Slikker the Gold Detective and the case of the anxious aristocrat.
Mt Britton gold field. Nth Qld. Australia.
Friday the 13th of June. 1884.

a flash looking cove.

While Slikker washed and changed Eddie considered his reflection in a full-length glass. His ginger mutton-chop whiskers framed a moderately weathered face and despite the addition of a few pounds he still looked fairly trim. Turning side-on he considered a profile. "All rather distinguished," he muttered.

But the old shooters jacket was starting to sag. Mrs Evans might be right; perhaps it should be provided an honourable discharge. Where once it had been a smart countrified covering it now showed more stain than pattern and the leather patches on the elbows were darkening with age. It was a pity though. The old wrap was a favourite.

When Slikker reappeared, a towel slung about his neck and his face newly scraped, he was a man transformed. 'Now there's a flash looking cove;' Eddie mused. 'Sometimes the clothes do maketh the man.'

Upon arrival he'd found Slikker looking like any other digger, wearing thick-soled working boots and a faded crimson shirt. Dirty moleskins cinched with a rawhide belt. His holster tied down low in the Australian fashion with the butt of the Colt standing high. All topped with a disreputable looking cabbage-tree hat. Yet now he appeared of a different breed entirely.

Being a slender five-foot-eight, with sharp chiselled features under short jet-black hair, Slikker inhabited his white-collared rig most admirably. One minute a common digger, the next a man of business? It was positively uncanny.

After slipping on a charcoal grey waistcoat and settling into Finch-Hatton's favourite armchair Slikker began buffing his black street stalkers. All the while Eddie continued with his covert surveillance. There was no denying his friend now displayed that unforced and indefinable air that most would allude to as sophistication, though Slikker would surely laugh if accused of harbouring such a beast. Eddie cast the glass a final sly glance before taking a seat, feeling a mite deflated.

Setting aside the buffing rag Slikker dug out his pipe and ream and accepted Eddie's dip. "You know we could always get that new tailor on Carlyle to have a bash at your coat mate. You do seem awful attached to the damn thing, though heaven knows why?"

Eddie was startled. "Are all my thoughts tattooed on my forehead?"

 "Well you been pickin' at the cuffs and smoothin' and palaverin' with the patches ever since I walked in, you're obviously frettin' about losin' the thing to the forces of cleanliness, read Mrs Evans."

Eddie rapidly shifted his hand from its idle play with a stained cuff. "So did you find out anything of interest then? Whilst gadding about with the locals."

 "If you rough the leather with a wire brush, then rub a little dubbin into 'em, those patches might come up a tad. But I don't know about tweed? It certainly don't like to lose a stain does it? As for the case at hand? As I forecast, nothing noteworthy."

"I do apologize for being so damnably enthusiastic old friend."

Slikker felt suitably admonished. "I'm sorry Eddie, didn't mean to cut you dead. It's just I'm all hung up. Have been f'r a coupla days." Slikker flashed a guilty grin before setting flame to his bowl. After puffing up a fragrant blue fug he settled back into the haze. "But that's no excuse for curt an' ignorant is it? I just gotta bad habit of taking you for granted mate. An' while it ain't right, there she is."

Eddie puffed up his own blue fug and grinned back. Poor old Slikker - so addicted to introspection that a genuine apology could become a dangerous barb. Searching for a distraction he recalled a confounded investigation . "Perhaps you might aid me in another matter then. What is it about Mt Britton that's so different? To look at I mean. All over my morning cuppa I was fair puzzling away. And though I turned her upside down and gave her a good shake, it was to no avail. So what is it?"

Slikker was secretly impressed that Eddie had noticed something other than the damned birds and bees. It should be encouraged. However the difference between Mt Britton and the majority of the other central coast gold towns was so glaringly obvious he found it difficult to frame a suitably obtuse question. "Think back on all the camps we've crossed and reckon on the buildings, mate."

"There was just one construction with an iron roof! All the rest was bark. By the by, why do they heat the bark?"

Slikker shook his head. Eddie had certainly had been right deep in a quizzical. Usually he only noticed building's when they were in the way. "They heat the bark to straighten the sheets or to fashion capping pieces, but you're way off the track, think about wherethe buildings are."

"Ahh!" Eddie understood. It had been staring him in the face. "No higgledy-piggle!" Most mining encampments were a mass of small shabby buildings, hanging one off the other, miners being ever wary of surrendering any possibly valuable topsoil. "But that simply begs the question."

"Well here it's a tad different. No payable wash has ever been found below the bottom of Nuggetty Gully or east of Bread'n Butter. So since there ain't no colour on the flat, the warden declared the whole to be a township. Even got a surveyor in to lay out nice regular building blocks, before trying ta to sell 'em off quick smart to all comers." Slikker shook his head.

Eddie was confused at his friend's disapproval. It seemed only right and proper to lay out a township before you commenced to build one. "Surely it can only be a good thing, old bean. The guiding hand of civil administration, order from chaos and all that."

 "But it don't happen that way! The first comers won't stomach it, and if she's a boomer, the men of means'll come in and do whatever they want anyway. The reason most of the shacks are off in the sticks, like this one, is cause there ain't no obligation on a digger to set up anywhere he don't want. Asking a digger to buy his own campsite is coming it a bit raw. Runs entirely agin the natural order."

Eddie considered the well-spaced constructions set out on the flat and realised that even these were erected with an eye to moving on. And where a store holder or a merchant might purchase a building block as an investment, most diggers would regard it a waste of money. Even Harold, who could certainly afford to purchase a building block, had opted for this palace in the scrub.

They'd skirted the topic for too long. Eddie decided it was time to bell the cat. "Y'know old chap, to mere mortals like myself and Harold, though he'd probably flinch at being labelled a mere mortal, the disappearance of half the yield of a mine in suspicious circumstances might be considered noteworthy. But you do appear pretty damned smug."

Slikker grinned and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. "No worries in diagnosing the disease mate. The trick is to find a cure that won't kill the bloody patient. Still I reckon I got her licked. I've sorted a plan, an' while I can't say as I like it, it's the only cure that's apparent. Now here's what I reckon we'll do..."
 ________________________________________________________

That Harold Finch-Hatton Esq. was accustomed to a life of luxury was made obvious in the nature of his 'shack'. Twelve feet wide, twenty-four long, with walls made from huge slabs of timber adzed smooth and caulked with mud.

The floor was tongue and groove pine over which throw rugs were scattered. One long wall was crowded with shelves hosting those hundred and one items best kept handy. His massive desk boasted pigeonholes crammed with accounts, bills, and writing materials. By the side of an eleven-inch Grandfather was a large, though meagrely stocked, bookcase. A far corner, screened-off with calico, provided two small bedrooms, whilst the opposite end of the huge room was given over to a fireplace so large you might walk right in and sit on the hearth. In front of the fireplace a card table, two armchairs, and a drinks cabinet, described a living-room of sorts.

Harold, the son of Lord Finch-Hatton, was in the colonies at the insistence of an imperious father. The Lord believing a stint in one of the rougher colonies was just the tonic to give his heir some backbone. Young Harold had travelled extensively before purchasing Mt Spencer station, a cattle holding on the frontier behind Mackay, then some months later gold was discovered on a neighbouring run.

Heenan of Homevale Station had been playing with a golden wedding band when an aboriginal guide indicated he knew where a "big mob o' that fella sit down." So Heenan was unexpectedly introduced to a creekbed littered with gold.

Heenan was a stockman, not a miner, and so had little conception of the significance of the find. Tossing aside any nugget considered too small, he soon filled a pint-pot billy and all his pockets with gold. After returning to the station-house he embarked on a drunken celebration.

The metal picked up on that first visit was almost all Heenan would ever gather from Nuggetty Gully. Even as he slept the rush was begun. Three ringers left to investigate the creekbed before it was quite light, followed in very short order by every other employee. Even the station manager marked out a claim.

A rough camp on Mt Britten.

Two weeks later this dry gully on the western foothills of the Clarke Range hosted a mining camp with a hundred men cradling wash in the gully. Ten weeks later a thousand men were stripping the topsoil from any likely looking patch.

Not long after the first nugget was lifted the young Lordling arrived. Finch-Hatton had come to assess the financial opportunities represented by a gold field being so close at hand. Yet upon arrival Harold realised that it was not just in supplying beef to the field that money might be made. It seemed madness that these many men were working so hard, sieving the dirt in the gullies, whilst no one was searching the ridges for the font of this wealth. After all, must it not be more profitable to mine the source rather than scrape up the tiny flakes worn away with the rock?

Harold knew that hereabouts, wherever you encounter alluvial treasure, there are nearby quartz veins. So after arranging to have a cabin constructed near the head of Nuggetty Gully the Lordling began scouring the hills. Soon he found and christened the Little Wanderer Reef.

No more than six inches wide the Little Wanderer, as its name suggests, winds a tortuous path up a steep hillside. Yet the quartz on its surface proved rich in gold and a trial shaft indicated it fell honestly into the rock. Harold was quick to stake out and register a reefing claim, build a millhouse, and erect a quartz stamper. Then he set about exploiting the find in a regular fashion.

Within weeks another lode was discovered and Finch-Hatton purchased the Erratic Star at once. It was a gamble but he needed to secure a reliable supply of ore for the mill. The two mines were thereafter worked in unison and the first paddock of stone put through the mill payed handsome dividends. Almost five ounces of gold to the ton. 870 ounces in all. The future of the endeavour appeared secure. Both the mines and mill would be a success. The young Lordling triumphant.

Then the yield fell away. The gold still appeared as heavily in the quartz, the general assay remaining much the same, yet a second paddock produced only two-thirds the gold per ton. Then a third was even more meagre. Less and yet lesser?

Finch-Hatton was worried after the second crush and frantic following the third. It cost 55 pounds a week to run the mining operation and a further 30 shillings per ton to process the ore and service the capital. At 2 ounces to the ton he was going backwards. But why?

Paying careful attention to detail he inspected every aspect of the operation. After the second crushing he'd stepped up security. Sitting next to the amalgamating tables during the course of the crush with a loaded pistol by his side. Sleeping overnight in a locked mill. Even hiring two private hands to act as his eyes and ears in all other parts of the concern. Yet when the gold from the third crushing had still been miserly he discounted the original diagnosis - loss due to theft - and begun casting about for another explanation.

