The tunnelling work now follows. The head stuff is removed to make way for you to get under, to work at the latent treasure of specs, nuggets and washing stuff. The constraint of body in work, the damp, the closeness of the atmosphere, the gloom, the fear of impending rocks, with occasional raps of knuckles and skull against the sides and roof, altogether make this wombatting not the most amusing operation in life; though, like other uncomfortable things, it now and then leads to some important and profitable result. It is often annoying to find your hopes of veins in a bank so thoroughly blasted. A week’s labor brings you to your boundary in a certain direction without a single glimpse of gold. Then perhaps, you may be placed in a peculiarly puzzling condition. You trace a pleasing vein to the verge of your claim; honesty says, “stop,” and self interest cries “go on.” To some lofty minds this position makes no manner of difficulty; they see the gold, and they simply follow it, reserving to a more convenient season the consideration of the precise whereabouts of their neighbour’s ground. Cases have been known of a poor fellow delving for weeks in a hole, and when quite sure of dropping on the gold, he all at once disappears in a cavern, which his friend of the next claim has constructed with much ingenuity to lighten his labors and load. But the business of washing has to be thought of. That heap of dirt has to be passed through the cradle. If in the dry season, this must be done at a distance of from three to nine miles from the hole, paying, perhaps, one shilling a bucket for cartage. There is the loss of time going so far, and the inconvenience of having the company split into digging and washing parties, each having a separate establishment. Unless, therefore, you immediately require cash, you prefer carting the stuff home to your tent beside the dried up creek, waiting for the time of rains. When that joyous harvest of diggers does come, all is bustle and merriment. If a sensible man, and not putting off till to-morrow, you have secured your washing station beforehand. You now cut a place in the bank for your tubs and cradle, drive in two posts by the edge of the water, and roll down against them a log of six or eight feet long, against which dirt is put, to serve as a firm footing and embankment. The cradle is made to swing easily and unshiftingly, by the rockers resting in the grooves of two blocks of wood firmly fixed in the soil. By giving the cradle a slight slant to the lower end, the water will run off the quicker; but if it dips too much a little gold may wash off with the sand. All being ready, you take your iron bucket and carry the stuff to the tubs. The _Aquarius_ with his long handed dipper, supplies the liquid for puddling. The stuff is kept well stirred about with a spade, so as to set the metal free from the adhesive soil and pipe clay. The dirtied water is gently poured off every now and then, and, with a fresh