e ear that way;" for the
figure's mouth was pressed tight against the sergeant's ear, and its
awful voice went through and through the little man's head, as it held
forth about the volume. The sergeant struggled violently, and by so
doing set some more springs in motion, and the figure's right arm
made terrific swipes in the air. A following of boys and loafers had
collected by this time. "Blimey, how does he lash out!" was the remark
they made. But they didn't interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's
frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his
subordinate, Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene.

Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition,
was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney,
and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious "pushes" of Bondi,
Surry Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's
play, and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; it was
beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. If they
wouldn't come any other way, he would take them by the ankles and drag
them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp of an
inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight.

"I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant," he said, and he caught hold of
the figure's right arm, to put on the "police twist". Unfortunately,
at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in the
creature's breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, it
lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley a thud
on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot.

For a few minutes he "lay as only dead men lie". Then he got up bit by
bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, and mentioned casually
to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, and had taken
the sergeant away to drown him. After which, having given orders that
anybody who called was to be told that he had gone fifteen miles out of
town to serve a summons on a man for not registering a dog, he locked
himself up in a cell for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant tightly
clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river.
Something had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now
positively shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled, the
little man yelled still louder.

"Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go