Finch-Hatton tested the ore for sulphuretted compounds that might be cheating the mercury of its prize. Yet every test denied the existence of mundic. He did an endless series of fine assays in case the plates were failing to pick up the metal, yet the tailings matched those of the first crushing. The gold was most certainly gone!

The water feeding the mine was tested to see if it might be too alkali or acid, circumstances his books told him to avoid. The mill was disassembled, checked, reconstituted and tuned. But following weeks of fruitless endeavour he was forced to admit he was no closer to finding out why his enterprise was failing. Still he had one more card to play.

When last in Mackay, a place he considered a hotbed of radicalism at least as disreputable as Sodom, he'd stayed the night at Eddie Cunningham's digs. A big sprawling residence going by the name 'the Mateship' set in grounds near the outskirts of town. Harold knew Eddie to be made of the right stuff, being ex-military and a good old boy of Empire, and Eddie shared digs with Slikker the gold detective!

On how a straight old file like Cunningham had come to take up with such an odd companion Harold didn't care to speculate. But there he was, just the right chappie, in just the right place.

Stories about the gold detective were legion but how much was true, and how much fable, was unknown and unknowable, yet there must be some truth underlying the broo-ha-ha. And this was a perfect chance to put the fellow to the test. At best he would find where the gold was going, at worst this Slikker chappie would be shown up for a charlatan. So Harold Finch-Hatton had sent Eddie Cunningham a long letter explaining his predicament, in an open and uncharacteristically candid manner.

Allucial mining.

______________________________________________________

The sound of the Sabbath Calm stamper grew steadily louder as Slikker and Eddie paced the path from Finch-Hatton's shack to his mill. Upon breasting the bank of the creek, with the millhouse directly in front, the noise stifled all conversation. Yet even as they made to enter the howl stepped down a pitch.

Slikker lifted a hand indicating they should pause. Again the rhythm changed. There were now gaps in what had been a solid curtain of reverberation. Soon all to be heard was the whirr of a steam engine and the sound of pulleys slipping loose against drive belts. Then the engine also fell silent, a huge extended sigh signalling the release of the boiler pressure. An hour earlier they'd located one of the goldfield urchins and promised an unexpected windfall if he'd run a message down to the mill, the note must have hit it's mark.

"They've hung the stamps right on time" Slikker was peering approvingly at his fob watch.

They paused a further moment upon the verge to allow their eyes to admit the transition from bright midday to relative gloom. Harold Finch-Hatton was sitting on a straight-backed chair near the fall of the amalgamating tables, with a folding table set up by his side. The Lordling was talking to the only other occupant of the millhouse, a chubby fellow with a huge mane of dark hair and a full-face beard. Yet as Slikker and Eddie made to enter the Mill this animated discussion came to an abrupt end and the employee turned and stalked off, disappearing through a distant door.

Slikker had never met Finch-Hatton, he'd been away on business when the aristocrat had stayed over, and his evenings on the gold field had been spent fraternising at the other end of the social scale. So upon sighting the subject of so many inquiries, Slikker inspected him closely, fitting the beastie on hand with the circulated description.

The embryonic Lord was immaculately clad in clothes of much the same flavour as those favoured by Eddie, but of undeniably greater refinement and flourish. Six foot, thirty-something, blond and slim. Tweed waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves. A broad studied smile flashing a welcome as soon as Eddie coughed to signal their approach. It was a politician's smile, somewhat less than skin deep.

"Ah, Eddie! Hmmm. I was looking to see you about now, and here you are. Welcome to the Sabbath Calm Mill. Come in! Hmmm. Come in! And this must be the famous Mr Slikker. My duties to you and yours, sir. Might I say I am most grateful for you to be concerning yourself with my small difficulties. So much outside the, hmmm, how might I put this, hmmm, the scope of your usual activities, hmmm."

He was Eddie's friend so he was the one who would bear the brunt of the small talk that seemed to preface every gentlemanly meeting of Englishmen. At times Slikker wondered how the English had ever been able to find time for warfare and the building of Empire, what with their insatiable need for small talk. Still the interlude provided a few moments more in which he might inspect the fellow, every new discovery reinforcing his initial impression. Finch-Hatton was under pressure.

Red-rimmed eyes and a faint whiff of spirits, of a Scottish rather than industrial origin, were immediately apparent. Then there was an initial slight quaver in the voice and a grip, upon shaking hands, that was damp with perspiration. The many small items laid out by his side were arranged with undue care, two well-tended fingernails were recently nibbled, and a smear of jam upon one cuff appeared to run counter to generally prim habits. Yet the Lordling was still such a product of his class that the formalities were strictly observed, and they endured a full five minutes of small talk before approaching the point of the meeting.

Slikker entertained a brief daydream featuring the battle of Waterloo. 'My Lord Wellington, a grand day isn't it? I trust I find you and yours well? Yes indeed sir, it might come on to rain. Oh yes sir, I would so like a cigar. Oh very jolly indeed, and how is your lovely lady? Oh I almost forgot sir; apparently the French are attacking...' How did they ever win? At last Harold came to the point.

"So you want to spend the whole of the afternoon tearing my mill apart Mr Slikker? Hmmm? You say you know where the fault lies? Hmmm? God knows I've been over it a hundred times. The gold is in the rock, but we're losing such a whack between the mine and the retort! But then you know all this - you've studied my letter, hmm?" Slikker inclined his head. "Capital! Good man! I asked Eddie to pass on the missive so you might see how uncommon thorough I've been. It is mechanical then, hmmm? Thought as much! Thought as much!"

Slikker summoned as reassuring a tone as he could muster. "I have my engineers report in hand, and by following his rather exacting instructions as to a change of procedure, as well as, err, by tinkering with various appliances, we should be able to set this thing to rights. But as I indicated in me note, I'll need to speak to all of the mine and mill employees in private to, err, assist in rectifying things."

The gold detective looked up to gauge the Lordling's reaction. Finch-Hatton must believe this fairy story, the whole strategy hung on that one hook. But it was instantly apparent his fears were misplaced. Whilst in his own ears the yarn had sounded fumbling and patently false, the aristocrat appeared overjoyed.

Working on a prospectors claim in Nuggetty Gully.

_________________________________________________________

Now the stamps were hung every person in the township knew something was afoot. The Sabbath Calm Mill had stopped. On a Friday! The whole field was aflame with rumour.

The time for moving on will eventually arrive for every resident of a goldfield so those with a fatalistic bent are always won't to see any irregularity, however small, as an omen portending the end of a field. And whilst the doomsayers are only rarely right, they're always listened to.

As indicated by this particular stampers name, the only time a quartz mill stops crushing stone is from midnight on Saturday, until midnight on Sunday. The Sabbath. When all good mill men clear the take from the previous week, re-coat the tables, and re-bed the coffer. Sunday, when virtuous amalgamators load their retorts and deliver unto their employers the golden harvest of the week. When a mill stops on a Friday, especially such a Friday as this, it can only bode ill.

"Friday the thirteenth it is," intoned the prophets, "and the Mill has bust, its vitals broke, and we're all to be moving on. Friday the thirteenth it is and the mill is bust!" It was a dire prediction setting almost every heart a-flutter.

Such was the talk of the town as the mill and mine employees idled away an unexpectedly long lunch and pondered their fate. They'd been told to report to the millhouse at twelve-thirty sharp. Whilst also being informed, via the multitude of whispering chains by which a diggings is knit together, that there was dangerous wickedness afoot.

 
oil upon the waters

Eddie gentled the worried owner out the door to await their report in his palatial shack, then he and Slikker took a seat by the side of the card table. They didn't have long to wait. At the appointed time the employees began to arrive.

First to appear were Finch-Hatton's private hands, Mr Gregg and Mr Brown. Slikker knew them already. Upon arriving on the field he'd immediately sought them out to discuss their predicably slight knowledge of the enterprise.

"Over here gents." Slikker beckoned to the poker-faced guards, for guards they were, whatever euphemism Finch-Hatton might wish to use. They approached cautiously. This transmogrification of a skinny digger into an assured gentleman confusing their normally deadpan expressions, but only slightly, an expressionless mask being one of the tools of their trade.

"I apologise for misleadin' you the other day gents. But I'm engaged in some rather delicate enquires on behalf of your employer in which such deceptions are a regrettable necessity. Of course you've met Eddie." Slikker was relieved these two had appeared first - being the ears and eyes of Finch-Hatton they must be removed.

"I'll be interviewing staff during the afternoon, in an effort to find and rectify some faults in the mill. Works that will, I have no doubt, alleviate many of the difficulties being currently experienced." Slikker raised his voice so it might be heard by the other staff shuffling in through the far doorway.

"And as these discussions will be entirely of a technical nature, and so outside the area of your expertise, I reckon your services are best utilised in protecting the mine from disturbance while we're sortin' things out. Thank you." The guards departed without question. Both were secretly glad to be outside of the gloomy mill and walking up a dray cart, in the fresh air.

The hoard of knowledge held by the populace of a gold field, often derisively referred to as gossip, is an impressive resource when tapped by someone who knows how to coax it from the public lips. This public assessment is rarely incorrect or misleading. Somehow a distillation of every known aspect of an individual is automatically performed by the collective, with every eye and ear in the township being a part of the matrix. Slikker peered across at the staff. He knew most to speak to and all by reputation.

Will Ryder, the general millhand, had been first in the door. A tall mousy fellow in his early twenties, missing two fingers from his right hand. The millhand had a reputation for liking rum and it was obvious he'd been engaged in conversation with this companion during the break. Rumour reported that this son of a miner was far smarter than he liked to appear, being a chess player and reader who liked to watch the stars.

Next were Ernst and Harry, the ore feeders. Working twelve-hour shifts shovelling 120 tons of spalled ore a week, nourishing the mill. It was the most repetitive of jobs but one that must be done carefully if the stamps were not to choke on too heavy a load, or smash themselves to pieces for want of a cushion. Both chaps had a reputation for being somewhat dim, that most perfect of qualifications for a shoveler, however, in Ernst this was coupled with a lack of anything but rudimentary English and a history of being accident-prone.

Jessie Ford, the Amalgamator, was a slight forty-year-old American who dressed to match his demeanour, looking more like a clerk than a mineworker. His wire framed spectacles, neat white moustache, and shock of white tousled hair, provided the air of a harmless grandpa. Jessie looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly, or at least not until after extensive consultation and a prior administration of chloroform. Whilst he was known to be educated, little else was inscribed in the gossip besides a general affirmation that he was good at his job. But by all reports he was almost devoid of personality. Just a working sketch of a man.

