Every day of the week, at fall of dark, I grope my way here into my tent at Surprise, light the hurricane lamp, hook it to the beam overhead, find paper and pen, and spur myself to the telling of a page more of this story. Sometimes a timid breeze comes through the to cool the rising temper of the night; oftener the tent walls on their wooden framework; and neither pipe nor cigarette will bring me cheer.  
The night wears on; the mosquito sharpens his appetite, and a fringe of the great army of flying things which moves abroad in the dark, flutters, jumps and creeps in at the doorway to the light. By half-past eight the attack has begun. Crickets in sober grey coats, black-banded on the legs, lead the advance; large crickets and small crickets. Great green follow; long and narrow grasshoppers, broad and deep-chested grasshoppers. Purple grasshoppers arrive on their heels; and now they[Pg 160] come, large and small and in all habits. At nine o'clock they cover the ceiling, staring at the lamp with big stupid eyes; and strange and flies and flying ants have begun the Dance of Death about the globe.
 
back the chair; find the towel; neck and ears must be covered for the rest of the sitting. When the clock shows half-past nine, pack up the papers again, and step to the doorway awhile that contemplation may bring better humour. Then to bed.
 
At last my story is well begun, and a few days must wear out at Surprise and Kaloona before the tale moves much forward again. The cook puts the pot to boil. Little is to show when the lid first is lifted but the water is heating nevertheless.
 
Power came riding into Surprise now and again, and little he seemed altered, unless his temper had grown crotchety. The camp endured at Pool. Maud Neville went about the day's work as before and, if she was troubled ever so little so that she rose in the morning with a faint clutch at her heart—well, few at Surprise are without their crosses. Mr. Horrington, clambering off his stretcher, rather rocky in the morning, finds his eye filled with the wood-heap at the back door and a blunt by the wall, and hears Mrs. Horrington, clinking a billycan, behind him along the path to the goat pen. Few would believe how unwell a man can feel at half-past six in the morning with a poor night's sleep behind him, and a wood-heap at his elbow.
 
Come morning then, come night; come laughter, come sorrow—the day's work goes forward. Saturday brings the coach bumping from Morning Springs. Monday, eight o'clock, hears the whistle beginning again the week. Shabby little camp set down in the , yours is the soul of the , who finds brief time for singing at her labour, who finds still less time for tears.
 
On Monday mornings they do the washing at Surprise. Mrs. Bullock, brisk and , sitting up in bed to rub her eyes, nudges Bullock from his last ten minutes' sleep.
 
"Don't forget the , dad. Yer left me with two sticks last time. Yer don't expect a woman to swing an axe as well as wash and bake and run after you from morning to night."
 
Mrs. Niven, dyspeptic and , wakes Niven with her high-pitched tones.
 
"Is it going to be the same this week? What does it worry you if a woman kills herself at the tub while you snore there all day? Look at , Bloxham and Bullock up half-an-hour, I reckon, runnin' round for their wives.[Pg 162] And women come to me and say—'My! Mrs. Niven, you looks very poorly lately,—and I got to say the heat has took me dreadful, but it's runnin' after you, lifting tubs of water, and scratching on a wood-heap for wood that isn't there that done it."
 
Boulder, Bloxham and Johnson are rising up elsewhere.
 
Through the morning is great and to-do, a filling of , a lifting of buckets, a running in and out of the sun to open-air fireplaces, a of clothes in with sticks, wringings, beatings, rinsings, re-wringings. The morning is gone as soon as begun.
 
By noonday whistle the clothes are spread on line and bush and fallen log; and Mrs. Bullock, Mrs. Niven and Mrs. Boulder, rather short of breath, and distinctly short of speech, are dishing up the dinner a minute or two late. Coming home from the mine it is well to be . Sitting down to lunch at Mrs. Simpson's bush boarding-house I talk very small on these occasions.
 
The wash dries early at Surprise and by three o'clock Mrs. Bullock, Mrs. Niven and Mrs. Boulder are abroad again plucking the strange things down. When the whistle blows at five o'clock the irons are put by and the heaviest day of the week is over.
 
 
On Mondays they wash, and on Mondays by another law, the men go in clean clothes. If you are one to notice such things, you can tell the week in the month by the shirts going to work. Mr. Carroll, timekeeper, is especially regular this way. First and third Mondays bring him to the office in blue tie and white trousers with an iron mould in the seat; second and fourth Mondays show him in tie and blue trousers weary at the knees. Simpson, the butcher, clips his moustache every first Sunday in the month, and changes from a man of appearance to a with shabby brown teeth.
 
