'The traps!' cried Mrs. Ben, and her rum-jug flew into a tub of water behind the counter. Several bundles of washing were tossed out, a loaf of bread was thrust upon Done, and at the same moment the door was thrown back, and in marched Sergeant Wallis, followed by five police. Mrs. Ben Kyley was not surprised, and had expected that Aurora's imposition would bring a raid down upon her sooner or later, and here it was.
'You're selling sly grog here, ma'am,' said Wallis, sniffing like a retriever.
Ben Kyley rose silently from his stool and approached Wallis.
'Sit you down, Ben Kyley!' roared Mrs. Ben; and Kyley returned as silently to his seat, and sat smoking throughout the scene that followed, apparently quite listless.
'Am I selling sly grog, Mr. Sergeant? Then it's a miracle where it comes from. I haven't a drop in the place, or I'd stand you a nobbler gladly. It's my opinion there are worse-looking men than Sergeant Wallis in gaol.'
'Rubbish, ma'am! the place reeks of rum,' said Wallis.
'A bit of a bottle Quigley shouted for the boys, this being his birthday.'
'Quigley has too many birthdays. Search the place, boys!'
The police commenced a systematic search of the tent, examining both compartments, and trying the earthen floor for a secret cellar. They found nothing, and meanwhile Mrs. Kyley was bantering Wallis with boisterous good-fellowship.
'The idea of an officer of your penetration, sergeant, mistaking a poor washerwoman's tent for a grog-shop.'