City of London, had my rattling 'Jenny Lind' (the cradle) at a water-hole
down the Eureka Gully. Must stop my work to show my licence. 'All right.'

I had then to go a quarter of a mile up the hill to my hole, and fetch
the washing stuff. There again--"Got your licence?" "All serene, governor."
On crossing the holes, up to the knees in mullock, and loaded like a dromedary,
"Got your licence?" was again the cheer-up from a third trooper or trap.
Now, what answer would you have given, sir?

I assert, as a matter of fact, that I was often compelled to produce my licence
twice at each and the same licence hunt. Any one who knows me personally,
will readily believe that the accursed game worried me to death.




Chapter X.



Jam Non Estis Hospites Et Advenoe


It is to the purpose to say a few words more on the licence-hunting,
and have done with it. Light your pipe, good reader, you have to blow hard.

Our red-tape, generally obtuse and arrogant, this once got rid of the usual
conceit in all things, and had to acknowledge that the digger who remained
quietly at his work, always possessed his licence. Hence the troopers
were despatched like bloodhounds, in all directions, to beat the bush;