Gold Stealing – A Cunning Plan

It was early morning on what promised to be a scorching day. The Golden Mile with its tall poppet heads and lofty chimneys, loomed dimly through a dense smoky haze. Along the track rumbled a workers tram with its funereal trailers, suggestive of an undertaker’s cortege. The clustering occupants however far from, being dead, were very much alive. They were noisy brawny sons of toil, mine workers en-route to the scene of their labour. Thick as swarming bees, they packed the cars and overflowed on the platforms.

A mixed lot  in their various breeds and jargons, British, Slavs, Italians and others too numerous to particularise. The lumbering tram stopped at a cross street, and a big dark man stepped aboard, squeezing in to find standing-room.

“Morning Tony!” cried a young fellow beside him, “My word Tony,” he proceeded, “That’s a wallopin big thermos flask you’ve got, must hold half a gallon. Any chance of getting a drop out of it at crib time?” “Ha! Ha” laughed the big man boisterously, “So you know what is good little Aussie. It is the vino, not like the wine of Italy, but better than your tea, only fit for old women, better than your nasty Australian beer too. You say the flask holds a lot, yes, but I am the big man, and the big man he takes a big drink.” and again he laughed in appreciation of his own wit.

Reaching the terminus, the tram speedily emptied, and Tony sought the “change house” of the mine on which he worked. Presently, attired in working clothes, and carrying the flask and his crib bag of dynamite cloth, which kept his midday repast attractive, he stepped with others into the cage which was to take him below. Tony was not an ordinary mine worker, a bogger or trucker, as are so many underground hands, but a machineman, operating a pneumatic drill. These work on contract and may earn up to £100 per fortnight. Needless to say, they are regarded as the elite, by their less fortunate work fellows in receipt of a fixed and much lower remuneration. Arriving at the level where his work lay, he went about the job. Last shift he had bored four of the eight holes comprising of the set and he hoped to finish and fire out by crib time.  Steadily he worked on, using his great strength to the best advantage. Boring completed, he charged the holes, but before touching off the fuses he shouted the customary warning to any who might inadvertently happen into danger. “Fire! Fire!” he cried loudly.

Pausing awhile, he lit the fuses and again shouting the warning, speedily made his way to safety and his crib. Out of the danger zone, he listened attentively for the shots. In ordered succession they came, one, two, right up to eight. Calculating that by the time his crib had been eaten, the smoke and fumes would have dispersed, he proceeded to eat.

If the big man liked a big drink, the mound of garlic sausage with bread and cheese, which he disposed of, amply supported the idea that he was also a big eater. Then a cigarette and back to the working face. By the light of his lamp he surveyed the result of his shots. “Yes,” he murmured, “it is good.” Picking up the long drill, his dark eyes widened. “By all the saints! Solid gold, like a crust. I bore through him.” Eagerly he sought the site of the eighth hole. At his feet amid the dark blue of the ore, lay a heap of yellow gold. One lump half shattered by the explosion displayed a half round hole made by the drill, which had passed through it. Wild thoughts surged through his mind how much could he carry away? The fill of his crib bag? No! that would be too conspicuous. Ah! he had it. Why not break the glass in the thermos flask and fill it up. ‘Nobody would suspect that. No time to lose, either the shift boss might come nosing around the underground manager, anyone. Besides he must report so rich a find at once. Feverishly he picked out sufficient to fill the flask and accepting the risk of discovery, secreted as much more in a rock cleft.

The knock-off whistle had blown, and once more the lumbering tram with its trailers passed along the road. Gradually its human freight emptied till none remained but two men sitting together and Tony the big Italian. Intent on rolling a cigarette, the tram had reached his stopping place and was

underway before he had been aware. Jumping up he leapt out, the moving tram soon leaving him behind. Then one of the two men spoke. “Look sergeant, that big Dago had forgotten his flask. Call him back.” But Tony was already running wildly towards them, his face exhibiting intense concern, “This yours?”  “Yes! Yes! please. I put him on the seat when I roll the cigarette, then I forget him. Thank you sir, oh so much. But the sergeant had unscrewed the cap. Then rattling the flask he held one hand to its mouth, as he gave it a tilt. “Sorry,” he said, “But I’ll look after this, “And I think you had better come along with me too”