would hear of a new field thirty miles away, where Dame Rumour (always a lying jade with regard to gold) had it that so rich was the wash there that a fortune could be won in a day. To this wild unauthenticated whisper, which originated goodness only knows where, the most experienced digger would give heed, and at a moment’s notice would join the mad rush to the new El Dorado, throwing away substance for shadow, almost always to his everlasting regret. Truly, the lure of gold passeth all understanding.
And yet these old timers were lovable men, loyal to one another and true to the highest traditions of our race. In proof of this assertion here is a story (one of many) told to the writer in 1905 by John Hudson himself. At that time we were both in the service of the Public Works Department on the construction of the Hokitika-Ross Railway, and this grand old pioneer would tell me of Old Westland and of the spirit of its people.
“When in November, ’64, the Totara River was rushed,” said Hudson, “a number of diggers, comprising Blanchard’s party, set about opening up a claim; to do so it was necessary to clear the heavy bush on the surface, and in felling a large tree one of their number was struck by the butt which smashed his thigh and pinned him to the ground. The few men present had no chance of lifting the
