‘Mebbe not, mebbe not—yet,’ said he. ‘But the yarns I’ve listened to—on the Lachlan, over yander—consarning that ’ere Rainbow claim ’d make your ’air stick up stiff.’ During the night, feeling restless and unable to sleep, I got up and went outside. The weather was very hot, and, for some time, I sat and listened to the faint wash of the sea, longing for a plunge in its cool depths. Suddenly, in the great expanse of gloom, my eyes caught the glimmer of a light. As nearly as I could guess, it was moving slowly towards the shaft we were to descend in the morning. ‘There goes your aged friend,’ said a voice at my shoulder, which made me start with the unexpectedness of it. ‘Too hot and close to sleep,’ explained Treloar. ‘Come out for a breath of air.’ ‘Let’s shepherd the old chap, and see what his little game is. Bring the lantern. Needn’t show a light. We know the way well enough. I expect he’s after ghosts.’ As, breathless, we arrived at our windlass, Treloar gave a grunt of disappointment on seeing that everything was exactly as we had left it—rope coiled neatly round the barrel, green-hide bucket hanging over the mouth. ‘It must have been a Jack-o’-lantern,’ said he; ‘or perhaps the old sinner’s gone down some other shaft. Yes, by Jingo! look there!’ he exclaimed, pointing to where, a couple of hundred of yards distant, a flash of light was visible for a moment. ‘He’s gone down the Snake Shaft! Those ladders are as rotten as pears; and he’ll break his wicked old neck if he isn’t careful. I wish him joy of all he’ll find there, even if he gets to the bottom safely. What came we out for to see? Let’s make back.’ It was my turn down next morning, and when I got to the end of the hundred and odd feet of the häänted shaft, I lit my candle, and, at random, entered one of the four roomy drives that had been put in so many long years ago. So extensively had it been quarried, that I was only obliged to stoop slightly. Not a trace of earthen pillar here. A valuable property this, and a clean-swept one. Travelling warily along, I suddenly stumbled over a ridge of mullock, into what was evidently another drive altogether. My course, so far, had been downwards. The new tunnel sloped slightly upwards. Evidently both claims had been driving for a ‘gutter.’ One of them had got to the end of its tether before reaching it. The surface limits of ‘golden holes’ are pretty strictly defined; but roguery, as well as miscalculation, has been known to produce curious effects in adjoining claims. Not that, just then, I bothered myself with any such speculations. I was on the look-out for a lump of that rich water-worn conglomerate which had made Yamnibar, in the days of its youth, the talk of the world. Sitting down to rest a minute, the candlelight fell brightly on the shining steel of a pick.