CHAPTER III.
Prior to fixing my tent at Campbell’s Creek, and at that part now designated Preshaw’s Flat, I had, in obedience to the law, taken out six licenses, the number of our party. These expired just as we were fixing our tent. I went to the camp once or twice to obtain new ones, or rather to get my own, for each man now was on his own hook, but the rush was so great that I could not afford time to wait, but, reckoning on myself as a resident, I thought that there was no necessity for haste, and that I could obtain my license at another time. I sent one of my sons, and he stood for his turn, and after an ordinary amount of pushing and squeezing got up to the temporary desk at the commissioner’s tent. Someone had frightened the little fellow into the belief that if he had not a license the “traps” (police) would be after him, and in the simplicity of his heart he said to the commissioner, “Have boys to get licenses, sir?” “What do you do, my lad?” “Keep my father’s tent.” “But don’t you rock the cradle now and then?” “Yes,” said he. “Then you must have a license. What’s your name? Here’s your license. Give me the cash—thirty shillings. That’s right. Pass on.” I thought it sharp practice, but there was no help for it in those days. The boy felt a man’s importance, and I believe the little affair gave him a lesson in life.
One morning about eight a.m. the lads came rushing into the tent calling out “The traps! The traps!” I looked out, and about twenty mounted men drew up within 100 yards of my tent. At the word of command they dispersed. They were license-hunting. One went one way, another went another, in the twinkling of an eye they were soon scattered all over the flat. Some of the diggers had licenses; others had not. The fellows below kept there, and those on the top, who had not the necessary document, were walked off, and, as soon as thirty or forty delinquents were secured, were taken to the camp, more like dogs than men, for many an honest heart was beating beneath a blue guernsey, and felt degraded by being driven before an armed force to gaol, and, having neither friends nor money, sent to the roads to work out the fine. While I was musing over the matter a policeman came up and asked me if I had a license. “Yes,” said I, “to sell physic in all parts of Her Majesty’s dominions.” “But.” said he,