Then came Jeff Stunsey, another American, the same heavyset fellow who had departed last for lunch. Where Jessie might be a working sketch, Stunsey was the full oil painting. As underground boss and works foreman Stunsey was reputed to posses a foul temper that was easily aroused, and was known for lashing out with his fists at the faintest slander or imagined slight.

Stunsey arrived alongside Grice, Patrick, Terry, and Leacocke, underground hands working the thin adits of the Erratic Star and Little Wanderer. Grice was a reputed to be a part-time poddy-dodger whilst Patrick had been a guest of the Government for two years following an indiscretion revolving around a stolen horse and saddle. Terry and Leacocke were both blow-ins from New Zealand.

The last to arrive was Alfred Copse, the winding and topman, who took up a lean on the doorjamb. Another employee with a love of the tipple he was described by all as the possessor of a nervous disposition, given to going on benders of several days duration. But as his work between benders was considered excellent, the management tolerated an occasional absence for a few days at a time.

As soon as the employees were all present Eddie stood and addressed the gathering. "Gentlemen. Your attention please. You know me as a friend of your employer and have seen me kicking around these last days. But that's only half the story."

While Eddie was talking, Slikker ambled casually behind the group of employees to take up a lean on the wall near the doorway, causing a jittery Alfred to edge away from the entrance.

"Some of you may have met my friend. He's been engaged in some confidential enquires on your employers behalf. His name is Mr Slikker."

At this there was instant consternation. Every miner in Queensland knew of Slikker the gold detective! Most spun about to locate the detective.

"He... he said his name was John when I met him." Alfred's face was devoid of colour.

"Said the same to me," growled Stunsey, who'd curled his hands into fists that he tapped on his thighs.

"And me," chimed in Will Ryder, a constricted throat making his voice sound high and thin.

"Don't know what you reckon you're up too, but I won't have none of it. An' neither will me men." Stunsey was working himself into a high emotional state. His fists were tapping ever faster and he was beginning to flush and perspire.

Yet despite the millhouse being suddenly full of a tense expectation of violence Slikker and Eddie retained an expression of calm indifference. The workers were all waiting to take their cue from Stunsey.

"I won't be dry-gulched by some bloke what lies about his name! I'm off - and the rest'll be following." At this the foreman made to walk past Slikker and out the door.

He managed only two paces before the sound of a gunshot, made enormous by the confines of the mill, caused him to freeze. "You will stay right there if you value your life, Mr Stunsey." Eddie used his best parade ground bellow.

The workers all turned to face Eddie. The gent by the table was no longer an amiable friend of their employer, but rather a stern and dangerous looking chap holding a Colt revolver. A chap who obviously could, and had, used the weapon before. One passing glance was enough to convince Stunsey it was best he stay where he was.

Now Eddie had so successfully claimed their attention, Slikker pulled the nearby door closed, shot the bolt and clasped the padlock, then walked the length of the mill to close and padlock the only other entrance. As soon as he'd regained his position by Eddie's side, Slikker spoke directly to the workers for the first time. "Please don't be alarmed gents. I'm lockin' up for your own protection. To keep the conversation we're about to have a mite private. Now! Will you all be seated?"

Eddie gestured with the revolver and, as one, the workers dropped to the floor. Slikker eyed the gathering. These people must trust him. For their own sakes. But first he had to rattle their cage. "Thanks for your cooperation. I have gathered you together to offer you a choice that is no choice at all. You can either join the little conspiracy I'm about to propose, or I'll see every man-jack of you lodged in that new cellblock down on the flat before this day is out."

The gold detective watched his audience carefully. As the import of his words sank in some of the workers tried to surreptitiously peek at their neighbours. "Yes, I did say every one. You're all at it. I've never met the like. You're a pack of bloody thieves." This had to be done fast, while they were still reeling. So Slikker attacked the weakest link. "You Alfred! You've sold fourteen ounces of gold in the past three months, and it all came from this mine."

Yet Slikker was unprepared for the instant reaction his opening salvo provoked. It threatened to upset all their carefully weighed plans. Alfred Copse began crawling backwards on all fours, almost hysterical in his need to place a distance between himself and the man he was damning in a high shrill voice. "No! No! It wasn't me. I had to do it. He made me do it. Said it was all right. Stunsey made me do it. Said it was all right! It was Stunsey..."

Another gunshot silenced Alfred and stilled the room. Eddie was again holding the Colt high. A heartbeat later Stunsey, who'd been on the verge of throwing himself on the terrified Alfred, growled out a threat that filled the moment. "You're a corpse if you say more Copse. A dead man!"

Slikker realised it had been a mistake to start talking about individuals so soon. So he returned to the general accusation, beginning to pace as he spoke. "Don't panic Alfred. It's not just you and Stunsey that are stripping the plates. Every bloody employee in this shed should be locked up. As I said gents - you're all a pack of thieves.

These last words were enunciated slowly and clearly, and this time the hook bit. The realisation dawned upon even the dimmest of the gathered workers; it was not just a personal shame. The wondering glances being cast about were now softened by a degree of perverted relief. Everyone?

"Alfred here is only taking backslide from Stunsey, Leacocke, Grice, Patrick, and any other casual hand who might wanna swipe a slice when he turns his head."

The underground hands looked angry and confused, unsure of how to play the game. Slikker had already decided to largely bypass Stunsey and the underground hands, he'd divined that most of Stunsey's bluster was born of guilt rather than criminality and any physical confrontation would be counter-productive. In fact, for all his verve and fury, the underground boss was amongst the least of the mines problems. Under a firm hand he might even prove a good man. And the underground hands could hardly be blamed - when their boss had buckled they'd just leapt on a bandwagon. No, the source of this infection was in the millhouse.

"Will Ryder. You've been careful to keep your new telescopic glass well out of sight, haven't you? And so you should with an item costing eleven pound four an' six. A veritable bloody fortune!" The millhand didn't answer, there was no need, his downcast eyes and reddening features were enough.

"Christ! Even the shovellers in this establishment are sittin' on a small fortune." Ernst and Harry peered at the detective, displaying more surprise than fear. How could he possibly know?

"That small mound of pyrites heaped outside your shack says it all. You two must be up half the night dollying out your day's thievery. How either of you manage to put in a reasonable shift is beyond me?" Slikker shook his head, it was a genuinely sorry sight, two fellows too greedy or stupid to throw out a tiny pile of pyrites worth a fraction of the gold they'd already stolen.

But Jessie Ford was an entirely different kettle of fish. Upon noting that the amalgamator was still playing it poker faced a surge of near fury boiled up within Slikker. Damn the man! Damn him to hell! Yet he was a coward - it was there in his eyes. He'd snap like a twig when placed under pressure, so he applied some. "You are a sore disappointment, Mr Ford. A student of Holliman no less. As good an amalgamator as was ever bred. So where did you go wrong? Your teacher was as honest as a sweet spring day. But I know you're thieving! I know it for a fact."

When it comes to proof, closely netted inference is never as satisfactory as a pile of tossed pyrites, but at times it's all there is. Even with the thievery undertaken by all the others, it would require the amalgamator to be pocketing at least three ounces a week, maybe seven ounces of amalgam, for the deficit to be as great as it appeared. Under the stern gaze of his accuser the amalgamator's composure soon crumbled. Jessie Ford began shivering and casting his panic filled eyes about the room.

Slikker was filled with disgust and had the taste of bile in his mouth - at least the spineless cur might take it on the chin. He was still searching for an out! "You probably have a hollow proddy stick for the amalgam pot? Or maybe two or three, eh? An' I'd lay a penny to a peapod that the only copper sheeting going into that revival drum is clean off-cut. Ain't that so?"

When Jessie nodded his lowered head Slikker was barely able to contain the revulsion. All the old tricks! He had to struggle manfully to settle his emotions. Poor Holliman. How dare this piece of spineless blubber disgrace such a name?

Yet only half the battle was won. Now was the moment. They must be turned from guilty parties into co-conspirators for the dodge to work. When offered a way out, it must appear the only course open. Yet it was grubby and distasteful work and Slikker felt belittled. It was far too close to countenancing theft. Nevertheless, he'd been employed to fix a problem, not embarrass an owner and destroy a mine. So he sucked in some fresh air, swallowed his pride, and continued.

"So people. As you can see. I'm in a spot. If I shop one. I have to shop the lot. And where will the mine be then, eh? Without a single bloody employee is where. And probably bankrupt! I can't let you bastards do that to a friend. Hear me! I won't let you bastards do that. How dare you try and destroy an honest man! How dare you!"

Realising he was getting overheated Slikker stalked up and down a few laps without speaking. Soon he took another deep breath. "But I am forced, by circumstances, and against my better judgement, to provide an alternative."

It worked a treat. The huddled employees, all facing sure ruin, had a flicker of hope kindle in their eyes. Only Stunsey still radiated a tense and unabashed anger.

"If you do exactly as I say, then we'll even forget the gold you've stolen to date." This last statement almost glued Slikker's throat and he didn't hide his disgust.

"But this agreement will never be mentioned outside of this mill. If I hear that word has leaked out about these sorry events I will make it my business to make sure everyone on this field knows the truth, and the names of everyone involved."

The workers shuddered; this was no idle threat. To be publicly branded a gold thief on one field meant being expelled from them all. It was a tag that could not be shaken. Murder might be condoned in some circumstances, horse theft and poddy dodging as well, after all, every man must eat. But to be a gold thief was to be a cancerous growth that must be cut out. This opinion was shared by all honest diggers.

"From now on you will be model employees. This will be a model mine. Each of you will be charged with keeping the other honest. I will leave my address with Mr Mills at the Post Office so that even if you don't wish to tackle the employee you suspect..." Slikker was staring directly at Jessie's drooping head, "...you can still write me a note and let me know. But I will know anyway. As the assay of the ore will now predict the yield. Won't it gentlemen?"

A feeble chorus of assent let Slikker know he'd won the day. "I don't believe I heard you gentlemen. Do you agree to my proposition?" This time the combined voice of the workers was much louder.

Stunsey was incredulous that he'd been bypassed, but also relieved. He'd caught sight of the baleful glare that had been levelled on Jessie and didn't want any part of it. Mr Slikker's eyes seemed to focus a dangerous intensity and were best avoided.

