On reaching the Camp, I recognized there the identical American Kenworthy.
I gave him a fearful look. I suspected my doom to be sealed.
The soldiers were drinking 'ad libitum' from a pannikin which they dipped
into a pail-bucket full of brandy. I shall not prostitute my hand,
and write down the vile exultations of a mob of drunkards. It was of the
ordinary colonial sort, whenever in a fight the 'ring' is over.
Inspector Foster, commanded us to strip to the bare shirt. They did not
know how to spell my name. I pulled out a little bag containing some
Eureka gold-dust, and my licence; Mr. Foster took care of my bag, and just
as my name was copied from my licence; a fresh batch of prisoners
had arrived, and Mr. Foster was called outside the room where I was
stripping. Now, some accursed trooper pretended to recognize me as one
of the 'spouts' at the monster meeting. I wanted to keep my waistcoat
on account of some money, and papers I had in the breast pocket;
my clothes were literally torn into rags. I attempted to remonstrate,
but I was kicked for my pains, knocked down in the bargain, and thrown
naked and senseless into the lock-up.
The prison was crammed to suffocation. We had not space enough to lie
down, and so it was taken in turns to stand or lie down. Some kind friend
sent me some clothes, and my good angel had directed him to bury
my hand-writings he had found in my tent, under a tent in Gravel-pits.
