30 April 1936

ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS

Swagman 'Strikes It Rich'

Mick Scurry, as we will call him, appeared quite a harmless old fellow, and when he humped his swag into the homestead of a northern station and asked leave to camp a few days in the vacant shearers' quarters, the boss gave him permission to do so. He kept to himself for the few days he was at the station, and when he left, it was because the mail waggon had room for him and was calling at a small town on the way down.

The store was Scurry's rendezvous, but his purchases were unusual for anyone carrying a swag. First he critically examined several short handled shovels, even trying them for weight and balance in the drift sand that lay in front of the store. Two shovels appeared to satisfy him, and he next purchased two light picks, a quantity of flywire screen, a few nails and sundry other items. 'Going mining?' the storekeeper remarked, as he tied up the goods in a neat bundle. 'Mining?' No, not for me, sir,' replied Scurry with an air of great surprise. He hurried out of the shop before the storekeeper could ask any more questions. 'I bet he's going mining after some-thing,' mused the storekeeper to himself. 'Those shovels aren't any use for anything else.'

In actual fact Scurry was going mining. It was a new craze of his. His previous one had been a single-handed attempt to make a fortune out of an old salt lagoon. This venture had ruined the old fellow, as we later discovered, and those who knew him well regarded him as being somewhat eccentric. Scurry was not one to be dismayed, however, and he entered with spirit into his new venture. His purchases had exhausted all of his cash, and no doubt he felt a pang of regret when he later passed the one and only hotel the town possessed.

He waited around the town until he got a lift back towards the station by a neighboring station hand in a spring cart. This lad had also shown an interest in Scurry's paraphernalia and had asked the same question as the storekeeper, but had received the same reply. Further attempts at conversation were not encouraged by Scurry, and when the lad dropped him at our station he waved the old chap farewell and called out to him, 'Don't forget a fellow when you strike it rich.'

The boss happened across the old chap as he set up camp in the shed for the night, and seeing the picks and shovels remarked, 'Going to try a bit of mining, Scurry?' This time the old chap flew into a rage and gave the show away. 'Can't a fellow buy a pick and shovel with out the whole country thinking he's going mining?' he said. 'You've got mining on the brain, the lot of you.' The boss wisely withdrew without any further reference to the subject.

At the table that evening we heard of his encounter with Scurry, and one of the lads enlightened us with a detailed account of his past. Scurry was considered daft by many, and we all wondered whatever had made him take to mining so suddenly. In a few weeks' time we knew.

Scurry was gone next morning, and no one knew where to; but he had prepared himself for the trip. One of our old yard horses was missing, a mere detail to the boss, it being a good season, and he had taken in a good supply of provisions the night before. We had almost forgotten Scurry's existence when, about ten days later, he dropped in on us again, to camp in the woolshed for the night. The old fellow was alive with excitement, and there was the gleam of anticipation in his eyes that is only seen in the eyes of the miner who has 'struck it.' It was plainly evident that be was a bit 'cranky,' to use an outback expression; but we calculated that his mining activities had helped to turn him queer. Some of the hands tried questioning him for information; but the old chap shut up like the proverbial oyster, realising, no doubt, that to answer one question meant answering more.

In the morning he approached the boss and asked him for the loan of a good horse. At first the boss demurred, but when Scurry became almost hysterical in his pleading, the boss good naturedly acquiesced, and gave him an old hack. Scurry wasted no time, but rode off in the direction of a well known northern town, at which was stationed the only permanent police officer for many miles around. To him Scurry went and registered an alluvial mining claim. He also asked the opinion of the officer as to his rights on the property, and the information that it was leasehold, and open for any working delighted him. Out of money as he was, he existed mainly on his enthusiasm on his return journey to the station. Once there he immediately sought the boss, and feeling that he was now perfectly safe in discussing his good fortune, confided in him, telling him that the claim was simply shot full of gold dust, and that if the boss would only give him a good supply of provisions he would pay him out of his return from the mine.

