Chapter XII: "pray for Rain, My Darling."

"We are getting along finely," said William Smith, rubbing his hands briskly as he looked about with satisfaction upon the busy scene. The crushing machine was nearly fixed. It was a Berdan's, with twelve stampers to pound the stone to dust. The steam-engine was in fine order. The glistening white quicksilver was ready for the work of amalgamation with the bright red gold. The dam was built and ready for water.

William Smith had good reason to feel proud, for by his enterprise he had peopled this hitherto deserted spot. A hundred tents of drill, and a few more pretentious with walls built of slabs, were scattered about, and by a wave of his hand three hundred strong men had found profitable employment. Some had their wives with them, and goats and children scampered about the gullies and over the adjacent hills. The stores, the principal one of which and the most favoured by the gold-diggers belonged to William Smith, were doing a roaring business. A wise man, William Smith; no half-hearted worker; what he did was thoroughly done. He was an honest straightforward man too, driving a hard bargain always, and always to his own advantage; but those he dealt with had their gains also, and they knew that his words were to be depended upon down to the last letter. Wherever he competed he took the lead, and deservedly. His hotel was the best in Silver Creek; the best accommodation was to be found there, the best liquors were to be obtained there. His theatre was a model of comfort. His store on the Margaret Reef (I have not had time before to tell you that Philip had christened it the "Margaret," immediately he knew the name of his sweetheart) was as complete as it was possible for a store on the gold-diggings to be. He sold the best of everything--the best and nattiest water-tight boots with square toes and clean-cut nails in the soles, the strongest laces, the stoutest and soundest drill and calico for tents and flies, the trustiest steel for gads, the most serviceable serge and Scotch twill shirts, the finest pea-jackets, the most expensive cabbage-tree and Panama hats, the best tobacco, and everything else of the first quality. His store was the post-office, and there was a corner in it where the gold-diggers could write their letters and read the _Silver Creek Herald_ and the _Silver Creek Mercury_. He had planned roads, and had some idea of using his influence for the laying-out of a township by the Government. In his way, William Smith was a small Moses; with room and opportunity and a thousand men at his back he could have laid the solid foundation of a great nation. He had the true legislative faculties for such an undertaking, and I am sure that he would have looked after Number One. The bricklayer who could only earn thirty shillings a week in England, might have become a ruler of men.

The scene, altogether, that was to be witnessed day and night on the Margaret Reef was such as never can be witnessed in an old country. In civilised countries men seem to go about their work with a sadness upon them, and as if they were labouring under some kind of oppression. In such-like places as I am describing, men rise in the morning and set about their work with smiles and vigour, and hearty cheerfulness. In the old country it is, "It's a hard thing to have to work like this! Alas!" In the new country it is, "Come along, boys, with a will! Hurrah!"

I have said that the dam was built and ready for water. William Smith said the same thing to Philip at the conclusion of a conversation. He was in high spirits; there were two hundred and fifty tons of quartz waiting to be crushed, lying in great heaps near the shaft. Half of it was burnt, and was ready for the machine; the other half was piled on the wood kilns and was blazing away, filling the air with not the pleasantest arsenical fumes. New shafts were being sunk along the brow of the Margaret Reef, and one or two were beginning to yield gold-bearing stone.

"What do you think it will crush?" asked Philip of William Smith, as they stood by a heap of the quartz which had been burnt.

William Smith poked about the stone and averaged it, a piece from one place, a piece from another, a piece from another. He saw plenty of gold in it.

"About nine ounces to the ton, I should say," replied William Smith. "We'll first crush fifty tons, and wash up and see what the yield is. Then we'll go straight on with two hundred tons, and get the biggest cake of gold that has ever been seen in Silver Creek and exhibit it in High Street. It'll do the diggings good."

"When shall we commence to crush?"

"We shall be ready in three days. All we want is water in the dam. Now is the time to pray for rain."

Philip went straight to Margaret, as one goes to one's high-priest.

"Pray for rain, my darling," he said, "pray for rain;" and told her the reason why.

Margaret prayed for rain, obediently, as she had been bidden, and prayed for it so hard that, whether you will believe it or not, such a downpour commenced on Silver Creek at ten o'clock that night as had never been witnessed by the oldest inhabitant--a veteran of two years or less. Silver Creek overflowed its banks, and the lower parts of the township were flooded. Philip was wild with joy.

"You duck!" he said to Margaret--he was in the theatre when the rain commenced--"this is all your doing!"

We sober-going persons know, of course, that it was only a coincidence. Margaret, however, smiled demurely. She was quite ready to take the credit of it; she would not have been a woman else. But it _was_ rather a stretch on Philip's part.

William Smith looked anxious. He wanted rain, but he was a little bit afraid of such a downpour as this, thinking that the dam might not be strong enough to bear it. Philip ran to Margaret, and told her of William Smith's fears.

"The dam not strong enough!" she exclaimed. "O, but it is!"

Philip was satisfied. The most profound logic could not have so convinced him of the soundness of the dam. He could not convince William Smith, however, for Smith was not in love. That enterprising person wanted to set out at once for the Margaret Reef, but it was impossible to get there in such a storm. Raging torrents were in the way. Smith fretted that he could not whistle them aside. But he did not fret long; he accepted the inevitable with a grimace. Philip accepted it in a very different fashion; but then it was pleasant to him, for it compelled him to remain for the night in the hotel where Margaret was. He blessed the rain that kept him by Margaret's side. He had also a little private business to do with Mr. Hart. Margaret had related to him the incident on the road which had led to the baby becoming a shareholder in Hart's Star Dramatic Company, and how that it was Mr. Hart who had suggested it. She enacted the entire scene, and burlesqued the Leading Lady in fine style. Philip, who was fond of children, was mightily pleased, and was loud in his praises of Mr. Hart, and Margaret chimed in. She loved the old man; and, indeed, they both had occasion to be grateful to him. Between them they had concocted a plan--that is to say, Philip had concocted it, and Margaret had said, "Yes, yes," to everything; which, in Philip's eyes, made her the author of it. What that plan was will now be seen.

The performances concluded at eleven o'clock: The roof of the theatre was made of zinc, and the rain fell on it so heavily and loudly that not a word could be heard within the walls. But the actors went on with their parts nevertheless, and to keep the audience in good humour, introduced dances in the piece, and played such impromptu antics that the gold-diggers were rather pleased with the storm than otherwise.

When the performances were at an end, Philip and Margaret stood at the side-scenes, talking softly over their plan concerning Mr. Hart. What they really had to say about it might have occupied two minutes--but it took them twenty, they were such bunglers.

"Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," said Philip, and kissed Margaret.

The part he was playing in those happy days was full of cues for kisses. There may have been meaning in the kisses; there was certainly none in the cues.

I think that Philip must have spoken this particular cue, "Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," at least a dozen times (invariably, of course, using it as a fresh cue) before he attempted to stir from Margaret's side. But at length he did say, with something like determination:

"Now I must really go."

Margaret replied with a sigh, "Yes, Philip, you must."

Even then, I think, he would not have gone, if they had not been disturbed in their love-making.

"When it is all settled," said Margaret, "run up to my room and knock at the door; then I will come down and give Mr. Hart a good hug and half-a-dozen kisses."

Philip looked blank at this.

"You goose!" said Margaret. "I have kissed him I don't know how many times. Why, he's over sixty! and don't you think he deserves it, sir, for the care he has taken of me."

"Of course," responded Philip, the cloud in his face clearing. "I _am_ a goose. I know you wouldn't kiss a younger man--unless it was me."

"Not a much younger man," replied Margaret with a merry laugh, as she ran away from him.