"Further, if you value your reputation, you will all stay on at this mine until the end of the next crushing. Say... three months? If any of you wish to leave earlier, you will write and ask for my approval. Do you agree?" This time their agreement was loud and unanimous. Even Stunsey nodded enthusiastically.

"We will now set the scene for a turnaround. You will spend the next five hours helping Jessie pull this stamper to bits. To revitalise her. And when asked by your employer you will all agree that the gold loss was due to oil upon the water."

Slikker cast a dour warning glance across the group of wayward workers.

"A fine, thin, eucalyptus oil, that was almost invisible, yet was still carrying the fine gold away - but hear me gentlemen! This oil is now a thing of the past. From here on in the water in this mill will be as sweet as gods-own tears."

Entitled "Duffered Out"  this picture taken near the end of the rush was used in a beer advertisement

capabar

The Mateship. Some weeks later...

Slikker and Eddie love a full English breakfast with all the trimmings. Both are inordinately fond of a well-presented muffin and a kippered herring or six, and no private house in Mackay, or perhaps in all North Queensland, lays as grand a spread for breakfast as they do at The Mateship.

Most mornings it's well worth struggling against a hangover to get to the table but today Eddie was beginning to have second thoughts. Friday was mail day and his post had amounted to a meagre pile of disappointment. An invoice, an unsought and unwanted invitation to dine, and a reminder that he could purchase ANY QUANTITY of QUALITY STOCKFEED from Bagley's upon River. Feigning indifference Eddie sipped his tea and watched as his much brighter housemate sorted his twenty or so letters, pamphlets, newsletters, and packages, into some semblance of order, before methodically opening and considering each.

Eddie often joked that there must be at least one or two Post Office clerks who owed their pensions entirely to Slikker, considering the often staggering quantity of his weekly plunder. But today his post had been meagre and Slikker's ridiculously munificent, and despite his less than best efforts it rankled. Eddie could feel a sullen gloom overtaking his morning even as he reasoned it was ridiculous - he was behaving like a schoolboy.

Slikker looked up and divined Eddie's struggle with an infuriating accuracy. "You know mate, you gotta write a letter or two if you want someone to write back. It's a causal relationship. I'll explain it in detail if you want."

"I do hope the vultures are less than gentle with your mangled remains Slikker."

"And who's a touchy boy then? But just imagine what Dibbsy feels like, eh?"

Captain Dibbs had been the focus of the farewell bash Eddie had attended. Misery loves a companion, preferably one even more miserable, so Eddie's gloom lifted a mite at the mental picture of Dibbsy being tossed about in a lighter as it made its made its way out to Flat Top Island to meet the southbound packet.

Slikker glanced at the eleven-inch grandfather and corrected his fob. "It's a fairly low tide and they should be making the bar just about now. Where's the wind? Sou-east? So she'll be a rough little passage. Remember my first run at the bar? Let's hope the lighter has a better captain."

Eddie chuckled and regretted it instantly, his head pounding, but it was an uncontrollable reaction. Slikker's skiff had flipped, ejecting him abruptly, and the detective's air of sodden indignation as he'd dragged himself up and onto Eddie's craft was hard etched in the memory.

"You're a nasty cruel man Slikker. It's widely remarked upon. I'm sure Dibbsy will scrub up fine. After all he's a military man, so he's used to suffering." Eddie felt a sympathetic lie was in order. A comrade in arms and all that.

 Slikker worked his way through his post, all the while sipping tea, munching toast, and seriously considering a second sausage. Most of the envelopes contained only short notes, as his aversion to verbosity in prose was well known. A long-winded letter, however great its literary merit, might be returned with an abrupt note requesting a synopsis. And although this practice tended to weed any with a temperamental bent from his Christmas card list, Slikker didn't mind one jot. As he habitually reminded his friends, his was a quest for information, and clarification, not obfuscation and chitchat, volumes of the latter were abundantly available abreast any crowded bar.

As usual the post proved a treasure trove of trivia. A note from Pearson at the Towers to the effect that an underground hand that had been long sought had at last been located, and the message passed on. Seven index cards from the Geological Survey containing a mixed bag of assay results. A description of the comings and goings at the Star Hotel on the Yatton that might, or might not, be of relevance in an ongoing inquiry. A thank-you note from Sir John promising, as per information received, that arrests would be made. Then an item of wider interest. "Remember Mr Addler of the Ravenswood Smelter Eddie? We had lunch with him."

Eddie looked up. Slikker was inspecting a note penned on a scrap of wrapping paper. "I think so? Tall thin chappie with a funny skipping sort of walk. Like he had a cork in it."

"The very bloke. Done for weaselling the load. Caught with almost a full charge scraped into those sheds by the rail." Slikker waved the note.

"But didn't you say that was the done thing? You said the spillage was... what was that funny word you used?"

"Capabar."

"That's the one," Eddie could vividly remember the siding nearby the smelter, all wreathed in sulphurous fumes, and Slikker's comment about the ore lying upon the rails. "You said the spillage was capabar, and when I asked, you said..."

"That capabar is the little bits that don't make it into stockpile, which all miners reckon is their's by right. The theory being that if it falls off a cart it's suddenly and magically free for the taking. But just 'cause it happens don't make it legal. It's just a tradition. Most works and mines put up with a little bit of capabar, but a full charge is stokin' it a bit rich! D'you know how many rail trucks make up a charge?" Slikker instantly began calculating in pencil upon the tablecloth. Mrs Evans would not be pleased. "I make it at least fourteen full trucks!"

They both shook their heads in justifiable amazement. Almost an entire trainload of ore! It was weaselling on a mammoth scale.

Eddie had to know more. Such a large-scale enterprise. "But how could they ever hope to hide it? I mean, smelting it. Okay, I can see that through some scrupulous thievery they might manage, say once a year, to scrape together a charge, but how could they smelt the ore without everyone finding out? Surely it'd be madness. They'd have to be caught!"

Slikker sat back and chuckled at his mate's unfailing innocence. Even when hung-over and so legitimately able to claim the sourest of sceptical moods, Eddie still managed to be genuinely surprised that some people might not stick to the rules. "Think of it this way mate. You're a smelter manager. Every day for weeks you've been proving out smelt in four small kilns, with the two big ones charged and drawing all the while. But we're at the end of the contract. The clients reps have departed happy. There's a few tons of lime left over. How hard d'you reckon it'd be to flux a final charge or two on the Saturday? Four men and one long shift'd do it. And fifteen pigs of sulphide copper will pay for a lot of silence, with plenty left over for profit."

"But they got caught! The constipated Mr Addler is for the high jump!" Eddie looked righteously smug whilst pointing out this obvious flaw in his friends reasoning, and Slikker felt genuinely sorry that he had to dint Eddie's sense of justice - but it had to be said.

"This time Eddie. He got caught this time. And only due to a falling out between thieves. And he's only dismissed. The works would hardly want to see anything criminal come of it, way too embarrassing. Pour me another, eh?"

Eddie played mother before picking up and casually perusing one of Slikker's newsletters. G.S.Q. publication No 27: On the Geology & Mineral Deposits of the country in the vicinity of Clermont (with geological map & plate of sections). It was hardly riveting reading and Eddie was glad to be distracted when Slikker made to cut the twine on the last, and largest, of his packages.

"It's from Finch-Hatton mate. Going by the mark it was posted the week after we left."

Inside was a cigar box, a leather bound book, and a letter. Slikker scanned the letter and absently passed the volume across to Eddie. It was a proof of the book Harold had been slaving over for the last months. Opening to the title page, Eddie approvingly inspected the type. Advance Australia: an account of eight years work, wandering, & amusement, in Queensland, New South Wales, & Victoria, by Harold Finch-Hatton Esq.

"A few tokens in appreciation of services rendered." Slikker quoted from the letter. The cigar box contained five gold coins. Old gold coins. Probably reproductions. "Very kind of him and well said."

It seemed to Eddie that Slikker's recent negative assessment of the Lordling was undergoing a revision and he was anxious to influence the result. "Just like Hatters! He's an awful grand sort Slikker. He really is. So what else does he say?"

Slikker toyed with the coins idly. They were funny things with weird inscriptions. Maybe Greek? "Just general banter about the mine. It seems our work on the mill has done instant wonders for his yield. Reckons he's getting even better production levels than the last estimate predicted."

Slikker passed the note to Eddie who didn't read it, but rather fixed his friend with a look full of guarded affection. The case had been undertaken as a personal favour, and Eddie knew Slikker had been forced to compromise, and he was not a man well suited to the practice.

"I don't know if I took the time to properly thank you for being so gentle with old Hatter's. It would have broken his spirit if he'd discovered he was being taken for a fool. He's a pompous old soul but his heart's in the right place."

"Nonsense Eddie!" Slikker had a mischievous twinkle in his eye 'I wouldn't have missed it for all the tea in China. A damned funny result though, considering we was dealing with the aristocracy. Everyone did it, everyone got away with it, and everyone, including the owner, was still happy with the result! And who says that ignorance ain't bliss."

photo's by John Henry Mills, text by James Moylan - all rights reserved.

Slikker the Gold Detective and the tragic events at the Uncle Leaper mine.
The Mateship. Mackay. Monday the 1st of February 1892.

the Price.

Mrs Evans, the housekeeper at The Mateship, is hardly the most God fearing of women, yet she still finds it difficult to tolerate the name of Our Lord being taken in vain. As her good mother was won't to say; "blasphemery is just courtin' trouble." Sometimes Mr Cunningham's friends are just too much.

"And it's not enough that Mr T leaves a right mess in the guest house, or that we'll all be late for breakfast, but now there's four instead of three. But we won't tell the poor dear at seven? Will we? Or even half-past? No! What we'll do is tell the poor dear at ten to eight. An' all the while Mr C's friends is down on the tennis courts barkin' out blasphemery a mile a minute. Just courtin' trouble."

Already it was hot and as she hovered over the table rivulets of perspiration were running down her face, darkening her blue muslin under the arms and atop her generous breast. Mrs Evans eternal habit of talking to herself might have been disconcerting had not all the occupants of the house been thoroughly acquainted with her ways.

"A muddy gaggle of geese Mr C's team will look if we don't see the starch and salt soon, and that grocery boy will have remembered the papers this time or I'll snip his cheeky grin, I will, I'll snip it right off. Oh? So there you are Mr T and Mr F."

