As Luck Would Have It by Edward Dyson

IT was the morning of the third day, Bob and Higgie, accompanied by the dogs, had gone up the creek spying out the land. Progress was difficult, keeping close to the stream; near the water the tree ferns were thick and the undergrowth profuse and matted about fallen limb and trunk. Higgie had branched off up the left bank with the dogs, seeking wallaby, of which there were numerous indications. Holland remained in the creek, more interested in the gravel in its bed, possibly auriferous, than in the delights of the chase.

Bob Holland was no mighty hunter; the experience of war had left him, he found, with a strong repugnance to bloodshed. He could not reconcile himself to wanton killing. After some inspection of the wash drawn from fissures in the rocks with his hands, the cupidity of the miner awakened within him. He regretted he had come from the camp without a dish, and determined to pay another visit to this spot on the following day. Coming up from the creek through the tangled scrub he found himself dripping perspiration. The heat of the covered creek under the noon sun was as oppressive as that of a hot house.