There were lots of police, too.

Suppose one of them was to say, 'Richard Marston, I arrest you for----' It hardly mattered what.

I felt as if I should have tumbled down with sheer fright and cowardliness.

It's a queer thing you feel like that off and on.
Other times a man has as much pluck in him as if his life was worth fighting for--which it isn't.
The agent knew all about us (or thought he did), and sent a chap to show Mr.Carisforth's cattle (Charles Carisforth, Esq., of Sturton, Yorkshire and Banda, Waroona, and Ebor Downs, New South Wales; that was the name he went by) the way to the yards.

We were to draft them all next morning into separate pens--cows and bullocks, steers and heifers, and so on.
He expected to sell them all to a lot of farmers and small settlers that had taken up a new district lately and were very short of stock.
'You couldn't have come into a better market, young fellow,' says the agent's man to me.