The housekeeper now had a focus for her busyness and she settled the guests to a cup and a plate. "I knows your game of tennis has built an appetite gents and I'll have some chops out immediate Mr Slikker puts in an appearance, as we all know Mr Slikker cannot abide the sight of a cold chop. Fairly recoils in horror he does. A little kippered herring, rashers, eggs, and toast will have to hold the tide until; oh where are those slugabeds? Now please Mr T, don't lean over the spread. Just look at your poor sleeve, more marmalade than your muffin."

Eddie was in his bedroom dressing for breakfast. It had been successful summer following a triumphant spring. The racing season had culminated in New State, a gelding he'd a half interest in, winning the Mackay Cup. Then the cricket season had produced an unrivalled sequence of wins. Seven matches in a row. The Palms Mill Eleven had taken on all comers and now reigned victorious, drawing stumps the day before after a shattering conquest over the Warriors - bowled out on the follow-on whilst still forty-two runs shy. A victory with a full innings to spare! Oh what a summer.

On impulse Eddie launched into the team song.

We are the boys of the Palms Mill-O

Immediately Bill Trantor and Ernie Frances, breakfast guests and team-mates, joined in.

Ever thrashing runs from our broad will-O

Common mortals tremble

Whenever we assemble

for we are the boys of the Palms Mill-O.

By the time the sporting choristers had embarked upon a second chorus, Eddie was already loading a plate. Mrs Evans soon delivered the promised chops but not before casting an anxious glance down the veranda towards Slikker's room.

An hour later Eddie sat alone by the partially cleared table reading The Chronicle, having gone off The Mercuryfollowing its disgraceful stance regarding succession. So engrossed was he in the letters page that he entirely failed to notice Slikker's light footfall, nor hear when his friend sat and buttered a slice of toast. When he did drop his paper and catch sight of his friend - he was aghast. Unshaven, still in pyjamas and smoking jacket, his wary bloodshot eyes were set into dark sunken surrounds.

"You look bloody awful Slikker!"

"You ain't quite twelve gold bars in a stack either mate."

Eddie lifted his paper again as Mrs Evans hurried in with a fresh plate of chops and some rashers rescued from the boisterous cricketers "at no little risk to my own life and limb." After pouring tea and making sure the jam pot and muffins were within easy reach, she also expressed her concern. "Sleeping in and not dressing for breakfast is most unlike my favoured gentleman, but allowances must be made. But a nice cuppa will put a smile on any sour note, or so my old mother used to...."

"Enough. Enough Mrs Evans! I have a sufficiency of everything. Please be about your chores," demanded the favoured gentleman.

The housekeeper was entirely unfazed. "It's not in the gentleman's nature to be quite himself some mornings. But as my old mother used to say, we all get the snappy-puss on our backs, and it takes two to make a catfight. So where was I? Oh yes. You tuck into your chops and some slow fried kippers will be along shortly. Your Chronicleis right by your side. Now I have to see to a little warm toast and… "

Even after Mrs Evans had wandered off into the kitchen Slikker could feel Eddie grinning, all the way through fifteen layers of newsprint.

The sound of the gardener turning soil in a nearby bed and an occasional snatch of one-sided conversation drifting out from the kitchen overlayed the distant rumble coming from Palms Mill. The already hot morning promised to become a scorcher of a day but here in the breakfast nook, tucked in between two buildings and covered over with a runaway bougainvillea, it felt cool and cloistered away from the world. After a few chops and a companionable silence Slikker sat back, feeling much better for having something under the belt.

 "Remind me Eddie, why do we suffer such manhandling? She set the 'snappy-puss' on me again! We're unwitting bloody captives. Like one of your little beasties in a cage. I talk all ferocious when she's out of earshot, then she beats me up with a chop, a kippered herring, and a cup of tea." After pausing to sip his tea, Slikker broached the subject that was at the core of his current dissatisfaction. "An age of work and nothing of interest. Just what has happened to the criminal class mate? Have they all lost their spark?"

Eddie set aside his paper. "Oh I don't know old chap? You've been busy enough. What with that tomfoolery down on the Yatton and the Ravenswood skulduggery. I'd have thought a couple of quiet weeks would be just the ticket. Why don't you come to the races? Tippy's new gelding will be on its first lap. You might even do some socialising. You remember how to socialise don't you? Hold a drink? Mingle? Though come to think of it, I may have to reintroduce you to many of the neighbours."

Slikker sidestepped the frivolous barbs. "No mate you've gone the wrong tack. Sure there's plenty of work, always will be as long as common fools draw breath, but I can't bring myself to enjoy it. It's all so bloody drear. Oh for a bit of quality grafting. Something organised and careful. Something dangerous and terrible."

After refilling his cup Slikker expanded on the topic. "Consider the Sketland Mob, now there was a fair-dinkum reign of terror. Evil bastards through and through, and violent. Mongrels, granted, but sly an' difficult mongrels. Or the Gang of Five. A really substantive campaign. Murder, corruption, intimidation, theft, even a bit of sly grogging. They had the whole of the Towers under the thumb. And again, while they was a bunch of utter bastards, at least they was interesting bastards, running a farsighted enterprise."

Slikker enjoyed recalling these earlier, wilder, times. But almost at once his smile faded. "But there just ain't no criminals left with any balls. An extinct breed apparently. The Yatton fiasco was all angry miners who reckoned poddy dodging easier than working an' Ravenswood was just sly owners mining the Stock Market. Same old same old. Nothing with cunning. No delicacy. What we need is an outbreak of criminal cunning. An epidemic of sly reasoning. A sudden plague of moral turpitude. What North Queensland needs, Eddie, is some decent bloody criminals! The only one left worth a damn is Tark, and even he seems to have gone quiet."

Despite Slikker's melancholy mood, Eddie thought the name Magnus Tark far too ill an omen to be casually bandied about, so he sought out the bare wood beneath the tablecloth and tapped it carefully.

Tark was a solicitor who'd made an initial stake posing as a gold buyer on the outer fields, always willing to stake a claim at an exorbitant interest rate and then bleed a digger dry. Yet Tark had moved on. Running sly grog shops selling adulterated liquor, organising teams of ratters to strip lightly guarded claims in the middle of the night. Salting mines for sale to new chums. Selling shabby rejected equipment as new. Setting up second rate gold mills and charging huge tariffs. Soon Tark had a finger in many pies.

Of recent years he'd turned his hand to purchasing black gold, illegal gold, through a string of intermediaries. Slikker was sure he was now the end buyer for most of the gold stolen in Queensland. But as Tark had fashioned such an intricate and vast web, it had proven impossible to trace any trade back to its source. At every attempt Tark was one or two steps beyond the end of a cold trail. Masking his real nature behind a smokescreen of respectability, operating out of an office in downtown Mackay.

Realising he was on the verge of becoming maudlin Slikker turned to a brighter topic, one that would engage the attention of the whole township before the day had passed. "I don't mean to throw a wet blanket over your triumph mate. I daresay beating the Warriors by a full innings will throw the cat amongst the pigeons. When does the grand procession push off?"

A wide smile broke on Eddie's face. It was a tradition of the town that whenever one of the five teams in the local competition is so lax as to allow itself to be defeated by a full innings, the offending captain must strip to his shorts, and piggyback the victorious captain the length of the town bridge. He must pay the Price. And even though this latest thrashing had been inflicted scant twenty hours beforehand, news of the place and time appointed had flashed about the town with such swift wings as will welcome gossip fly.

"We are meeting Master Toby and the Warriors outside the Prince at two o'clock precisely. We will all be wearing full cricketing regalia. Toby will pay his dues to the assembled gentry, then confess in an honest and open-handed fashion as to how he's not fit to lead a pack of waddling ducks, before stripping to his undergarments."

"Surely you're not going to ride him all the way?" Slikker felt his mood lift. He could picture the scene; Toby Downer, a short pudgy fellow, tottering along with a six-foot military statue strapped to his back. The town bridge a full seven hundred paces long.

"The whole length and nothing but the length, so saith the law!" Eddie leant across the table and brushed the side of the pot with the back of his hand. "Mrs Evans, more tea if you please," he bellowed, before adopting a conspiratorial undertone. "But as you say, I may have to deputise my position. After all, we can't have the poor chappie collapsing and dying before he even shouts a round. You will put in an appearance won't you Slikker? It'll be a right boomer of an afternoon."

___________________________________________________________________________

River Street was as busy as ever. At the far end any number of bullock teams were raising a thin veil of orange dust, shuffling and jostling for a turn at a lading platform. All bullockies are professional swearers and this aspect of the profession has reached its apex in the north. So the street was crowded with dire curses and the most imaginative and impossible of suggestions. In front of Paxton's Emporium three teams had run foul and every Paxton employee occupied a vantage from where they might watch the bullockies unwind the knot. Each new torrent of obscenities being critically appraised.

 In a vacant block between the Anvil Shop and The Coppermine Insurance Company an impromptu political rally was underway. Forty or so local traders, wharf labourers, and passers-by, were gathered around a well-dressed gent standing atop a Pioneer Aerated Water box. The fellow was in full oratorical flow:

"The Continuous Ministry is an Abomination. A plague upon the North. Our first governor knew the need for Kanaka labour. Bowen knew the North was different. He knew our region required different handling. What has Griffith provided except for heartache and misery? No more Kanakas but a plague of Javanese and Johns. The scum of the Orient. The pox-ridden scrapings of any Eastern doss-house. Every one packed full of filthy disease. Consider the opium craft - where white women are seduced into sexual slavery! Now consider the Kanaka - children of nature. As clean as mankind in a pristine state. And the Kanaka never took our jobs. They made work. While the rust is a pest and a catastrophe…" The spread of the orange rust in the cane was the topic on everyone's lips. "…the Continuous Ministry will be the death of our town. Support Separation or die!" At this the crowd roared its approval.

Eddie nodded at these fine words as he pushed his way through the fringe of the crowd. On the opposite side of River Street the warehouses, set on pylons and overhanging the river, came to an abrupt end, giving way to a lush strip of lawn. Here Eddie set himself down to gaze out over the river and into the fading pink and purple of a dying summer's day. With the tide well out the evening was full of the syrupy pong of the mudflats.

Eddie was drunk, and when drunk he liked to sit on the verge of the Pioneer River and watch the town pass by. Like most Mackay residents he was inordinately proud of his town, yet unlike most he was also a widely travelled man. And these travels, especially along the coast of Queensland, had only served to reinforce his already insular tendencies.

