police, he jumped the holes, taking risks that were not for a sane man.
Once he fell, but, enslimed from head to foot, wringing wet and hatless,
was up again in a twinkling. His enemies were less sure-footed than he,
and times without number measured their length on the oily ground.
Still, one of them was gaining rapidly on him, a giant of a fellow with
long thin legs; and soon the constable's foot filled the prints left by
the young man's, while these were still warm. It was a fine run. The
diggers trooped after in a body; the Flat rang with cheers and plaudits.
Even the Commissioner and his retinue trotted in the same direction.
Eventually the runaway must land in the arms of the mounted police.

But this was not his plan. Making as though he headed for the open, he
suddenly dashed off at right angles, and, with a final sprint, brought
up dead against a log-and-canvas store which stood on rising ground. His
adversary was so close behind that a collision resulted; the digger's
feet slid from under him, he fell on his face, the other on top. In
their fall they struck a huge pillar of tin-dishes, ingeniously built up
to the height of the store itself. This toppled over with a crash, and
the dishes went rolling down the slope between the legs of the police.
The dog chained to the flagstaff all but strangled himself in his rage
and excitement; and the owner of the store came running out.

"Purdy! . . . you! What in the name of . . .?"

The digger adroitly rolled his captor over, and there they both sat,
side by side on the ground, one gripping the other's collar, both too
blown to speak. A cordon of puffing constables hemmed them in.

The storekeeper frowned. "You've no licence, you young beggar!"