And， after tea， they would sit on a log of the wood-heap， orthe edge of the veranda—that is， in warm weather—and yarnabout Ballarat and Bendigo—of the days when we spoke ofbeing on a place oftener than at it： on Ballarat， on Gulgong， onLambing Flat， on Creswick—and they would use the definitearticle before the names， as： “on The Turon； The Lachlan； TheHome Rule； The Canadian Lead.” Then again they’d yarn ofold mates， such as Tom Brook， Jack Henright， and poor MartinRatcliffe—who was killed in his golden hole—and of othermen whom they didn’t seem to have known much about， andwho went by the names of “Adelaide Adolphus，” “CorneyGeorge，” and other names which might have been more or lessapplicable.
And sometimes they’d get talking， low and mysterious like，about “Th’ Eureka Stockade；” and if we didn’t understand andasked questions， “what was the Eureka Stockade？” or “whatdid they do it for？” father’d say： “Now， run away， sonny， anddon’t bother； me and Mr So-and-so want to talk.” Father hadthe mark of a hole on his leg， which he said he got through agun accident when a boy， and a scar on his side， that we sawwhen he was in swimming with us； he said he got that in anaccident in a quartz-crushing machine. Mr So-and-so had abig scar on the side of his forehead that was caused by a pickaccidentally slipping out of a loop in the rope， and fallingdown a shaft where he was working. But how was it theytalked low， and their eyes brightened up， and they didn’t lookat each other， but away over sunset， and had to get up and walkabout， and take a stroll in the cool of the evening when theytalked about Eureka？
And， again they’d talk lower and more mysterious like， andperhaps mother would be passing the wood-heap and catch aword， and asked：
“Who was she， Tom？”
And Tom—father—would say：
“Oh， you didn’t know her， Mary； she belonged to a familyBill knew at home.”
And Bill would look solemn till mother had gone， and thenthey would smile a quiet smile， and stretch and say， “Ah，well！” and start something else.
They had yarns for the fireside， too， some of those old matesof our father’s， and one of them would often tell how a girl—aqueen of the diggings—was married， and had her weddingringmade out of the gold of that field； and how the diggersweighed their gold with the new wedding-ring—for luck—byhanging the ring on the hook of the scales and attaching theirchamois-leather gold bags to it （whereupon she boasted thatfour hundred ounces of the precious metal passed throughher wedding-ring）； and how they lowered the young bride，blindfolded， down a golden hole in a big bucket， and got herto point out the drive from which the gold came that her ringwas made out of. The point of this story seems to have beenlost—or else we forget it—but it was characteristic. Had thegirl been lowered down a duffer， and asked to point out theway to the gold， and had she done so successfully， there wouldhave been some sense in it.
And they would talk of King， and Maggie Oliver， and G.
V. Brooke， and others， and remember how the diggers wentfive miles out to meet the coach that brought the girl actress，and took the horses out and brought her in in triumph， andworshipped her， and sent her off in glory， and threw nuggetsinto her lap. And how she stood upon the box-seat and toreher sailor hat to pieces， and threw the fragments amongst thecrowd； and how the diggers fought for the bits and thrust theminside their shirt bosoms； and how she broke down and cried，and could in her turn have worshipped those men—loved them，every one. They were boys all， and gentlemen all. There werecollege men， artists， poets， musicians， journalists—Bohemiansall. Men from all the lands and one. They understood art—andpoverty was dead.
And perhaps the old mate would say slyly， but with a sad，quiet smile：
“Have you got that bit of straw yet， Tom？”
Those old mates had each three pasts behind them. The twothey told each other when they became mates， and the one theyhad shared.
And when the visitor had gone by the coach we noticed thatthe old man would smoke a lot， and think as much， and takegreat interest in the fire， and be a trifle irritable perhaps.
Those old mates of our father’s are getting few and farbetween， and only happen along once in a way to keep the oldman’s memory fresh， as it were. We met one today， and had ayarn with him， and afterwards we got thinking， and somehowbegan to wonder whether those ancient friends of ours were， orwere not， better and kinder to their mates than we of the risinggeneration are to our fathers； and the doubt is painfully on thewrong side.