedblasting-powder and time-fuse. They’d make a sausage orcartridge of blasting-powder in a skin of strong calico orcanvas， the mouth sewn and bound round the end of the fuse；they’d dip the cartridge in melted tallow to make it water-tight，get the drill-hole as dry as possible， drop in the cartridge withsome dry dust， and wad and ram with stiff clay and brokenbrick. Then they’d light the fuse and get out of the hole andwait. The result was usually an ugly pot-hole in the bottom ofthe shaft and half a barrow-load of broken rock.
There was plenty of fish in the creek， fresh-water bream，cod， cat-fish， and tailers. The party were fond of fish， andAndy and Dave of fishing. Andy would fish for three hours ata stretch if encouraged by a ‘nibble’ or a ‘bite’ now and then—say once in twenty minutes. The butcher was always willingto give meat in exchange for fish when they caught more thanthey could eat； but now it was winter， and these fish wouldn’tbite. However， the creek was low， just a chain of muddy waterholes，from the hole with a few bucketfuls in it to the sizablepool with an average depth of six or seven feet， and they couldget fish by baling out the smaller holes or muddying up thewater in the larger ones till the fish rose to the surface. Therewas the cat-fish， with spikes growing out of the sides of itshead， and if you got pricked you’d know it， as Dave said.
Andy took off his boots， tucked up his trousers， and went intoa hole one day to stir up the mud with his feet， and he knewit. Dave scooped one out with his hand and got pricked， andhe knew it too； his arm swelled， and the pain throbbed up intohis shoulder， and down into his stomach too， he said， like atoothache he had once， and kept him awake for two nights—only the toothache pain had a ‘burred edge’， Dave said.
Dave got an idea.
‘Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with acartridge？’ he said. ‘I’ll try it.’
He thought the thing out and Andy Page worked it out.
Andy usually put Dave’s theories into practice if they werepracticable， or bore the blame for the failure and the chaffingof his mates if they weren’t.
He made a cartridge about three times the size of those theyused in the rock. Jim Bently said it was big enough to blowthe bottom out of the river. The inner skin was of stout calico；Andy stuck the end of a six-foot piece of fuse well down inthe powder and bound the mouth of the bag firmly to it withwhipcord. The idea was to sink the cartridge in the water withthe open end of the fuse attached to a float on the surface，ready for lighting. Andy dipped the cartridge in melted bees’-wax to make it water-tight. ‘We’ll have to leave it some timebefore we light it，’ said Dave， ‘to give the fish time to get overtheir scare when we put it in， and come nosing round again； soWe’ll want it well water-tight.’
Round the cartridge Andy， at Dave’s suggestion， bounda strip of sail canvas—that they used for making waterbags—to increase the force of the explosion， and round thathe pasted layers of stiff brown paper—on the plan of the sortof fireworks we called ‘gun-crackers’. He let the paper dry inthe sun， then he sewed a covering of two thicknesses of canvasover it， and bound the thing from end to end with stout fishingline.
Dave’s schemes were elaborate， and he often worked hisinventions out to nothing. The cartridge was rigid and solidenough now—a formidable bomb； but Andy and Dave wantedto be sure. Andy sewed on another layer of canvas， dippedthe cartridge in melted tallow， twisted a length of fencingwireround it as an afterthought， dipped it in tallow again， andstood it carefully against a tent-peg， where he’d know whereto find it， and wound the fuse loosely round it. Then he wentto the camp-fire to try some potatoes which were boiling intheir jackets in a billy， and to see about frying some chops fordinner. Dave and Jim were at work in the claim that morning.
They had a big black young retriever dog—or rather anovergrown pup， a big， foolish， four-footed mate， who was alwaysslobbering round them and lashing their legs with his heavy tailthat swung round like a stock-whip. Most of his head was usuallya red， idiotic， slobbering grin of appreciation of his own silliness.
He seemed to take life， the world， his two-legged mates， and hisown instinct as a huge joke. He’d retrieve anything： he carted backmost of the camp rubbish that Andy threw away. They had a catthat died in hot weather， and Andy threw it a good distance awayin the scrub； and early one morning the dog found the cat， after ithad been dead a week or so， and carried it back to camp， and laidit just inside the tent-flaps， where it could best make its presenceknown when the mates should rise and begin to sniff suspiciouslyin the sickly smothering atmosphere of the summer sunrise. Heused to retrieve them when they went in swimming； he’d jumpin after them， and take their hands in his mouth， and try to swimout with them， and scratch their naked bodies with his paws. Theyloved him for his good-heartedness and his foolishness， but whenthey wished to enjoy a swim they had to tie him up in camp.
He watched Andy with great interest all the morning makingthe cartridge， and hindered him considerably， trying to help；but about noon he went off to the claim to see how Dave andJim were getting on， and to come home to dinner with them.
Andy saw them coming， and put a panful of mutton-chops onthe fire. Andy was cook to-day； Dave and Jim stood with theirbacks to the fire， as Bushmen do in all weathers， waiting tilldinner should be ready. The retriever went nosing round aftersomething he seemed to have missed.