"Miners of Ballarat, will you hear me?" I shouted, determined to make one more appeal to them, and then try the virtues of a revolver, for I did not wish to die unavenged.
"No, no; we've heard enough! Down with the bushrangers!" cried Tom, yelling with exultation, and the crowd took up the cry and reechoed it.
"I have a proposition to make," cried Fred, and his loud voice was heard above the tumult, and curiosity outweighed the thirst for vengeance.
"What's the proposition? spit it out!" shouted the crowd; "will you come down liberal with stolen property?"
There was a general roar of laughter at this sally, and when it had died away, Fred said,—
"This man [pointing to Tom] says that we are bushrangers, which we deny, and can prove that we are honest miners, like yourselves. [Sensation.] We do not propose to bandy words with him, because he is a contemptible coward, and dare not impose upon any one but a little boy. That is not characteristic of the miners of Ballarat, for long before we reached this part of the country, we were told they were foes to tyranny. [Faint indications of applause.] We tell the man who called us bushrangers that he is a liar, and that we require satisfaction, or an abject apology from him for the insult."
There were cries and yells of—
"That's right—go in, old fellow—a ring, a ring—let 'em fight—he's a brick, ain't he?" &c.
Tom turned slightly pale, and seemed confused with the way that the affair was likely to work. The crowd saw it, and were the more strenuous for the acceptance of Fred's proposition.
"You see, gentlemen," my friend exclaimed, "the man who calls himself a miner of Ballarat is nothing but a coward. He never worked in a shaft, or dug an ounce of gold in his life. He is nothing but a 'packer,' and dare not face a man; but can beat boys and natives, because he knows they cannot resist him."