The Commissioner asked the storekeeper, who by this time was at the door
of his store: "Whose tent is that?" indicating the small one in question.
"I don't know," was the answer.
"Who lives in it? who owns it? is anybody in?" asked the Commissioner.
"An old man owns it, but he is gone to town on business, and left it
to the care of his mate who is on the nightshift," replied the storekeeper.
"I won't peck up that chaff of yours, sir. Halloo! who is in? Open the tent;"
shouted the Commissioner.
No answer.
"I say, cut down this tent, and we'll see who is in;" was the order
of the Commissioner to two ruffianly looking troopers.
No sooner said than done; and the little tent was ripped up by their swords.
A government cart was, of course, ready in the gully below, and in less than
five minutes the whole stock of grog, some two hundred pounds sterling worth,
or five hundred pounds worth in nobblers, was carted up to the Camp,
before the teeth of some hundreds of diggers, who had now collected
round about. We cried "Shame! shame!" sulkily enough, but we did not
interfere; first, because the store had already annoyed us often enough
during the long winter nights; second, because the plunderers were such
Vandemonian-looking traps and troopers, that we were not encouraged
to say much, because it would have been of no use.
