In the Roaring Fifties

by Edward Dyson

The poor washerwoman does a big business, Mrs. Kyley.'

'Not amongst the police, Sergeant Wallis. It is a miserable living a washerwoman would make out of them. I hear they beat their shirts with a stick once a month, as we dusted the carpets in the old Country.'

'We can find nothing, sergeant,' said one of the police.

'Remember how Imeson tricked you all at Bendigo, Wallis, with a hollow tent-pole that held ten gallons of brandy.'

'I do, Mrs. Kyley. You were Mrs. Imeson then.'

'And if you have the luck I may be Mrs. Wallis one of these days.'

'Heaven forbid, ma'am!'

'Don't waste your prayers on me, sergeant. Maybe I deserve even that, my sins being many and various.'

'And sly grog-selling is one of them. But I'll have you there yet, my good woman.' Wallis turned his thumb down.

'Remember I am only a poor weak woman when that happens, sergeant. Will you have a drink before going? There's a nip left in Quigley's bottle.'