The dusty main road of Ballarat was lined with shops and busy with people on horseback and in carriages or carts. Plenty of fine buildings had gone up in the town since Henry and his family had come to the diggings. Right now everyone was talking about the new Eureka Hotel. It was two storeys high, and Henry had heard that it had a grand piano and a chandelier lit by a hundred candles. With its bright red and green paint and the gold letters that spelled its name, it stood out as bold as a fairground in summer.

Henry knew he couldn't get a job at the Eureka Hotel. His father didn’t approve of hotels. He approved even less of sly-grog tents. Sly-grog tents were illegal, but they were everywhere, and you could see miners queuing up for alcohol at any time of the day.

He looked up and down the road. A few yards away a very small boy was struggling with a very big billygoat, dragging it along by the horns. It made Henry think of Sergeant Nockles, and that gave him a bad feeling in his stomach. A bullock wagon creaked past, and then came a man pushing a handcart with a water barrel on it. A Chinese man ran along with wicker baskets of vegetables hanging from each end of a yoke across his shoulders.

Right, Henry thought. I need a job. I don’t care what it is. I’ll do anything.

He walked into the first shop he came to. Thos. Hunter, Chemist and Pharmacist said the notice over the door. It took Henry a while to read it. Inside, a tall man wearing half-moon glasses was pouring pink pills into a bottle.

‘Do you need some help, sir?’ Henry asked. He’d already worked out what to say. ‘I could run errands, do deliveries, sweep your floor, tidy your shelves –’

‘You’re too late,’ said a voice. A red-haired boy popped up from behind the counter. ‘Mr Hunter already has an assistant, and that’s me.’ The boy had a thick Irish accent, but Henry could understand what he was saying all right.

‘Never mind, lad,’ said Mr Hunter, giving Henry a friendly smile. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’ Henry liked him. It was too bad about that Irish boy. He decided to try the grocery store next door.

He had barely got to the door when he heard running footsteps, and the annoying red-haired boy was at his side. ‘I happen to know they don’t need anybody here either, so you can save your breath to cool your porridge.’

‘Who says I was going to ask for work?’ Henry demanded. ‘I came here to buy something, actually.’

‘No you didn’t,’ said the boy.

‘Yes I did.’

‘What, then?’

Henry thought quickly. ‘A tin of toffee,’ he said. ‘For my sister’s birthday.’

‘Liar,’ said the boy. ‘You don’t have a penny to your name, do you? I can tell.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Look, a flash cove’s just ridden up to the Gold Office. Maybe he could do with someone to look after his horse. Keep the horse thieves away.’

‘Thanks,’ said Henry, surprised that the boy wanted to help him. He raced towards the Gold Office, jumping over a pile of fresh manure. ‘Can I hold your horse for you, sir?’

The man dismounting from the big chestnut horse had fine dark whiskers, nicely polished boots, a clean coat and a black silk cravat. If he was as wealthy as he looked, he might be generous. Sixpence was the usual tip for minding a horse, but maybe this fellow would be good for a shilling – even half a crown.

‘I’ll be about ten minutes,’ the man said. ‘Be careful with him, he’s a bit skittish.’ He walked off.

Henry took hold of the horse’s bridle. It seemed like a good horse, not skittish at all. Henry stroked its muzzle. Its nose was warm and whiskery and velvety.

‘When we strike it rich, I’ll have a horse like you,’ Henry told it.

The horse whickered, and nodded its head.

The sunlight was very warm, and Henry was tired and hungry. Delicious smells wafted from the bakery a few yards away. He closed his eyes and dreamed of cream buns.

There was a rumble in the distance, and somebody called out, ‘The Geelong mail’s coming!’ And then, like a thunderstorm, it was upon them. Four horses going at full pelt, the driver shouting, the coach creaking and swaying, dust flying in clouds from its enormous wheels. As the coach swept past, the horse Henry was holding reared up in fright, striking out with its forelegs. Then its hoofs crashed down, and Henry’s head felt like an explosion of stars.

He hung on to the bridle for dear life, but the terrified horse wrenched it away from him and bolted down the street. Henry took off after it. ‘Stop the horse!’ he shouted. ‘Stop the horse!’ But all people did was get out of its way. ‘Shift yourself, sonny,’ a man yelled, laughing.