Upon arrival in the colonies, Eddie had adopted Mackay and now looked upon the town as the stable normality against which all other parts should be contrasted. His years residing in the township had led to his unconsciously taking up many of the commonplace prejudices shared by the majority, and Mackay is not typical of all north Queensland. The people of Mackay hone the scythe of parochialism to a very fine edge.

Whilst most Queenslanders considered the new hinterland mineral discoveries to be the economic salvation of the State, ever since the introduction of sugar cane the people of Mackay had ignored all other industry. Developments outside their valley were considered only in the light of any potential effect upon the mix and volume of traffic over their wharves. In short, how will it effect the growers, millers and wholesalers of sugar?

Recent transitory events in the hinterland had led to numerous unstable and muddy landings lording themselves as towns. Cooktown through Townsville, Grasstree to the Broadsound, Rockhampton, Gladstone, Hervey Bay and the Wide Bay. All hosting settlements vehemently disliking each other and forever boasting in an attempt to court the fleeting mineral trade; best harbour, easiest access, biggest this, brightest that. But not Mackay.

And while it might be fractious, contrary, and eternally headed in the opposite direction to all its neighbours, Mackay could boast of a town spirit like that of no other. Everyone from the mayor down to the nightsoil shifter was enthusiastically involved in some sort of cultural or sporting pursuit. Every Mill boasted both Cricket and Rugby sides, whilst Chess, Yachting, Bridge, Geology, Gardening, Archery, Botanizing, and Gentleman's clubs, all did a roaring trade. Yet it was always the Cricket and Rugby that drew the most attention, being the heart and soul of the town.

Earlier that day the Palms Mill Eleven had rolled up River Street loudly singing their team song, a growing crowd of interested townsfolk and partisan supporters following and joining in. Dressed in clean starched cricketing whites care of Mrs Evans, the team had been celebrating their natural sporting prowess in the Crown, and were now ready for fun. Already a large throng had gathered around the ramp of the bridge awaiting their arrival.

While the Town Bridge in Mackay had been conceived of as spanning the wide Pioneer River in a true and level span, when the construction had been commenced upon a natural rock bar dividing the wide reach, a single grievous error was made and thence extrapolated upon. So when the bridge finally met the land - it was nine feet too high.  This disaster was soon rectified. At the northern end it was a relatively easy matter to re-build the approach. Yet for the first years of its life there was an ungainly wooden ramp leading up to the town end of the construction, until major renovations and matching earthworks provided a less ponderous ramp. In the end it's as good as any bridge in the North. Or at least as good as any with a big ramp at one end.

Slikker hailed Eddie as he passed the Prince of Wales. "What-ho Eddie! Oh conquering hero!"

Eddie heard the cry and paused until Slikker had pushed his way through the crowd. After engaging in a bout of hearty backslapping they followed the rest up the ramp and onto the natural stage that the commencement of the bridge provided for the town. Leaning against the western rail were the Leichhardt Warriors with Toby Downer at their head. All present and accounted for. No man can publicly welsh upon a sporting commitment in North Queensland without becoming an instant social leper.

In addition to the fair size crowd surrounding the ramp the first floor balconies of the Prince of Wales, the best vantage in town, were lined with spectators reclining in sling chairs. Their host, Tippy Macrossan, stood at the rail in full and immaculate evening dress, flourishing a large drink, and beaming down upon the fun. Catching Eddie's eye Tippy raised his drink. "All hail the conquering hero's!"

"All hail the conquering hero's!" Echoed half the crowd.

Eddie raised his hands, walked to the lip of the ramp, and an expectant hush fell at once. The sounds of the wharves and other nearby activities making the local stillness all the more dramatic. The growing crowd was now a sea of expectant faces peering up at the twenty-four sets of cricketing whites and one charcoal three-piece. Eddie adopted his best parade ground bellow.

"We, being the boys of the Palms Mill Eleven, have gathered here at the hour appointed so as to extract the Pricefrom the Leichhardt Warriors, according to the ancient and venerable traditions of our tribe."

No one interrupted. Every eye was fixed upon the unfolding play. Every mind recording every detail; to be discussed and dissected in every bar in town, until late in the night.

"And we cannot let tradition be ignored. Can we?" The crowd erupted in agreement. After a spell Eddie waved for quiet. "As I find I'm a little stiff for such a ride I am deputising Slikker here to be my jockey for the day."

The crowd was at once on the verge of becoming unruly. They'd all been laying side bets on how far Toby could stagger with Eddie Cunningham perched on his back, the general book averaging less than three hundred yards. Noting the change in the tone of the assemblage Slikker quickly stepped forward. "Thanks Eddie. I accept. But only on condition!"

Again the crowd fell silent. Slikker walked over to stand beside Toby Downer, reached into his pocket, and drew out a handful of gold coins. Then after stacking eight onto the rail of the bridge he ambled back and eyed the gathering, it was time to bring a bunch of noisy cricketers down a peg or two, something well worthy of a small investment. "I propose to vary the Pricein the following three ways. Number one - Toby can deputise anyone he wants to carry me across the bridge, but whoever he nominates, must run all the way."

Most of the crowd were at once enthusiastic, while the rest eyed the little pile of gold quizzically. Eight gold pieces was more than a months pay for most.

"Number two." Slikker raised his voice, to be heard over the growing din. "If the nominated horsie is successful, then my eight guinea stake will pay for a standing shout at the Hotel of Eddie's choice. If not - it will go into the pockets of the victorious team. And number three - if the Leichhardt Warriors don't wish to match my stake, and so buy themselves out of the obligation, then every member of the team must run along behind the nominated horsie, dressed in an entirely appropriate lack of attire. Or to put it in plain English, without their pants."

Instantly the whole street erupted into a frenzy of animated discussion, dying away just as rapidly when Toby Downer was seen to push away from his lean upon the railing and approach Slikker. Everyone hung upon his reply.

The idea of matching such a huge stake was unthinkable, and trying to carry Edward Cunningham would be positively life threatening. Toby knew a lifeline when thrown one. And whilst the boys would be a little upset, after an hour at a standing shout all would be forgiven, if not forgotten.

"Thank you Mr Slikker. Thank you Mr Cunningham. I accept your variation of the Price." His fellow team members winced. "And I nominate Angry Gravin as our horsie for the outing."

Angry was one of the largest and gentlest men in existence, working as a hand at Ungerer's Smithy. He also happened to be Toby's son-in-law and was immediately on hand, being one of the happy rabble crowding the footpath in front of the pub. So everything was done, but the fun.

While the participants in the Price made their way along the bridge anyone nearby a bar refilled their charge, and everyone debated the various merits and difficulties that such a variation upon tradition might throw up. About half the crowd vehemently asserting that any drift from the common norm was sure to lead to social dislocation and disaster, the other half always ready for something new.

After reaching the Cremorne end, following some prompting from Toby, the Leichhardt Warriors stood in a row and dropped their trousers, revealing a threadbare row of boxer shorts. Tippy Macrossan gave those gathered upon the balcony a running commentary whilst watching the events unfold through a pair of opera glasses that he'd collected from someone, somewhere, with just such an occasion in mind.

"They're almost there. A bit of a dingle about where the bridge starts. Same dingle as three years ago in fact. A compromise reached. They're going to start from halfway up the slope. All right ladies and gents, the jockey is about to alight. They are in a line. The jockey is aloft. Eddie is about to send them away. Wait! Something has happened. Slikker has dismounted. No. Nothing to fear my friends, the jockey is simply lighting his pipe. Good man! One thing our Slikker ain't short of is style. Right ladies and gents. They again form a line. They are now under starters orders. And they're racing!"

A huge roar erupted and Tippy's commentary was, from that moment, audible to only those on the balcony, all leaning out and searching for a better view.

"Angry starts off like a huge bull with Eddie right at his side, watching every footfall. An umpire worthy the game. The Warriors are coming up behind. A bit windswept but going strong. They are doing us proud. Slikker is smoking his pipe and looking almost bored. What a jockey. What a horse. They've almost halfway and, if anything, Angry is picking up pace. Oh no! Disaster! Toby Downer is down. We have a fall. Toby Downer has fallen heavily at the halfway mark. But wait! Rescue! Compassion! Joy of deliverance! His team-mates rush to succour and assist. Toby is up. And now they're coming along. Admiral fellows!"

The group of windswept athletes were now clearly visible to most. Slikker looked as if he was casually astride a barrel, having a quiet smoke. Angry lumbered along in a trot, totally oblivious of any inconvenience, whilst Eddie jogged along beside them exaggeratedly peering at Angry's footfall to demonstrate his fulfilment of the public trust.

Behind came the Leichhardt Warriors, trotting in unison in line across the bridge. Excepting for two who were now way behind supporting Toby Downer, whose right knee was badly grazed and streaming blood down the shin. As Angry and Slikker crossed the line where bridge became ramp, everyone cheered. Then as each cricketer crossed the cheer was repeated, growing to a roar while Toby and his assistants were still a hundred yards distant. Then a chant went up.

"Toby!... Toby!... Toby!... Toby!"

Toby Downer had been having a bad time of it until that moment. Yet upon hearing the chant Toby realised that he too was a hero. Shaking off his worried supporters he broke into an uneven run.

"Toby!... Toby!... Toby!... Toby!"

As these last three crossed the line the crowd closed in on the group, offering hearty congratulations for filling the bill in just the right spirit. Such damned good sport!

Fifty hands slapped Toby on the back and fifty more offered him a hand, a smoke, a drink, a handkerchief for his knee, his pants and a seat. A seat for the man! And Toby was beaming and glad, and so were they all. It was another triumph. Oh glorious town!

Then on to the designated hotel that had to be the Crown in deference to her owner being the team sponsor, and an eight-guinea party. Yet Eddie had deserted the gathering early, walking off into the darkening to sit by the river, watch the sunset, and wait for his friend.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was scandalously well known about the town that Slikker was only interested in one form of regular female companionship. He'd been initiated into the delights of the bawdyhouse as a young man and still indulged this passion as often as two or three times a month. It was one of his few, but cherished, distractions. So it was an event of no great note when Slikker received a message, left with Tippy, asking that he drop in and see Plush Barbara at his earliest convenience.

Tippy had laughed out loud at the idea of Slikker receiving a written invitation to visit a whorehouse. As he'd said, "it's almost like politely requesting the tide should come in."

