Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant
tightly clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river.
Something had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now
positively shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled,
the little man yelled still louder.

"Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!"
He beat with his fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail.
A short, staggering rush, a wild shriek from the officer,
and they both toppled over the steep bank and went souse into the depths
of Ninemile Creek.

That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate
returned to town hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted
for murder. Constable Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police
which contained so many strange statements that the Police department
concluded the sergeant must have got drunk and drowned himself,
and that Dooley saw him do it, but was too drunk to pull him out.

Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report
of the occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers.
As a matter of fact the storekeeper did think of writing one,
but decided that it was too much trouble. There was some idea
of asking the Government to fish the two bodies out of the river;
but about that time an agitation was started in Ninemile
to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else mattered.

The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand
of whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became