Page:Banking Under Difficulties- Or Life On The Goldfields Of Victoria, New South Wales And New Zealand (1888).pdf/168

Rh I was once staying at the Melbourne Hotel, Charleston, where there was a waiter named Mick; to what country he belonged I will leave the reader to guess. Mick acted as waiter, and delivered his orders to the cook from the dining-room to the kitchen through a slide in the wall. One day the warden came in to dinner, and Mick recounted the various dishes, amongst which was “sheep’s head and brain sauce,” on which the warden decided. Mick roared out the order thus: “Sheep’s head and brains for the war-r-den.” No one laughed louder than the warden himself.

In the same Charleston was a character called Black Jamie. Jamie was engaged by the manager of the Union Bank to keep the premises clean and look after the place in the evenings. The manager supplied Jamie with a revolver, and instructed him to keep watch, and if he saw any person prowling about at night he was to challenge them three times, and if they did not answer he was to fire. “All right, sar,” said Jamie, “suppose my own mudder come, sar, she not answer when I challenge, I bust her up like a carrot.”

It will not be surprising to learn that the disturbing element in British politics for many years should make itself felt in the antipodes. After the execution of three fanatics at Manchester for the murder of the policeman Brett, a certain fanatic, named O’Farrell, at Sydney concealed a weapon on his person and maliciously fired at the Duke of Edinburgh. Fortunately, although the ball took effect, the result was only a temporary indisposition, from which the duke has since entirely recovered. At the trial of O’Farrell—his intention no doubt was to take the life of the duke—the jury found him guilty, and he was duly executed. At the time of the disturbances on the West Coast, the news from England brought accounts of the execution of the three fanatics at Manchester; also the outlines of the attempted assassination of the Duke of Edinburgh at Sydney. During the great excitement of party feeling, when leading citizens went about carrying arms, and almost everyone wore a distinctive badge, the loyal and law-abiding had blue ribbons in their coats or hats; the Fenians, of course, sported green, and frequent minor collisions occurred, which resulted in free fights. The county police—a very fine, well-trained body of constables, recruited from the Irish constabulary—under the command of Inspector Broham, did good and effective service, the inspector himself displaying evidence of great coolness and determination. On one occasion, single-handed, he walked into the room of a publichouse where about a dozen of the ringleaders of the Fenian party were assembled, and arrested the lot, and with assistance marched them to the camp and kept them in confinement. If this had not been done in the “nick of time,”