But every day of the month the single boot-last of Surprise is in demand, as one or other person sits down with a pair of half-soles from the store to patch his boots against the ill-humours of the stones.
 
Now and then of a morning, between breakfast wash-up and the midday cooking, Mrs. Bullock, Mrs. Niven and Mrs. Simpson slip across to the store for a packet of this or that, and any news that may be running round. It happens often that luck chooses them the same ten minutes; and Mrs. Boulder and Mrs. Bloxham may be passing by just then. Mr. Wells, storeman, and anxious, very quick at a piece of news, very slow at totting up an account,[Pg 164] puts hands wide on the counter and gives a brisk "Good morning. Turned dreadful hot, Mrs. Simpson. Looks like summer come at last."
 
"It do," says Mrs. Simpson, casting an eye about the place.
 
Mrs. Bullock, leaning far across the counter, takes a look behind the scenes; and Mrs. Niven, standing a little out of the press, lifts her hat upon her head, drops it down again and makes speech.
 
"I was took bad agen last night before bed. This is no place for a woman, I tell you that short. I'll take another box of pills, same as last."
 
"All gone, Mrs. Niven," says Mr. Wells, bringing his hands off the counter with a jump and shaking his head. "Not a box or bottle of medicine nearer than Morning Springs. The last lot was very popular. There'll be something else with the next team sure."
 
"You never do have a thing in when it's wanted; that's speaking straight," joins in Mrs. Boulder, leaning farther over the counter. "I'll have that packet of spices down there. It's the last there is, I dare say, and a pound of tea and two of matches, and that's all."
 
"Good morning, Mrs. Bloxham. Good morning, Mrs. Boulder."
 
 
"Good morning. Good morning. Good morning."
 
"I was took bad agen last night before bed," says Mrs. Niven, "and now I come here and find not a dose of anything in the store. This is no land for a woman, I say, and I've said it before, and I wouldn't be surprised if I say it again."
 
"Well, Mrs. Boulder," says Mrs. Simpson, "is it true Mr. Regan won't give Kerrisk any bread since they had the row two day back? I heard something about it, but couldn't make a story of it. Seeing that you came across that way, I thought you might have heard."
 
"Small things don't worry me," says Mrs. Boulder, of stately and severe aspect. "Live and let live when you're out these ways is what's to do. I heard something last night of someone here that would be a shame to repeat."
 
"Mrs. Boulder?" comes the chorus.
 
"Mr. Wells, when it comes to my turn I'll have five of sugar and a pair of bootlaces, and see that it's a better pair than last. They didn't stay whole two days," continues Mrs. Boulder.
 
"Mrs. Boulder, what was that you heard tell?"
 
"It would do better with keeping, Mrs. Simpson. Mr. Wells, that was a beautiful you played last night. Yes, Mrs. Simpson, my news would do better with keeping, but we're all friends here. Well I heard say Mr. King over at the office there was doing a deal too much running up and down to the river lately. It don't take much guessing to know what that means."
 
"Quite likely, Mrs. Boulder. And he isn't the only one, I dare say. Leaving him, what do you reckon brought them two at the house up to these parts for? Selwyn the name is. Come from Melbourne, I hear. I heard say he was one of the heads of the Company, though I wouldn't go much on him doing a day's work."
 
"No need, Mrs. Simpson. That sort only wear white collars and sit round a table and talk big. Mrs. Nankervis, the cook up there, told me he and Mrs. don't hit it off, not a bit. She says it's a fact."
 
"When is the girl and Mr. Power from Kaloona comin' to a point? He's kept her waiting long enough."
 
"They say he's not too keen, but she's keeping him to it."
 
"There's no telling, Mrs. Bloxham. The old man would find a change looking after himself. I wouldn't be surprised if he looked round on his own account then. They say he was pretty gay thirty year back. Back for home agen, Mrs. Boulder? Good morning to you. My turn now, Mr. Wells."
 
They open up the office between eight and[Pg 167] nine of a morning, and Mr. King, accountant, pushes up the window before finding his seat behind the table at the far end; while Mr. Carroll, timekeeper, a mild elderly man, takes the broom from behind the door and strokes the floor from end to end. He, too, then finds his seat. The day's work begins pleasantly, with not wear and tear, as is the custom at Surprise. The satisfying swish of pages and the scratch of pens are all the sounds to wake the spiders in their webs in the high corners.
 
But ruder sounds will break that peace. Old Neville, stick in hand, the first pipe of the day in his clutch, steps down that way from breakfast on m............