Australian Tales - Setis

you'll have no hut at all to put your head in. You'll be roaring all day long
with the rheumatiz, like an old bull stuck in a bog; and have no friend
near to rub you as I do sometimes. You couldn't rough it in a tent, Micky,
like a born digger, not a bit of it, so don't try it, mate. Stay where you are
getting good wages and good rations, under a good master; with easy
work that you have been used to the best part of your life, or you'll very
likely live to be sorry you didn't take my advice. The diggins arn't fit for
the like of you or me, Micky, for we are both as stiff as old stock horses.
One might just as well set a couple of blackfellows to split slabs or build
a woolshed, as expect worn out old tools such as you or I to dig gold
enough even to find us a ration of rice and treacle, let alone anything else
to make our miserable lives happy. — You dig! pooh, nonsense!”
“Be the piper,” cried Mick, “an haven't I dug acres of praties in owld
Ireland, an oceans of turf in the bargain? Whew! not know how to dig,
eh! What next will yez be after telling me? Why, I'd bate any
perfessional digger in the colony, wid the long shovel or pratie fork; aye,
or the pick either, though I niver tried that tool. An maybe I'll pick up
goold enough widout any tools at all but my fingers; faix, I'll be a match
for anybody on airth at that game. Then agin, I've got purty nigh twinty
pounds saved up, an what wull I do wid it here, I'd like to know? I might
dale a little bit at the diggins wid my capital, for I'm thinkin I've got as
much sinse in my head as many swells who have made their fortins at
daling. Shure an didn't we hear Denis Whackduffy the daler say tother
night that a wide-awake fellow can allers make more wid his head than
his hands? Besides, I'm dying for a little gintale company. I haven't had a
fight for four years, an I haven't seen a reglar shindy since I've bin on the
station. I'm getting as mouldy as an old boot for want of a shine now and
agin, that's a fact. Bedad, I'll be off to-morrow, Joe me bhoy! I'll try my
luck at some more lively money-making game nor shepparding, so don't
try to coax me to stay; for you may jist as well try if your argiments will
stop that tom cat from licking out the camp oven in the chimney yonder.
Maybe you'll see me come back agin a gintleman one of these days, Joe,
an thin you shall be my chief cook, so you shall, for you're a broth of a
bhoy to make doughboys, an a reglar tigar at rubbin away the
rheumaticks.”
The next morning Micky was up before the “laughing jackasses,” and
was busily engaged packing up all his personal effects into a compact
bundle, while his friend Joe prepared breakfast.
“Suppose you should meet any of those bushranging cossacks that are
prowling about everywhere now-a-days, Micky? What will you do if
they take away your swag, and murder you, or else leave you as naked as
a pickaninny?” asked Joe, with a very sober face. “An honest man's life
and property are hardly worth owning these times.”
“Niver fear,” said Micky, his merry eyes twinkling as if it were a good