Slikker had been raised exclusively by men, in the company of men, and on some of the roughest goldfields in Australia. During his youth the few women he'd known were in the main prostitutes, barmaids or the wives of other people. All out of bounds. Beings usually tethered at a distance, but when nearby requiring safe words and gentle handling lest they be spooked, and he cop a flogging as a result.

So while much of his adult life had been devoted to a clear and concise estimation of probability and risk regarding the activities of men - with women he was mostly at sea. Not chauvinistic as such, as this label might credit enough familiarity with the breed to wish them ill. Whereas the only time Slikker gave women any thought at all was upon admiring a well-turned ankle.

Slikker would knowingly visit only the haunts of men. Firmly declining any invitation where there might be a chance, however slight, of being asked to engage in polite chitchat, listen to tedious philosophical musings, endure boorish musical interludes, or become involved in any other womanish pursuit. Deep in a sleepless night Slikker might fret a moment over his shortcomings regarding the fairer sex, but under a bright tropical sun he couldn't give a toss.

At about the same time Eddie Cunningham was lifting a first celebratory drink in The Crown, Slikker was settling into his preferred armchair in Plush Barbara's private rooms at the Pink House. The Madam of the establishment was an initially imposing lady, plump rather than fat, taller than most, with long raven hair spilling over broad shoulders, and possessing a wardrobe that seemed to contain only starched white blouses, blue pleated skirts, and sensible flat shoes. After furnishing Slikker with a drink she came straight to the point.

"One of me girls has plum disappeared. So I thought I'd run it past you before I bothered Crierly." Sergeant Crierly represented the somewhat less than stern face of the law in Mackay. "Y'see, I don't know if bothering the traps is quite the right thing. At least at this stage. But you're an uncommon deep file Slikker. I'm sure you'll fit the bits together."

Barbara pulled a high backed chair across the carpet to sit nearby her guest. The sitting room was papered in a light floral design, open and airy, contrasting nicely with the heavy cedar furniture, and complimenting the wispy lace curtains. It might have been the study in any fashionable business residence.

"But your girls are always running away Barb's. Like Jamie and what's-her-name last year."

Slikker was recalling a minor scandal of the sort to make any newspaperman lick his quill. A story of sex and its intersection with power. Good racy copy. Jamie Buscom was a Councillor and what's-her-name was a common consort, and every reader of a coastal newspaper in Queensland knew just enough details of their relationship, and elopement, to be able to work up one or another form of outrage.

"A very cheap shot Slikker! And just in your nature too, might I add. No! This one's harder to figure. A right corker. You never come in the front so's you don't see the clients with the girls. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time you stuck your nose into the common room. You really should buy yourself a life dearie. But anyways, when you've seen as many men and girls together as I have, you get a sort of second sense for this sort of thing."

Barbara paused, as if collecting her thoughts, and Slikker didn't like it, she was sounding uncharacteristically woolly. "Who has disappeared? With whom? And why does it seem remarkable?"

"What? Oh Annie of course. Bloody Anne Dressler. She went off to see her man, Bogle, down at Grasstree, like she has every other week for months. But this time she didn't come back, an' when I sent Gordon lookin', he was given a right thumping and warned off."

Slikker now had a reasonable line of inquiry. "I know Annie. Big blond girl with a dark birthmark on her inner right wrist…" Barbara nodded, "…and the Bogle you refer to is, no doubt, Andrew Bogle of the Queensland Investment Company. He belongs out at Mt Britton, or up on the Eungella, don't he?"

The Eungella was the newest and largest gold field close to Mackay, situated atop the Clarke Range, immediately behind the Pioneer Valley.

"Well that's the story in it Slikker. My girl Annie teams up, professional like, with this bloke whenever he comes down off the range, every couple or six weeks. Has done for ages. Then a few months ago, outa the blue he sends her a note askin' if she can come down to the Grasstree and pay him a visit there. A fiver a time. But he don't say why."

The Grasstree diggings were right on the coast, only a few inlets south of where the Pioneer River spills into the Coral Sea.

"So she takes the packet down to Grasstree. Christ! Annie would've swum down there for a fiver! Apparently she got met on the dock by some bloke what led her to a back room in one of the pubs where she finds this Bogle waiting. An' so this becomes the routine. Every two weeks, off and back in a couple or three days. Strange, but there's no accountin' for clients."

"So this goes on for four or five visits, until just after the one before last. When Annie comes back home a sobbin' mess. Now that ain't as usual as you might like to think. We're a pretty easygoin' bunch here. Not like some of the bigger houses in Townsville or the Towers. They can be like a long running penny-dreadful. But I like a nice quiet house. So when Annie comes in and spills her troubles it was enough out of the ordinary for me to listen and give what advice I could. Though it can't have been worth much it seems."

"So she comes in to see you all cut up about her man?" Led Slikker.

"Well? Yes and no. That's the weird bit. If it was a simple bust-up then you wouldn't be sittin' there. Y'see she was scared for this Bogle chappie, not for herself."

"You're sure this bloke wasn't just spinning his girl a yarn? Sounds mighty like a true son of the currency to be in hiding from everyone but his fancy lady."

Barbara grinned and paused a moment. "When you put it like that, it does sound a bit odd. But Annie wasscared. Genuinely scared. That much I do know. When she was a day late coming back this last time I straight away sent Gordon down. So he walks into the Shamrock, which is the really big boozer down there, and asks for Annie over the bar. And next he's being dragged outside by a thug, set up agin a wall, and being told, real stern like, that Annie has run off with Bogle and that he'd better bugger off himself. Which is all fair enough, but then this bloke gives Gordon a real cuffing! Now you know Gordon, he's not up to that sort o' thing."

Slikker nodded thoughtfully. It was a pity to hear Gordon had been assaulted. A thin, consumptive, middle-aged fellow, with a disarmingly sharp wit, Gordon had for many years acted as an all-in-one gardener, driver, and barkeep, at the Pink House.

Barbara fixed Slikker with a quizzical look. "So what now? A missing girl. A busted-up hand. And a story what don't sit right."

However the detective still couldn't grasp exactly what was worrying the madam. "So what don't ring true Barb's? It's just another tale of romance and conquest ain't it? They're both off to find greener pastures, plant a garden by a neat little cottage, and raise a pack of uncontrollable brats."

Barbara shook her head. "She left all her stuff here dearie. And Annie ain't a girl what travels light. I reckon she's caught up in somethin' nasty."

Barbara was obviously sincere but the facts were equivocal. They concerned the motivations and behaviour of the female of the species. But Barbara wasn't the sort to warble needlessly about mere wonderings. It wasn't in her nature. If she was troubled by this disappearance, and that was certainly apparent, then there might be something of interest in the story beyond simple romantic melodrama. It hardly mattered anyway. Barbara was a friend and deserved a friends help. If only to allay her fears.

"So you want me to poke around and make sure Annie is safe? Is that it?" Barbara nodded. "Then I need to know all about the girl then. Everything. Take a few moments to think it through, and then tell me exactly what she told you."

__________________________________________________________________________

"Then she said the magic word Eddie! Dropped it like a fine jewel in me lap."

Slikker was sitting on the grass verge after belatedly keeping his appointment. It was now full soft tropical night and there was a slight breeze coming off the river, refreshing on the face.

"You're talking riddles again damn you. Plush Barbara was rabbiting on, as she's won't to do, then you started in with a typically heavy handed, and probably brutal, interrogation, and then? She dropped the magic word?"

"Tark, Eddie. Tark! Barbara said the only thing the girl told her about Bogle's trouble, was that it was with some bloke called Tark. Supposedly Bogle had something Tark wanted."

Eddie sobered up significantly at the mention of the magic word. They'd talked of the man only that morning, and it's said that naming calls. They'd named the tiger and it had appeared in the glade.

"So you talked to Gordon?"

"Mmmm. Did at that. Not much more to it than what Barb's said. He give me a good description of the bloke what bashed him but didn't seem to know bugger-all else. He had a real job done on him though, two black eyes, an' a front tooth missing."

"Poor old Gordie." Eddie often sat across from Gordon in a round of cards and was troubled to hear of his friend's discomfort. "But nothing serious? I mean nothing that'll kill him?"

"Na mate. He'll be right as rain in no time. But it was a real beaut of a bashing. Inflicted with brutal accuracy. It smacks of a professional. Lots of pain but no lasting damage. I had a quick rifle through Annie's stuff and she sure left a power of stuff behind, but I had no idea what I was looking for or even at, most of the time. Nothing of interest to us. Just half a life's worth of little trinkets and womanish manavelins. But it makes me reckon Barb's might be right. Can't see the girl abandoning that lot. With five pounds in notes and four sov's tucked into her unmentionables. And by all descriptions Bogle was, first and foremost, a client. Barbara reckons the girl was fond of him, and worried for him, but hardly likely to throw up a comfortable berth."

"Then where'd you get to, old chap? I could've been in kip upstairs with a book, and would be if I'd known you were going to be so damnably late." Slikker and Eddie kept rooms at the Prince of Wales.

"While you've been at your leisure, lyin' on the riverbank and sleeping off my alcoholic donation to your bloody hero-dom, I've been planning our next move in tracing Barb's lost soul. I reckon if we find Annie we might very well find out what it is that Tark wants from Bogle. You do want in on this?"

"With all my heart and soul." Eddie was grimly serious. "Our agreement is that anything with Tark in it, has me in it."

"As I know Eddie. As I know!" Slikker could see his mate's eyes were now wide, clear, and steady. "So I took the liberty of assuming your company on the boat that supplies the Zelma mine at Grasstree. I saw Radish down at Paxton's and we meet the boat at two o'clock this very night."

"My God Slikker, couldn't you have arranged to leave at a gentleman's hour?"

"Sorry Eddie. No matter how much I remonstrated that digging a small canal through the sand, say a mere quarter-mile, would be far preferable to me asking me mate Eddie to lose a coupla hours sleep, in the end they was unwavering. Damnably inconsiderate ain't it? You should write one of your stinging letters."

"All right old chap, enough with the raw levity. I have encountered the comings and goings of the water before. So we're off to the Grasstree at two in the morning. But that can't be the all of it. Paxton's is just down the road."

"No. You are right. Whilst me mate, Eddie the English gent, was imbibing huge quantities of mind numbing beverages and then laying about in the public parts of the town like a blackfella on holiday, I was hotfooting it out to the Mateship to gather up a kit for two, and then delivering it to the wharf. So now we've nothing ta do but sleep-in 'till the slug-a-bed hour of two in the morning. We'd best get some shuteye, eh?"

