BROKEN HILL ON SATURDAY NIGHT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9117, 27 July 1888, Page 6

BROKEN HILL ON SATURDAY NIGHT.

[By an. Old Thamesxtjb.] Under the above heading the 1 Thames Advertiser publishes an article, signed " Young Dodd," from which we make the following extracts:— . j- Three sharp, distinct blasts of the Broken Hill Proprietary Company's steam whistle, that does duty here for a town clock, reminds me of the fact that it is pay night— the hour seven p.m. on Saturday night, July 14, 1888. Donning my overcoat, for the nights here are quite a cold as in New Zealand in the winter, I looked up my hut, and placing the key under a stone, known only to myself and mate, I wend my way to the main line of traffic in Broken Hill, named Argent-street. It is about the width of Pollen-street, and two miles in length in a straight course., Houses are built on both sides of the road, ranging from the one-roomed calico shanty to the handsome sixty-room stone-built Palace Hotel, that far outdoes in . appearance anything you have in Auckland. Footpaths there are none, nor any pretensions to the slightest formation of such a thing. The whole width of the road is covered with fine dust four inches deep, no rain having fallen here for seven months. Water for domestic use has to be carted sixteen miles, and retailed to customers at the rate of 10s per 100 gallons, and as pleasing to the eye as the overflow water from a tailing pit. In this water is the stronghold of the dreaded King Typhoid. The remembrance of the splendid water supply you have on the Thames contrasts sorely with the dustchoking feeling in my throat, as a bullock team of thirty animals drawing a heavy load of limestone for fluxing purposes to the smelters, pass me on -the windward side. Stopping a moment at the corner of Chloride-street to clear the blinding dust from my eyes, I was startled to hear the Maori word " Tenakoe" uttered close to my ear in a voice having a strong Italian accent. Turning quickly, who should stand before me but Wiggins immortal Wiggins of old, whose cheery laugh all the dust and discomfort of Broken Hill cannot alter. We were soon busy talking over old times. " Tenakoe, pakehas," is shouted close behind us, the voice this time having the 18-carat natural ring in the tone. Looking up, I recognise Harry McWilliams, whose broad shoulders ana splendid physique were the admiration and fear of the weeds and cornstalks of the larrikin class here. Harry had come in from his mine, which is situated about four miles from here, to do a little shopping and take a stroll on Saturday night. "Look out, there!" cry several pedestrians at the corner of Bromide-street, as a splendid pair of thoroughbreds were drawing a neat but handsome dogcart, driven by Captain Z. Lane, late of the Thames, accompanied by Mr. Patton, general manager of the Broken Hill Proprietary Company's mine. These two gentlemen have the reputation of being the cleverest mining engineers in the Australian colonies, if not in the whole world. Captain Lane is manager of Block 14—a part originally of the Broken Hill pegged out by Rasp, and sold to a Melbourne company.' Over £100,000 have been expended on this mine already, mostly in machinery of the latest and best description fixed on surface. " What say, boys, let's go down to the scrip verandah." " It's about eight o'clock, cried Harry McWilliams. We all agreed, and in a cluster we slowly stroll down to the verandah of the Denver City Hotel, where the auction sales of scrip take place, and the latest market prices are publicly called. Under the verandah and stretching across the road are a densely packed mas of men all eager to hear . the latest tips. Fragments of conversation catch the ear, in which , the words chlorides, bromides, kaolin, native silver, carbonates, and numerous other terms applied in the pursuit of silver mining are heard. The whistle sounded the eight o'clock blast, when up gets the auctioneer on his rostrum —an empty beer barrel doing duty for the samehis hands full of scrip. " " Any sellers of Broken Hills," cries the auctioneer, looking swiftly over the sea' of upturned faces. I'll, sell at £250," cries a voice, " Any buyers of Broken Hill at £250," cried the auctioneer. "11l give £245," says a well-known speculator. " Will you sell at £245?" yells the auctioneer, to the first speaker. "No!" is the answer flung back. Will you give any more"this to the buyerfrantically, yells the auctioneer? " Yes, I'll give £248," to the seller. " Agreed," is the answer. Both buyer and seller struggle the best way they can to the auctioneer s desk, the cash is paid with one hand and the scrip taken with the other, both buyer and seller signing a reference book to prevent disputes hereafter. The auction sale is continued until the last is exhausted. The auctioneer's fee on all sales is J per cent., such charge going to the Brokers' Association, the auctioneer being paid a fixed salary. Ben Fryer and Pulleine, two old Thamesites, are partners in the same business in Adelaide. During the selling of some of the Wild Cat scrip, I had time to look round. Another old Thames identity • catches my eye and nods. It is Mr. E. Hornsby, late of T. and S. Morrin. He has started a business similar to T. and S. Morrin for the sale of all mining requisites. His previous knowledge of the wants of a mining community gives him an advantage over his rivals in trade. I have been able to obtain articles at his store that other shops never heard the name of. I prophecy a prosperous future for him. '' There are some more of the boys behind," whispers Wiggins in my ear. So the word " Haeremai ' is passed back over the heads of the crowd. Instantly the answer came back, and we make our way to the outskirts of the mob, knowing for a certainty that we were going to meet some more Thames men. Another warm greeting and handshaking with Captain James Gribble, accompanied with his underground boss, Tommy Glenn, who is still keeping as straight as a rifle barrel. In a few moments we are joined by Tommy Odgers, late braceman of the Prince Imperial, He is managing a small mine a few miles from here., He has . scooped one or two' pools during the boom. His tips are worth watching. Lastly, but none the less welcome to join our party, is honest old John Moore, the miner of African fame. He is working in the deep levels of the Broken Hill mine, and asserts that he never felt better in all his life, and, in answer to my question of men getting leaded, he ridicules the idea, and says it must be put in the aperture between the nose and the chin with the assistance of a pint pot. It seems strange for such a number of old mates to meet, and the word "shout" never mentioned. It's a fact, for we all well know that to drink alooholic liquors, and keep good health in Broken Hill, is impossible. - Of the two evils we chose the least.