“Very good,” said Bill, as he surveyed the volunteers with the eye of a general; “you’ll do fine. I want about ten chain o’ rope, thick enough and strong enough to hold a ship. Savee?”
The men detailed for this special duty answered affirmatively, seized upon the nearest “express,” and, clambering upon it, they drove towards the sea amidst the cheering of the crowd.
The Prospector now despatched agents to beat up all the diggers in the town, and then, accompanied by hundreds of hairy and excited men, he made his way towards the lock-up, where the goldsmith, who had been arrested immediately after Scarlett’s trial, lay imprisoned. This place of torment was a large, one-storied, wooden building which stood in a by-street facing a green and grassy piece of land adjacent to the Red Tape Office.
By the time that Bill, followed by an ever increasing crowd, had reached the “station,” the men with the hawser arrived from the port.
No sooner were the long lengths of heavy rope unloaded from the waggon, then deft hands tied a bowline at one end of the hawser and quickly passed it round the lock-up, which was thus securely noosed, and two or three hundred diggers took hold of the slack of the rope.
Then was the Prospector’s opportunity to play his part in the little drama which he had arranged for the edification of Timber Town. Watch in hand, he stepped up to the door of the Police Station, where he was immediately confronted by no less a person than the Sergeant himself.
“’Day, mister,” said Bill, but the policeman failed to acknowledge the greeting. “You’ve got a mate of ours in here—a man of the name of Tresco. It’s the wish of these gentlemen that he be liberated. I give you three minutes to decide.”
The infuriated Sergeant could hardly speak, so great was his anger. But at last he ejaculated, “Be off! This is rioting. You’re causing a breach of the peace.”
“Very sorry, mister, but time’s nearly up,” was the only comment that the Prospector made.
“I arrest you. I shall lock you up!”