Now several prospectors had some years previously scoured the district for miles around, and had been very disappointed with their findings; consequently the boss insisted on a few details of the whole business. Scurry gave him all the information he required. The claim was located in Cattle Creek, a well-known dry watercourse some fifteen miles north-west of the station. Three black boys and a gin were helping him, and he had secured over & quart-potful of gold dust up to date. The old chap's eyes simply sparkled as he mentioned it. The boss gave him all the 'tucker' he wanted, and promised to give the claim an inspection later on. The safety of the old chap worried the boss somewhat, and, probably, curiosity, as well, prompted him to visit the mine before the end of the week.

When he arrived an unusual scene of activity met his eyes. Scurry's mine was situated in the creek bed, bordered on the side by banks that rose perpendicularly for over 40 feet. Two blacks carried water from a small soak further up the creek, while the gin and the other black simply shovelled the white sand of the creek bed into buckets, and carried them to Scurry's works, which were situated under the only green tree in the vicinity. Scurry sieved the sand through several screens, and then washed it in an old pan.

He greeted the boss cheerfully and invited him to come down and inspect. 'We're on a good patch today!' he yelled. Tying his horse to a dry tree on top of the creek bank, the boss accepted the invitation, and half slid and half ran down the sandy bank to finish up in the creek bed in an avalanche of sand and pebbles, much to Scurry's amusement. He was too busy to cease work, but talked away excitedly, explaining his methods to his visitor. He even produced a small tobacco tin of gold dust for his inspection, remarking — 'It's what we've got so far this morning.' The boss accepted the tin of dust for inspection, and immediately he received it he could tell by its weight that it was not gold. He made no mention of his discovery, however, but, after satisfying himself that it was only yellow mica dust, he returned the tin and contents to Scurry and said — 'I reckon you ought to take it to the bank as soon as you can and get it assayed. It might be just as well to sell a bit of it, now that you're set, and take it more easily.' 'Never in your life,' Scurry replied; 'I'm just working this claim until she's finished, and then I'm going back to work the salt at a huge profit. It's capital I've always wanted, and now I'm getting it, hand-over fist.'

Scurry's reply seemed definite, and, after a further inspection of the claim, the boss scrambled up the bank and rode back to the station. That evening two prospectors called at the station to camp, and enquired the nearest route to Scurry's claim. News of it must have leaked out some-how. The boss gave them the necessary directions, but made no mention of this afternoon's discoveries.

At the tea table that evening the boss told us of Scurry's mistake and, while some of the hands thought it a huge joke, the majority felt rather sorry for the harmless old fellow. The following evening the two prospectors returned to the woolshed to again camp for the night, and voiced their vexatious discovery to the boss. 'He's as daft as a hollow log,' declared one of them. 'He wouldn't know gold if he did find any.' That was probably quite true. They had not convinced Scurry that his dust was not gold. On the contrary, he had formed the opinion that the prospectors were out to fool him off the claim.

Several days later the old chap called in at the station for a supply of tucker, and the boss, remembering the unfortunate blacks working hard on the worthless claim, decided to be firm. 'No, Scurry. If you want me to tucker you, you'll have to pay for it,' he said. 'Get your gold cashed and I'll give you my word that no one touches your claim while you're away.' For a while the old chap demurred, but he finally agreed to sell some of his dust and lodge the remainder in the bank for safe keeping. Next morning Scurry left the station on an old horse for the township, there to receive the shock of his life from the manager of the local branch of the bank. To get over the shock Scurry sold the boss's horse for a few shillings and got thoroughly drunk, after which he disappeared from our knowledge for ever.— 'Tintax.'

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1936, April 30). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92342262

A Narrow Escape

Some years ago a middle-aged man set out from Adelaide with a small flock of sheep. His destination was a farm about thirty-five miles north-east of the city. He had with him a good dog, a pony and a small spring dray, and all going well he expected to do the trip in less than two days. He had a good journey for the first fourteen miles, but then, coming to an unfenced portion of the road, he saw one of his sheep disappear down what from the distance looked like a big hole in the ground.

