‘A license-hunt,’ he said.  ’Now you’ll see how these gaol warders amuse themselves.’

‘What are we supposed to do?’

’Have your license handy.  Show it to Huntsman McPhee, and keep your hands off his hounds.’

Mr. Commissioner was not having much trouble; he came through the claims like a monarch demanding obeisance and tribute, and the shouts of the miners followed him.  ‘Jo!—­Jo!—­Jo!’ The men made a sort of chorus of the jibe.  A fistful of wet pipe-clay thrown from the cover of a tip struck the sergeant of troopers in the face, and he spurred his horse furiously towards the spot.  There was a rush of police and diggers, and a bit of a melee resulted, but Sergeant Wallis received no satisfaction.  Four or five unlicensed diggers had been captured, luckless workers for whom Fortune had spread no favours, and these were handed over to the mounted police, who guarded them with drawn swords, accelerating their movements with blows of the blade and not infrequent prickings, for the hatred in which the diggers held the troopers was not more fierce than the troopers’ hatred for the men.

Done and Burton stood on the little hillock of mulluck about their shaft, watching the course of events, when the Grand Serang rode at them.  He was a fine stamp of a man, and loved an effect in which he was the central figure.  It was becoming in a mere digger to make way for the horse of Mr. Commissioner.  Burton, however, stood his ground, the flush burning through his tan, and, rather than give way an inch or be run down, raised his hand and struck the noble nag of the big official on the nose with his palm, with the result that the chestnut went up on his hind-legs, pawing the air, and rattled down the tip on his heels, while the crowding diggers, to whom any indignity inflicted upon a commissioner, however trivial, was a joy and a solace, set up a shout of scornful laughter.

‘What the devil, sir, do you mean by striking my horse?’ thundered the irascible McPhee.

‘I don’t care to be ridden down like a thieving dingo’ replied Mike.

’Sergeant, search this impudent jackanapes, and if his license isn’t O.K., jam the beggar into the logs!’

At this point another handful of white clay was thrown from the back of the crowd, and this time McPhee was the target.  The clay struck hint in the breast, and clung to his black cloth.  Again there was a rush of indignant and amazed under-strappers, and the Commissioner, crimson with wrath, raised himself in his stirrups and shouted orders, the execution of which it was beyond even his great power to enforce.  They enjoined the immediate precipitation of the offenders into the Bottomless Pit.

A diversion was created by the sudden appearance of a new quarry.  A slim youth had darted from behind one of the piles of mullock, and was running at full speed up the lead towards the head of the gully, followed by three foot police.