That day Mount Margaret was as quiet as a cemetery on a Sunday morning in Melbourne.
Andy Flannagan, the ‘Learned Bushman’ and his mates, had reported a strike of alluvial gold 18 miles east, and all the prospectors not on good shows, and had pulled out for the new find, from which Flannagan’s party had brought about 1000 ounces of slugs and specimen stone.
The piece of the settlement would not have been disturbed till nightfall if Martin Conlan, the lone policeman of the camp, had not spotted Jack Maher, one of the new arrivals, and reminded him that he had absconded from Coolgardie lockup three months before. On that occasion, Conlan had arrested Jack after an all-in fight. Martin outed the prospector by kicking him in the ‘commissariats’ in the opening of the eleventh round, and dragged him to the Watch House. His two mates dug in beside of the wall of the cell and the three eloped into the evening.
The constable took the opportunity to tell Jack that he was illegally at large.
“But you got me fowl”, protested the prospector. “I wasn’t ready for what you played on me”. “Are you ready now?” Martin inquired, the defiant reply being in the affirmative. He preceded. “Well, cop this!” this was a left to the unshielded jaw of Maher and Jack went down like a pole axed cow. Andy and Bill MacKay, Maher’s mates, were putting their camels on a bit of a Bush hundred yards away. They saw the unprovoked assault on their partner and came running.
“You dirty cow”, bellowed Flannagan, Jack didn’t have his hands up. “I took care of that” said the constable coolly. “I let him put them up in Coolgardie, and it took me all of an hour to make him drop them.” Flannagan, within striking distance, had recovered his temper. Jack was not hurt anyway and revenge would be sweeter for the keeping.
“Look here, Martin” he said with intense earnestness. We’re three quiet men with 1000 ounces of slugs that we just put in the bank over there. We’ve intentions of staying the night and moving on in the morning to access in the social frivolity of Coolgardie from which we’ve been too long absent. But you’ve called for an alteration in our programme. I’m going to larrup you until you’re begging me to kill you out of your misery. You’ll have a fair go. The boys will be around tonight to witness the exhibition between the law and the prophets.”
“You being the Law and me and my mate standing for the prophets”
After we’re done we’ll give ‘The Maggie’ a good coat of paint. Good enough?
Six men were behind the bar of the Palace Hotel. A hundred were crowded in front and moved in relays to the refreshments. Tom Lawrence put in some fine at two handed work on the ancient piano. Every man who was sufficiently drunk, sang. At about 7 o’clock Sandy Ross carried his bagpipes to the scene of the festival, and walking up and down in front of the hotel entry. This was the way his whiskey always affected him. At about 8 o’clock Sandy’s ‘whisky gauge’ indicated the point at which he always turned on the sacred music. He turned on the appealing music of ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. The hymn had just got to about 75% of singers going, when the cold sober constable appeared at the door in search of fight.