He was very soon on the spot, looking down what was in reality an old well, which had never been walled up, and whose sides had fallen in. The sheep was almost within arm's reach in the water, scarcely more than four feet down, but the man could not get it without help. As there was a homestead on the opposite side of the road about two hundred yards away, he decided to borrow a rope and get any help he could.

However, when he got to the house he found the inmates had gone out, and, seeing no rope of any kind about, he went back to the well to see what he could do by his own efforts. Looking down on the sheep in the well, he came to the conclusion that the sides of the well having fallen in a good deal, there was no depth to it more than could be seen, and that the sheep was really standing on the bottom of the well. He thought to himself that if he jumped in he could stand on the bottom, lift the sheep on to the edge of the well, and then scramble out. He expected to get his feet wet, but what did happen when he jumped in was totally unexpected.

The well was twelve feet deep, and the sheep was, in a sense, treading water and likely enough kept up by its woolly coat. The man went down like a stone, but soon came to the surface, and clutching a small root of a tree, he held on to it. The hold he had to the root kept him up, but it was liable to break at any moment, and, being soaked as he was, and bitterly cold, he was in a miserable plight.

He called for help, but a voice in a well only four feet down cannot be heard as easily as on the surface. In the meantime the man who lived in the house about two hundred yards away had returned, and was walking over to the stable, when he thought he could hear a voice calling 'Help! Help!' He listened for a while, but not hearing it again came to the conclusion that it was fancy on his part. On returning from his stable he again thought that he could hear a voice calling for help, and this time he felt sure that something was amiss. As he could see nothing neither up nor down the road he made his way down to where the road made a sharp turn, and from there he saw a flock of unattended sheep, and a pony in a dray and a dog alongside. The calls for help had ceased for a time, but that some thing was wrong the man felt quite sure.

He crossed the road into the paddock, and then heard the call for help again. That the voice was coming from the old well there could be no doubt, and breaking into a fast run, he was soon looking down on the poor fellow, who was suffering from cold and shock. Lying down flat the man held out his hand for him to grip hold of, and he was soon on dry land. He was taken to the house and cared for, but it was not until the next day that he could resume his journey. The sheep was hauled out with a rope, and was not long in recovering from the cold bath it had received. The man remarked to his rescuer that he had done a very foolish thing in taking so much for granted about the depth of the old well, and he was certainly not alone in thinking that.— H.GH.

Bushranger Of Windy Hill

In 'The Chronicle' of March 19 is an account of the Bushranger of Windy Hill. The correct account of his cap ture is as follows: —

On December 3, 1893, Mounted Constable Read, of Cradock, received information of a highway robbery near Wilson. He immediately proceeded to Wilson, and thence to the Huon Bulli Range, where he met Mounted Constable Kelly. The latter, who was in a buggy with two other men, went to the east side of the range, while M.C. Read took the other side. Read followed the tracks of the bush ranger, and came up to him near Mr. Ward's farm.

The bushranger was hiding behind a tree and had the constable covered with a breech-loading gun. Read brought his horse to a walk, at the same time keeping an eye on the other man, who advanced and said, 'I thought you were a copper and was just going to drop you.' The constable asked why he wanted to shoot policemen, and his reply was that he had been doing bushranging and the coppers were after him. He asked Read who he was after, and the the latter replied that he was a back country farmer looking for two of Ms horses. Read suggested that the horses would very likely be at the next farm, and he and the bushranger went to Mr. Ward's farm, There Read asked for some water, and handed the glass to the bushranger. Read then picked up the gun and extracted the cartridge. A lively struggle then ensued, and after Read had thrown the bushranger, Mr. Ward sat on his legs, while he was handcuffed. The prisoner was subsequently convicted at the Port Augusta Criminal Sessions, and sentenced to 14 years' imprisonment. The arresting constable is still alive and living at Quorn.— A.E.A.

A Narrow Escape (1936, April 30). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92342259