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,
for my wife and children." Ahem, says his worship, the law makes
no distinctions - fined 5 pounds. Now our reporter enjoys this exceedingly,
for he is sometimes scarce of news; and from a strange aberration of intellect,
with which, poor fellow, he is afflicted, has sometimes, no news at all for us;
but he is sure of not being dead beat at any time, for digger-hunting
is a standing case at the police office, and our reporter is growing
so precocious with long practice, that he can tell the number of diggers fined
every morning, without going to that sanctuary at all.
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