out of sight of Dunedin. I loafed about for a couple of hours, and when the sun got well up some of the other passengers came on deck and joined me. One of them, a little perky sort of fellow, took a good long look at me, and then came over and began talking.
"Mining, I suppose?" says he.
"Yes," I says.
"Made your pile?" he asks.
"Pretty fair," says I.
"I was at it myself," he says; "I worked at the Nelson fields for three months, and spent all I made in buying a salted claim which busted up the second day. I went at it again, though, and struck it rich; but when the gold wagon was going down to the settlements, it was stuck up by those cursed rangers, and not a red cent left."
"That was a bad job," I says.
"Broke me--ruined me clean. Never mind, I've seen them all hanged for it; that makes it easier to bear. There's only one left--the villain that gave the evidence. I'd die happy if I could come across him. There are two things I have to do if I meet him."
An Australian prison doctor makes friends with a notorious prisoner who was part of a murderous gang, then ratted out his fellow gang members. Surprisingly little happens, there is no mystery. The daily newspaper is more interesting.
I was expecting something a lot more interesting from Arthur Conan Doyle. I love the Sherlock Holmes stories. But this story was just plain boring. I kept waiting for something to happen, but it never did.