The horse swerved at the blacksmith’s shop and galloped down a side street. Henry ran after it. His hat had fallen off, and he could feel blood trickling down his cheek.

A few moments later he found the horse, standing quietly as if nothing had happened.

‘Come on, boy.’ Henry went up to it and took hold of the bridle. The horse lowered its head and whinnied softly.

‘So you should be sorry,’ Henry said. ‘You led me a merry dance.’

He walked back to the main road, his head hurting. The horse ambled behind him, and they were back outside the Gold Office just as the man returned.

The man stared at him. ‘What happened to you, boy? Did someone try to steal my horse? Did he have a go at you?’

‘No, sir. Only your horse got scared by the mail coach.’

The man laughed. ‘I’m sorry for that. He’s easily spooked.’ The man had an Irish accent, too, but it wasn’t as strong as the boy’s.

‘That’s all right, sir. I’d take more than that for a few coins.’

‘No luck finding gold, then? You’re not alone. Many make a better living off the diggings than on them.’

The man seemed friendly, and Henry felt that he could talk to him. ‘It’s days since we found anything on our claim. There’s some who say there’s no more gold for the taking on the Gravel Pits.’

‘Yes,’ the man said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been lucky with my claim on the Eureka Lead. I pity the poor fellows who find nothing. They work their guts out on a shicer and still have to cough up for that crippling licence every month.’ He looked closely at Henry’s head. ‘It’s no more than a scratch, thankfully.’

He dug in his pocket, and Henry held his breath. What was his broken head worth?

The man flipped him two half crowns – two! – and swung himself up into the saddle. ‘Liberty!’ he said over his shoulder as he rode off.

What did that mean? Henry thought about it all the way home.

When Father came home that afternoon, he was in a bad temper. As usual, Henry thought. Although this time he had a good reason.

‘I left the claim for half an hour and when I returned I found a lousy claim-jumper had taken it over. I threatened him, and when he didn’t move I took out my pistol. That got him running, the coward.’

‘Did you know him, Father?’ Henry asked.

‘Never set eyes on him before. Big fellow with a pock-marked face and an eye-patch – had the look of a convict about him. He’d have the scars of shackles around his ankles, no doubt of it.’

‘Papa, Henry’s hurt his head,’ Eliza said. ‘There’s blood on him.’

‘So there is,’ said Father. He bent down to look. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s nothing much,’ Henry answered. ‘I was holding a man’s horse and it kicked out at me and bolted.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Father. ‘I’ll warrant you weren’t holding him tight enough.’ He fetched a bowl of water, carefully washed the blood off Henry’s face and sponged his hair. The water was a bit dirty, but Henry was used to that. They only had clean water when it rained, and it hadn’t rained for a while.

‘Is Henry hurt very badly, Papa?’ Eliza asked. ‘Will he die?’ Her bottom lip trembled.

Father smeared a bit of mutton dripping on the cut to help stop the bleeding. ‘I’d say our Henry will live a while longer,’ he said. ‘Don’t fret, Eliza. It looks much worse than it is.’

Feeling better now, Henry took the two half crowns out of his pocket. ‘Look, here’s what I earned.’

‘Good work, boy,’ Father said. ‘Perhaps I’ll keep you.’ The few words of praise warmed Henry’s heart. Usually Father looked at him as if he was expecting Henry to disappoint him in some way.

Father took the coins, and then put one back in Henry’s hand. ‘Go to the store and buy a tin of jam. As a special treat, we can have jam on our damper tonight.’

Henry didn’t need to be told twice. He ran back to the main road and straight to the grocer’s. As he was leaving the store he saw the Irish boy again.

Henry held up the tin of jam. ‘See? Look what we can afford. It’s the best sort, made in England.’

The boy smiled. ‘How did you go with the horse? Did he do that?’ He pointed to Henry’s injured head.

‘He kicked me. Turns out he was skittish.’

‘He’s a rogue, isn’t he?’ said the boy. ‘He near pulled my arm out of its socket a couple of weeks ago. I thought you’d have some fun with him.’

‘And so I did,’ Henry said. ‘Your plan worked a treat. But it was worth it, because I got two half crowns for my trouble.’ And he ran off before the boy could say anything back to him.