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;
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.
