I speak
for the foreign diggers whom I here represent. We object to the Austrian rule
under the British flag. If you would pledge yourself not to come out
any more for the licence, until you have communicated with Son Excellence,
I would give you my pledge...--(I meant to say, that I was willing
to pledge myself, and try if possible to assuage the excitement,
and wait till 'our Charley' had sent up a decided answer...")--but I was
instantly interrupted by Father Smyth who addressed me imperatively:
"Give no pledge: sir, you have no power to do so."
This interruption, which I perfectly recollect, and the circumstance that
on our going and returning, the said Father Smyth continually kept on a 'sotto
voce' conversation with Mr. Black only, were, and are still, mysteries to me.
Mr. Rede, who had not failed to remark the abruptness with which
Father Smyth had cut me short; joined both his hands, and with the stretched
forefinger tapping me on both hands, which were clenched as in prayer,
addressed to me these identical remarkable words, "My dear fellow,
the licence is a mere watchword of the day, and they make a cat's-paw of you."
Mr. Black undertook my defence: the words above stuck in my throat, though.
Mr. Hackett, on being consulted, assented that Mr. Rede could promise us
to take into consideration the present excited feelings of the diggers,
and use his best judgment as to a further search for licences on the morrow.
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