and the traps who had a more confined scent, creeped and crawled among
the holes, and sneaked into the sly-grog tents round about, in search of
the swarming unlicensed game. In a word, it was a regular hunt. Any one
who in Old England went fox-hunting, can understand pretty well,
the detestable sport we had then on the goldfields of Victoria.
Did any trooper succeed in catching any of the 'vagabonds' in the bush,
he would by the threat of his sword, confine him round a big gum-tree;
and when all the successful troopers had done the same feat, they took
their prisoners down the gully, where was the grand depot, because the traps
were generally more successful. The commissioner would then pick up one pound,
two pounds, or five pounds, in the way of bail, from any digger that could
afford it, or had friends to do so, and then order the whole pack
of the penniless and friendless to the lock-up in the camp. I am a living
eye-witness, and challenge contradiction.

This job of explaining a licence-hunt is really so disgusting to me,
that I prefer to close it with the following document from my subsequently
gaol-bird mate, then reporter of the 'Ballaarat Times':--


Police Court, Tuesday, October 24th.

HUNTING THE DIGGER.--Five of these fellows were fined in the mitigated trifle
of 5 pounds, for being without licences. The nicest thing imaginable is to see
one of these clumsy fellows with great beards, shaggy hair, and oh! such nasty
rough hands, stand before a fine gentleman on the bench with hands
of shiny whiteness, and the colour of whose cambric rivals the Alpine snow.
There the clumsy fellow stands, faltering out an awkward apology, "my licence
is only just expired, sir--I've only been one day from town, sir--I have
no money, sir, for I had to borrow half a bag of flour the other day,