Without another word they rose, strolled across the almost deserted road, and disappeared into a discreet doorway set into the façade of the Prince of Wales.

the Grasstree diggings.

The stink of rotting fish emanating from a bait box sitting by the rail eventually became overpowering, so Slikker walked over and tossed it, box and all, over the back of the boat. It disappeared into the wake unheard by any in the hissing, chugging, belching, belly of the steam beast. Slikker stayed by the rail contemplating the night, a snoring Eddie and their travelling bags spread across the wide stern deck at his feet.

Even out here under a canopy of stars, watching a fluorescent trail writhe in the blue broil behind, the engine was loud. "But it's part of the new and I'll have to get used to it I suppose," he muttered. A mine on the coast needed a reliable supply boat, and as in everything, the Zelma mine had the newest and the best. "But I wonder if Mr Muggleton knows his supply boat smells like a fishing scow?"

Try as he might Slikker found it difficult to like steamboats. That they were more reliable and faster than sail was undeniable. Also undeniable was their stink, smoke, noise, and total lack of grace. A large A.U.S.N. steamer might be acceptable if one had to find Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, or some other distant locale quickly, but for purely local travel Slikker liked to pilot a yacht.

Eddie Cunningham was a rare hand with a sheet and tiller and had taught Slikker enough early in their acquaintance to have Slikker help him prepare and launch a twelve-foot racing skiff. Slikker had been taken with the sailing bug at once. Yet there was a problem. Like most children of the gold rush Slikker had never learned to swim. The waterholes of his youth were all so polluted with mullocky sediment, or worse, that swimming would have been life threatening.

Yet the desire to sail was so strong that Slikker spent countless afternoons by the beach and river, teaching himself to feel at home by the water and, in unhurried increments, to swim. It was an ugly struggling crawl rather than a lithe graceful progression, yet it served to keep his head above water and propel him in the desired direction.

When at last he'd been sure of making the bank if he fell overboard Slikker began taking sailing lessons from Eddie, yet still refused to venture across the bar until able to swim the width of the river, twice. It took a full year of laborious practice before this feat was achieved, then they sailed away to make camp upon White Sands beach, a dazzling strip of pure white silica fringing a local island. Sailing every day of a fortnight amongst the spectacular Whitsunday Isles.

Slikker had led such an earth-bound life that he'd never thought of a coral reef as anything but an impediment to traffic. He understood the Great Barrier Reef as a huge limestone wall against which the white man had battled to find entrance, and behind which the coastal trade now sheltered. A kind of saw-toothed sanctuary - an abstract element in the history of Australia. When Eddie introduced him to the real thing it was a revelation.

Slikker spent countless hours wading amongst visions way beyond his ken, entirely new and astonishingly varied. Coral so beautiful and fish so bright he'd lie awake late into the night intoxicated by new experience, like a little boy turning-in on Christmas Day with a newfound treasure trove stashed beneath his bunk.

These memories and others were awakened as he stood and gazed into the wake, occasionally glancing at his mate. Slikker had often tried to puzzle out what it was in Eddie that made him so agreeable a companion. They were two very different people.

Where Eddie believed, Slikker considered. That which Eddie knew filled Slikker with uncertainty. Eddie came at all things intuitively, learnt by rote and practice, and was always sure of a positive outcome, regardless of the actual panorama of facts set before his gaze; the best species of mate you could ever hope to find.

In Slikker's early years he'd known only doubt and uncertainty. He'd sleep in temporary lodgings, a tent, or in a bare gully, having no real home. No physical home. Slikker's home was the rush. A mass of moving men. The smell of woodsmoke hanging over a thousand cooking fires. The camaraderie of a sly grog shanty. Now even this old home was fast disappearing. The modern world and its fast modern ways, were catching up. Yet he'd been lucky, he'd made a rise and found a new home. Many others hadn't.

Slikker appraised Eddie, momentarily grumbling and fractious in his sleep. Sometimes he felt an odd fleeting guilt for his association with Edward Cunningham. He'd searched all his life for the glittering metal but it had only been after meeting the Englishman that he'd found his luck. Eddie had brought him luck. And whilst Slikker knew his friendship with the fellow was, if nothing else, the steadiest thing in his life, he was also oddly sure that he was worthy of his mate.

Slikker shook his head and chuckled. "My god! The strange notions that come to you when you're alone with your thoughts. Master Cunningham, for all his romantic notions would never find himself at the far end of such a foppish train of thought. He might very well use the word 'worthy' though. It's a very Eddie sort of word."

From long experience Slikker knew there was no profitable way of passing an insomnia, but even so, he knew he should be mentally reviewing all he'd heard of the diggings at Grasstree and the Zelma mine rather than woolgathering.

"Still it would have been nice to sail down the coast. Just Eddie and me and the wind." There was a steady sou-easter raising a minor chop. The tiny cap of white water upon each miniature wave was flashing silver in the moonlight. The sea mist conspired with the moon and the waves to make the ocean appear a broad plain covered with boiling silver.

The idea of arriving on Radish's little cutter had been reluctantly set aside. It was probably unwise. Neither he nor Eddie had ever been to the Grasstree diggings or had met Mr Muggleton. So arriving like a couple of shipwrecked sluggers would be bound to cause unwanted comment. He and Eddie were now interested gentlemen with a letter of introduction addressed to the mine owner from a common friend. Slikker lowered himself to the deck and laid his head upon one of their travelling bags. Above was the Southern Cross. It was beautiful.

Slikker experienced a fierce surge of emotion, his breath caught in his throat and tears threatened his eyes. Instantly he felt stupid and self-conscious. But he couldn't help it. Those five simple stars were the symbol of Australia. The Australia his father had died for.

On the 11th of November 1854, Slikker's mother had died in giving birth. The very same day the Ballarat Reform League had been formed. It was one of the few certain facts from uncertain beginnings. As an infant he'd spent much of the first two months of his life inside a rough stockade in the arms of a rebellious father. A digger who'd sworn allegiance to a flag bearing the image of the Southern Cross, five stars on a deep blue field. Then on the 3rd, the day upon which modern Australia was born, Slikker had been orphaned, his father bayoneted whilst still asleep, murdered by the traps. His lifeblood seeping into the hallowed soil of that place even as the new dawn was breaking..

In the aftermath of the Eureka Stockade everything changed. The colonial administration was forced to make concession after concession, as demanded by the diggers, until the diggers were the ones in control. Then the colonies became democracies where every worthy citizen might have a say in local governance. The overwhelming vote of the diggers institutionalising all of their most cherished dreams.

Now Australia was fast becoming a workers paradise. And where the old regulations and rules of Empire still theoretically held sway, they were mostly ignored. Everyone knew the new doctrine by which the country was ordered, it was the creed of the diggings. One vote, one value. No man above another. Every white man due equal justice. All workers due an equal share. Safe liquor. No murder. No thieving. No Chinese. And no bloody sermons. As a rule, diggers are not overly fond of preachers.

Now the colonies were become states and Australia was on the verge of becoming an independent country. Maybe twenty or thirty years? Despite the naysayers Slikker just knew he would live to see the birth of a new Federation. Every time Slikker looked into the night sky and beheld the Southern Cross he was reminded of the circumstances of his birth, and would experience a surge of patriotism. In a way, his fierce love of country was an accidental gift from long dead parents. Their only legacy. Again Slikker shook his head, as if to clear it of cobwebs.

"You're a maudlin old cuss tonight ain't ya? Next you'll be reading Eddie's novels and balling you're eyes out. Get a grip!" Slikker shuffled his shoulders in search of elusive comfort. How did Eddie manage? Bloody fellow could sleep anywhere and through anything. Slikker struggled to discipline a wayward and still wide-awake mind.

The Grasstree diggings were about fifteen miles down the coast from Mackay, readily accessible only by sea, there being no all-weather dray track to the field despite it being right by the coast. Or perhaps because it was on the coast? Perhaps it was a bit superfluous to expend labour on building a road? The principal mine was the Zelma, dug into the side of a five hundred foot hill called Mt Haden.

 Arranging for transportation had been as easy as having a friend of a friend slip the captain a couple of pounds. Then once aboard a further judicious distribution of coinage secured the unmolested use of the stern deck. Leaving Mackay at two in the morning was a regrettable necessity. But unless they wanted to sail themselves or wait another week for an A.U.S.N. steam packet it had to be suffered.

"Or at least suffered by some." Glancing again at the gently snoring lump on the deck Slikker grinned. "No brain, no pain, they say." No! That was hardly fair. But fairness be boiled! It was simply cruel that the loving almighty would provide a fellow destined to sleep most nights in a comfortable bed, with the ability to go to sleep instantly, anywhere, whilst granting a son of the soil insomnia. If not cruel, then damnably inconsiderate. What's the use in going by boat if there's no sleep? Might as well ride a horse.

Slikker instantly backed away from the thought in horror. Even the passing idea of a whole night atop a horse was enough to cause a cold shiver. He hated the smelly evil-tempered things. Anything but a horse. It was uncommon rare to be visiting a diggings without having to resort to four-legged transport. And pleasant. A bloke could get used to it.

All things considered, Mt Haden was a perfect location. Close to timber and towns, easily worked, a jetty two hundred yards from a brand new mill. A Machine Area right by a big millpond. Mr Jack, the Government Geologist, had visited the site and notice of the pending erection of the Zelma gold mill and its specifications had been reported some months earlier. With pictures. Slikker had been envious. Of the site, not the stone.

"Everything going for it but the stone." Slikker's prejudice was that of a quartz miner unable to accept the mining of ironstone, or anything like it, for gold. Mount Morgan was an anomaly. Gold lay in and with quartz, its natural bedfellow. It was plain perverted to find it in ugly metamorphosed conglomerates. The Zelma mill was approaching the end of its first substantial crushing and so a visit from an interested gentleman was hardly unusual in the circumstances. It would be interesting to see how they were getting on. Gold from ugly rocks?

The fabulous black stone of the Mount Morgan mine, inland of Rockhampton, had alone yielded almost more gold than all the mines in the Tower's these last two years. The strange dark rock and oddly coloured soil of that magical place had prompted every prospector in the colony to ponder upon similar stone and soil they'd passed right by.

Quartz was no longer the only rock sought for and tested in the State. Colours of gold had been obtained from Cabbage Tree creek years earlier, but little or no quartz. A few old timers remembered and returned to the brightly coloured stones of Mt Haden. If it we