“In what quarter will your honor go first?” asked the sergeant of the police squad, addressing the inspector.

“The Irish district,” returned Mr. Brown.  “We can then,” he continued, “strike into the Chinamen’s quarters, and visit our folks on our way home.”

As we rode up, a number of Irishmen were smoking their pipes at the entrance of their tents or huts, evidently expecting us, for it was tax-collecting day, and they knew very well that government would not let the opportunity pass of adding to its wealth.  No surprise was manifested, therefore, when our force halted, and those within hearing were requested to bring out their gold.

“Is it there ye are, Mr. Brown?” cried an old fellow, who was called Pat Regan.  “It’s wishing to see yer face this many a day I’ve desired, long life to ye, and it’s dead I feared ye was.”

“Is your tax ready?” asked the inspector, shortly, being accustomed to the blarney of the man.

“Whist!  What blackguard would be after thinking of money, or taxes, or any thing else when yer honor is near?  Will yer enter me tent and partake of me hospitalities?” demanded Pat, with a serious face, and a show of politeness that was refreshing, knowing as I did that it was intended as burlesque.

“Don’t stand there chattering, but hand over your month’s taxes,” replied Mr. Brown, sternly, not liking the smiles that he saw on the faces of Pat’s friends, who were clustered around enjoying the conversation.

“Ah, glory to God, but it’s lucky men we are to have so kind-hearted an inspector, so that when we is unfortunate he knows how to have compassion on us.  Lads,” Pat continued, turning to the crowd, “don’t forget to mention Mr. Brown in your prayers, ’cos he’s overlooked the trifling sum that I owe him.”

This long harangue was received with shouts of laughter, during the continuance of which Mr. Pat Kegan stood before the inspector, with hat in hand, and a face as demure as though no deviltry was at work within his heart.

Mr. Brown did not reply, but made an almost imperceptible motion to the sergeant of the force.  The latter, and a private, quietly dismounted, produced a pair of handcuffs, and before Mr. Regan had recovered from his surprise, a sharp click was heard, and he was a prisoner, both wrists being confined by a pair of stout steel bracelets.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Mr. Regan, with a show of indignation.  “I’m a subject of the queen, and a free-born Irishman, and it’s kings me ancestors were six hundred years ago.  It’s little they thought that one of the blood of the Regans would be used in this way.”

The inspector paid no attention to his words, but occupied himself with receiving money from a number of miners who were disposed to pay their taxes without a murmur, and didn’t wish the bother of a dispute.

“Move on,” said Mr. Brown, at length, and the cavalcade started with Pat Regan in the centre.