“This man [pointing to Tom] says that we are bushrangers, which we deny, and can prove that we are honest miners, like yourselves. [Sensation.] We do not propose to bandy words with him, because he is a contemptible coward, and dare not impose upon any one but a little boy.  That is not characteristic of the miners of Ballarat, for long before we reached this part of the country, we were told they were foes to tyranny. [Faint indications of applause.] We tell the man who called us bushrangers that he is a liar, and that we require satisfaction, or an abject apology from him for the insult.”

There were cries and yells of—­

“That’s right—­go in, old fellow—­a ring, a ring—­let ’em fight—­he’s a brick, ain’t he?” &c.

Tom turned slightly pale, and seemed confused with the way that the affair was likely to work.  The crowd saw it, and were the more strenuous for the acceptance of Fred’s proposition.

“You see, gentlemen,” my friend exclaimed, “the man who calls himself a miner of Ballarat is nothing but a coward.  He never worked in a shaft, or dug an ounce of gold in his life.  He is nothing but a ‘packer,’ and dare not face a man; but can beat boys and natives, because he knows they cannot resist him.”

“Let him fight, or we’ll lynch him,” yelled the crowd; and thousands, who a few minutes before were ready to crush us beneath their feet, suddenly arrayed themselves on our side, and pressed towards the miner with scornful looks.

“I’ll fight the feller,” Tom said, after a few minutes’ silence, “but it shall be in the old English style, stand up and knock down.  I’ll have no pistols, ’cos I never used ’em, and don’t think I could hit a man, any how.”

“A fight, a fight! form a ring!” and the proposition for a combat a la fistiana was received with joy by every Englishman present.

“O, don’t, sir,” exclaimed the youth who had been the cause of the trouble; “don’t expose yourself on my account.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” returned Fred; “I’d fight a dozen men, sooner than one hair of your head should be touched.”

“Remember,” Fred continued, turning to the crowd, “that if I come off best in the fight, the boy goes with me.”

“Yes, yes, we understand the conditions of the fight.  Form a ring; stand back there;” and the crowd shouted, and swayed to and fro, and during the tumult we saw a sturdy fellow struggling towards us, as though to get a front view.  The man, whose face I thought I had seen before, was not deterred by slight obstacles, and by dint of using his elbows vigorously, and treading on his neighbors’ corns, he soon got within a few feet of us.

“And it’s sitting him a-fighting, is it, ye spalpeens?” cried the fellow, with a Hibernian accent that was not to be mistaken; and he looked around the crowd, as though he wished some one would pick a quarrel with him, for the sake of variety.

“And it’s bushrangers ye think they is, do ye?” the Irishman continued, scornfully; “do ye think ye would know a thafe if ye seed one?  Can’t ye tell a rale gintleman from a snaking blackguard?”