of 'wash' appeared above the surface; then he took it in short lifts and deposited it with the rest of the wash-dirt.
'Isley!' called his father again.
'Yes, father.'
'Have you done that writing lesson yet?'
'Very near.'
"Then send down the slate next time for some sums.'
'All right.'
The boy resumed his seat, fixed the corner of the slate well into his ribs, humped his back, and commenced another wavering line.
Tom Mason was known on the place as a silent, hard worker. He was a man of about sixty, tall, and dark bearded. There was nothing uncommon about his face, except, perhaps, that it had hardened, as the face of a man might harden who had suffered a long succession of griefs and disappointments. He lived in a little hut under a peppermint tree at the far edge of Pounding Flat. His wife had died there about six years before, and though new rushes broke out and he was well able to go, yet he never left Golden Gully.
Mason was kneeling in front of the 'face' digging away by the light of a tallow candle stuck in the side. The floor of the drive was very wet, and his trousers were heavy and cold with clay and water; but the old digger was used to this sort of thing. His pick was not bringing out much to-day, however, for he seemed abstracted and would occasionally pause in his work, while his thoughts wandered far away from the narrow streak of wash on the 'face.'
