"Right, father."

The boy went to the windla.s.s and let the bucket down. Bob offered to help him wind up, but Isley, proud of showing his strength to his friend, insisted on winding by himself.

"You'll be--why--a strong man some day, Isley," said Bob, landing the bucket.

"Oh, I could wind up a lot more'n father puts in. Look how I greased the handles! It works like b.u.t.ter now," and the boy sent the handles spinning round with a jerk to ill.u.s.trate his meaning.

"Why did they call yer Isley for?" queried Bob, as they resumed their seats. "It ain't yer real name, is it?"

"No, my name's Harry. A digger useter say I was a isle in the ocean to father 'n mother, 'n then I was nicknamed Isle, 'n then Isley."

"You hed a--why--brother once, didn't yer?"

"Yes, but thet was afore I was borned. He died, at least mother used ter say she didn't know if he was dead; but father says he's dead as fur's he's concerned."

"And your father hed a brother, too. Did yer ever--why--hear of him?"

"Yes, I heard father talkin' about it wonst to mother. I think father's brother got into some row in a bar where a man was killed."

"And was yer--why--father--why--fond of him?"

"I heard father say that he was wonst, but thet was all past."

Bob smoked in silence for a while, and seemed to look at some dark clouds that were drifting along like a funeral out in the west.

Presently he said half aloud something that sounded like "All, all--why--past."

"Eh?" said Isley.

"Oh, it's--why, why--nothin'," answered Bob, rousing himself. "Is that a paper in yer father's coat-pocket, Isley?"

"Yes," said the boy, taking it out.

Bob took the paper and stared hard at it for a moment or so.

"There's something about the new goldfields there," said Bob, putting his finger on a tailor's advertis.e.m.e.nt. "I wish you'd--why--read it to me, Isley; I can't see the small print they uses nowadays."

"No, thet's not it," said the boy, taking the paper, "it's something about--"

"Isley!"

"'Old on, Bob, father wants me."

The boy ran to the shaft, rested his hands and forehead against the bole of the windla.s.s, and leant over to hear what his father was saying.

Without a moment's warning the treacherous bole slipped round; a small body bounded a couple of times against the sides of the shaft and fell at Mason's feet, where it lay motionless!

"Mason!"

"Ay?"

"Put him in the bucket and lash him to the rope with your belt!"

A few moments, and--

"Now, Bob!"

Bob's trembling hands would scarcely grasp the handle, but he managed to wind somehow.

Presently the form of the child appeared, motionless and covered with clay and water. Mason was climbing up by the steps in the side of the shaft.

Bob tenderly unlashed the boy and laid him under the saplings on the gra.s.s; then he wiped some of the clay and blood away from the child's forehead, and dashed over him some muddy water.

Presently Isley gave a gasp and opened his eyes.

"Are yer--why--hurt much, Isley?" asked Bob.

"Ba-back's bruk, Bob!"

"Not so bad as that, old man."

"Where's father?"

"Coming up."

Silence awhile, and then--

"Father! father! be quick, father!"

Mason reached the surface and came and knelt by the other side of the boy.

"I'll, I'll--why--run fur some brandy," said Bob.

"No use, Bob," said Isley. "I'm all bruk up."

"Don't yer feel better, sonny?"

"No--I'm--goin' to--die, Bob."

"Don't say it, Isley," groaned Bob.

A short silence, and then the boy's body suddenly twisted with pain. But it was soon over. He lay still awhile, and then said quietly:

"Good-bye, Bob!"

Bob made a vain attempt to speak. "Isley!" he said,"---"

The child turned and stretched out his hands to the silent, stony-faced man on the other side.