This sad and poignant story from the pen of N E Gledhill is kindly shared by his Great Nephew Allen Gledhill with thanks.
STEVE HARDING lived with his wife in a tumble-down shanty on the outskirts of the Golden Mile. They were a queer couple. She, a diminutive, white-haired old woman, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose, looked the reincarnation of a witch. He was reckoned queer, too, by his mates. Quiet and secluded, he seldom ventured further than his backyard, unless it was to the City Arms. Even then he drank alone. Occasionally, if he happened to meet one of his work-mates there, he would nod to the barman to pull another drink, saying: “A man needs a jar on a day like this.” His mates never tried to draw him out; it might have hurt his feelings, but they were satisfied he was “queer.”
Harding was a “louser” and poor; which means that he was honest. “Lousing” was a job for a trusted man. It was seldom that anyone popular with the crowd got a chance at it.
When a new lode was located running in from the chute, the rock was drilled, a charge placed in it and the fuse ignited. After the explosion, the “louser” was the first man allowed in. He picked up the loosened lumps of visible gold and watched them safely on the cage. He was searched each time he came out, as a matter of form; but he was trusted. They realised that he had plenty of opportunities of planting anything in the stope.
Still, the gold was disappearing. In fact, during the past few months, the losses had become serious. Everyone was suspected; even among the men themselves, each one vaguely doubted the next. But had anyone suggested that Harding might be “in on the deal” he would have been laughed at.
At each change of shift, when the men came to the surface, they were searched thoroughly. It was useless. Whoever they were they were certainly making a good job of it. Then Harding was informed that in the future he would do all day shifts. He knew what that meant; he was under suspicion, along with the rest. It hit him hard.
“Strike me dead,” he said, “before I’d pinch an ounce of it!
But he was interested. He had a shrewd idea that the stuff disappeared without actually being taken to the surface by the men. Of course, it was no business of his; but he decided to keep an eye open. It was puzzling. Besides Walters, his mate, and himself there were twenty men working on the level. It might be any one of them.
The chute was bare enough; a thousand feet straight drive to the stope. On one side a few drills lay in a heap; on the other was an open cut in which stood two sanitary pans. It was not in the stope, of that he was certain and unless the men were getting it away under their armpits! “Wake up, Steve!” He ceased his calculations and smiled as Walters clapped him on the back and, walking over to one of the pans, carelessly threw something in it and continued on along the chute.
There was really nothing unusual in the action, but it set Harding thinking. Supposin’? No, it was too unlikely; yet today was Wednesday, tomorrow Thursday — tomorrow the pans’ would be taken up and emptied. There was just a chance — at least it was possible. He walked over to the pan and turned it around. Then he tilted it on one side and looked underneath. Just as he had suspected; a small cross chalked on the bottom to single it out. “Damned clever.” he grinned, as he replaced the pan in position and proceeded back to the stope.
