Now, that day a young Irish police-constable had been transferred from Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district with a view to watching the goings-on at Sullivan’s, rumours of which had reached police head-quarters.
The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man’s, and was not a stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. It was partly owing to her, in fact, that her husband had got his position.
The constable knew he was there to get proof of Sullivan’s shady doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise herself as a seaman—as she had done before—and watch the inside while her husband watched the outside of Sullivan’s saloon. The policeman’s wife was a splendidly-built woman, as straight as a reed, and muscular as well.
So it happened that, when Sullivan was picking out the men he wanted for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow among them. But he was not taking any liquor—only a bottle of ginger-ale. Sullivan obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a simple matter, as the stuff fizzed out, to knock the ash from his cigar into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done.
Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the street.
“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll soon settle him. You watch him.”
Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable, smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to temptation and put it in his pocket.
He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground.
A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from his mouth, and left him there.
The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start. When the crimp got alongside with his men the Jeremiah Crawford was hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for Sullivan and the sailors.