'Great works' this time at Toorak, eh! oh! dear.
So far so good, for the present; because spy 'Goodenough' wants me in the next chapter.
Chapter LXIII.
Et Scias Quia Nihil Impium Fecerim.
It was now between eight and nine o'clock. A patrol of troopers and traps stopped before the London Hotel.
Spy Goodenough, entered panting, a cocked pistol in his hand, looking as wild as a raven. He instantly pounced on me as his prey, and poking the pistol at my face, said in his rage, "I want you."
"What for?"
"None of your d——d nonsense, or I shoot you down like a rat."
"My good fellow don't you see? I am assisting Dr. Carr to dress the wounds of my friends!"—I was actually helping to bandage the thigh of an American digger, whose name, if I recollected it, I should now write down with pleasure, because he was a brave fellow. He had on his body at least half-a-dozen shots, all in front, an evident proof, he had stood his ground like a man.
Spy Goodenough would not listen to me. Dr. Carr. spoke not a word in my behalf, though I naturally enough had appealed to him, who knew me these two years, to do so. This circumstance, and his being the very first to enter the stockade, after the military job was over, though he had never before been on the Eureka during the agitation, his appointment to attend the wounded diggers that were brought up to the Camp, and especially his absence at my trial, were and are still a mystery to me.