had collected by this time. "Blimey, how does he lash out!" was the remark
they made. But they didn't interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's
frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his subordinate,
Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene.

Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition,
was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney,
and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious "pushes" of Bondi,
Surry Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's play,
and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time;
it was beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate.
If they wouldn't come any other way, he would take them by the ankles
and drag them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp
of an inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight.

"I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant," he said, and he caught hold
of the figure's right arm, to put on the "police twist". Unfortunately,
at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in
the creature's breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick,
it lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley
a thud on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot.

For a few minutes he "lay as only dead men lie". Then he got up
bit by bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks,
and mentioned casually to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town,
and had taken the sergeant away to drown him. After which,
having given orders that anybody who called was to be told
that he had gone fifteen miles out of town to serve a summons on a man
for not registering a dog, he locked himself up in a cell
for the rest of the day.