Australia Felix | Page 9

nice of scent, too, and, nine
times in ten, pounced on just those unfortunates who, through
carelessness, or lack of means, or on political grounds, had failed to
take out the month's licence to dig for gold. Every few minutes one or
another was marched off between two constables to the Government
Camp, for fine or imprisonment.
Now it was that it suddenly entered Long Jim's head to cut and run. Up
till now he had stood declaring himself a free-born Briton, who might
be drawn and quartered if he ever again paid the blasted tax. But, as the
police came closer, a spear of fright pierced his befuddled brain, and
inside a breath he was off and away. Had the abruptness of his start not
given him a slight advantage, he would have been caught at once. As it
was, the chase would not be a long one; the clumsy, stiff-jointed man
slithered here and stuck fast there, dodging obstacles with an
awkwardness that was painful to see. He could be heard sobbing and
cursing as he ran.
At this point the Commissioner, half turning, signed to the troopers in
his rear. Six or seven of them shook up their bridles and rode off, their
scabbards clinking, to prevent the fugitive's escape.
A howl of contempt went up from the crowd. The pink and white
subaltern made what was almost a movement of the arm to intercept his

superior's command.
It was too much for Long Jim's last mate, the youthful blackbeard who
had pluckily descended the shaft after the accident. He had been
standing on a mound with a posse of others, following the man-hunt. At
his partner's crack-brained dash for the open, his snorts of indignation
found words. "Gaw-blimy! . . . is the old fool gone dotty?" Then he
drew a whistling breath. "No, it's more than flesh and blood . . . . Stand
back, boys!" And though he was as little burdened with a licence as the
man under pursuit, he shouted: "Help, help! . . . for God's sake, don't let
'em have me!" shot down the slope, and was off like the wind.
His foxly object was attained. The attention of the hunters was diverted.
Long Jim, seizing the moment, vanished underground.
The younger man ran with the lightness of a hare. He had also the
hare's address in doubling and turning. His pursuers never knew, did he
pass from sight behind a covert of tents and mounds, where he would
bob up next. He avoided shafts and pools as if by a miracle; ran along
greasy planks without a slip; and, where these had been removed to
balk the 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!"
And: "Your licence, you scoundrel!" demanded the leader of the troop.
The prisoner's rejoinder was a saucy: "Now then, out with the cuffs,
Joe!"
He got on his feet as bidden; but awkwardly, for it appeared that in
falling