"Police protect criminals—everybody knows that," Snow-Shoes said.
Sitting on the dump just beyond the shade the shelter cast, he had been listening to what the men were saying, the sun full blaze on him, his blue eyes glittering in the shadow of his old felt hat. All eyes turned to him. The men always listened attentively when Snow-Shoes had anything to say.
"If there's a policeman about, and a man starts ratting and is caught, he gets a couple of months. Well, what does he care? But if there's a chance of the miners getting hold of him and some rough handling ... he thinks twice before he rats ... knowing a broken arm or a pain in his head'll come of it."
"That's true," George said. "I vote we get this bunch ourselves."
"Right!" The Crosses and Bully agreed with him. Watty did not like the idea of the men taking the law into their own hands. He was all for law and order. His fat, comfortable soul disliked the idea of violence.
"Seems to me," he said, "it 'd be a good thing to set a trap—catch the rats—then we'd know where we were."
Michael nodded. "I'm with Watty," he said.
"Then we could hand 'em over to the police," Watty said.
Michael smiled. "Well, after the last batch getting two months, and the lot of us wasting near on two months gettin' 'em jailed, I reck'n it's easier to deal with 'em here—But we've got to be sure. They've got to be caught red-handed, as the sayin' is. It don't do to make mistakes when we're dealin' out our own justice."
"That's right, Michael," the men agreed.