GOLDFIELD SKETCHES.

Otago Witness, Issue 2923, 23 March 1910, Page 85

GOLDFIELD SKETCHES.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL. Bt Elshender, Two aged men were seated one on each side of the fireplace in the living room of a small but comfortable cottage in one of the suburbs of Dunedin. Each smoked his pipe in silence, gazing into the glowing fire, by the side of which sang the kettle. Presently the younger-looking of the two leant forward and knocked the ashes from his pipe. "Ah, well, I must wash up the dishes now," he said, rising and proceeding to fill a tin basin with water from the kettle. Setting the basin on the table, where stood the few dishes which had been used at their evening meal, he washed and dried them, then carefully put them away in a cupboard, and resumed hie seat. " Man, Tom, you tidy up like a woman. I don't know what I would have done all these years wantin' you." "Oh, you'd have done fine wantin' me. You could nave looked after yersel' till just the last twelvemonth, and you could easy have got some decent body to look after you since you took badly." "Aye, for wages, but it would na ha' been the same old friend. You and me has been, mates for neai fifty year, barrin' that time when we parted company for a bit when the wife got tired o' livin' up the country, and was set on comin' to Dunedin. For the boy's schoolin', she said. I never said much at the time, but, man, it was hard to part from you." "Well, well, it was just as well that you did sell out o' the Nil Desperandum when you did, for you have done better in town than I did on the diggings in the long run. It's me that should say I don't know what I'd ha' done wi'out you, for here Fva been livin' on you these six years past. My little bit would have been eaten up long since if you had not taken me in, Bill." "Nonsense, man! You and me has been mates too long for you to speak like that. Besides, the way you've looked after me has been something no money could buy. You've been as kind and gentle as a woman—-gentle as a woman." Tom having refilled hie pipe, they both smoked in silence. Indeed, at no time was there much conversation between them, but to-night Bill seemed to be unusually talkative, and he presently began to recall old days when both were young, and spoke of the timee when, buoyed with the hope of "making their pile," they followed every new rush in Victoria.. ' "Yes, Tom; we've seen some ups and downs in our day, and I don't know why they are coming up in my mind to-night. Do you mind that time when we were snowed up in Campbell's Gully, at the back of the Old Man Range? I've never said so before, but it's true that if it had not been, for you I'd never have got through. Ah, well, perhaps it would have been better if I had not." "What's the matter with you, Bill?" "Nothing—nothing. But had I gone under then I would never have had a son. Ah! Tom, that's where the black bit o' my life comes in. It it was not for that I would gladly live all my life over again." ' ' "Don't think of it,..then." - "I can't help it. Why the boy should have turned out such a thorough bad 'un I can't think. It broke'his mother's heart when he "landed in gaol. If be had turned out right she might have been living yet. It's past my comprehension what made him go wrong. I can't blame myself, though perhaps I was a bit too easy with him, maybe; but I don't know—l'm feared he was bad-hearted altogether." "Well, don't you bother thinking about him. I'm "sure it was neither from you nor his mother that he got his black heart; but maybe he'll come right yet if he's still alive." "Never as long as he lives. But I'm thinkin' he must : be dead, or he would ha' been at me for money, though I .told him last time he went away that he would never get another pennv piece from me. It's a good few years since I heard tejl o' him now." Silence fell again, and neither spoke for a full half-hour, then Bill said: "I'm not going to last much longer, Tom; I won't bother you long. I feel I'm done." "Nonsense, man." "It's; true, ..though, and L just, want to tell you that T've left everything to you—this liouse and the little money that's lefti". I hope it w ; ll "last till your time comes, for I'm afraid you have na much left yersel." "That's true, but I could aye go to the Old Men's Home if need be.", "No. no, Tom, that -would never do. I could not rest in my grave, I think, if you "were there and' roe able- to prevent it." './■ <■ .'- .. . * .'-.>i....; "What ails ye the night, Bill, that ye're speakin' so much and. on such mournful subjects?-,. Let me help you to bed. It's about time." In the morning Tom rose, lighted the fire, and when the kettle boiled made a cup of tea", "which he took to Bill's room. Bill was apparently asleep still, so he tiptoed back to the living, room, where he busied himself preparing breakfast.. When it was ready he returned to Bill's room, and softly approached the bed where his old' mate lay motionless, with a vague feeling of apprehension that* something was wrong/ He listened, but could hear no sound of breathing, so he bent.over the bed, and as soon as he - saw Bill's pallid face, which was turned to the \va!l, he knew the truth-. With an unsteady hand he turned down the blankets and lightly touched fhe cheek; it was cold. Bill had died in his sleep,... ' .".. . , ' ~ The inquest was oyer, and Bill had been, laid to Test on the sunny slope of the hill overlooking the harbotftv' Tom was sitting • by the fire feeling very; "lonely--, when a. knock came to the; dorir, and. in" response to Tom's " Corhe in," ,a young:

man entered. He was shabby and disreputable in dress and dissipated in appearance. "So the old un's * dead," said the stranger, as he dropped into a chair. Tom gazed at the newcomer a moment. "You're never Bill's boy, are yer?" " That's who I am. I saw by the papers up country that he was dead, so, thinks I, I'd better come and see what's comin' to me. Did the old man make a will ?" " Yes, he did. But I'd never have known you, lad. Your're no' like the bov I remember, but you aye had a look o' your mother, and I can see it still. Oh, but you're changed, and no' for the better.'" " So I well may be, after all I've gone through. You wouldn't look well either if the world had used you as it has me." " It's yourself that's to blame, I'm thinkin'." "Oh! Damn it, drop preachin'. What has the old chap left, and who to?" "He left everything to me, his old mate, as he knew I < had nothing else to live on, but if you'll promise to give up your ways I might do something for you.'' " I'll promise what you like; but why should the old , devil not have left me anything?" "Oh! lad, lad, don't speak of your father in that way. He was an upright, honest man, and your mother was a good woman. Why can't you be like them? I won't ask you to promise anything, but I won't sta.nc 1 in the way of your inheriting." So saying, Tom rose, and crossing the room, opened a small tin box, from, which he took a paper and returned to his seat. "This is your father's will in. my favour. I have done nothing with it yet, and in the hope that you may turn' from your evil ways I never will. Poor old Bill, I hope you were mistaken, and that your boy may yet prove a man." Tom reaid the will aloud slowly, then tossed it on the glowing fire, where it was quickly, consumed, «nd as the last spark died out of the blackened remains he said: "Now, lad. your father's will is gone; all is yours." <— "Well, of all the damned old fools I ever came across you're the worst. I'm no fool, so : t's a. good job for me you're one.-You maybe thought that if you did that I'd let you stop on here; but no fear, old cock ; you'll have to clear." "I had no thought of myself, though I •adly fear Bill was right. I'll go and end my days in the Old Men's Home, through it's hard to be dependent on' charity. Good-bye ! and may the good God give you a new heart." "So long, old cock!" As Tom stepped out with his modest in a. bundle, the last thing he heard was: . "This is truly great. It beats cockfiahtino-." followed by a peal of raucous laughter.