At last Father walked up to Henry’s tree. His jaw was set like a rabbit trap. Henry’s heart sank.

Moments later the two traps rode up and dismounted.

‘Your name, sir?’ asked Billygoat. He smirked at Father. ‘Mr Robin Hood, would it be?’

Father looked surprised. He shook his head. ‘Arthur Bird,’ he replied.

‘I see, Mr, ahem, Bird. Would you be kind enough to show us your licence? You risk a visit to the magistrate and a fine of five pounds if you are prospecting illegally. Your son here tells us you have a licence. We can’t let him go until we see it.’

Please, Father, Henry begged silently. Please, please.

Father squared his shoulders. ‘My licence expired a week ago, and I have not yet gone to the licence office to renew it. I give you my word this is the first time I’ve ever worked on the diggings unlicensed.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ the trap said. ‘And I can tell you that the magistrate won’t believe you any more than I do.’

‘Then I must ask for your mercy,’ Father said, and it hurt Henry to see how much it cost him to be humble in front of the traps. ‘I could never pay the fine you mention. Five pounds! It might as well be five hundred.’

‘Well then, sir,’ the trap said, ‘you’d seem to be in a bit of a pickle. If you don’t have a licence, or the money to buy one, I regret that our hands, like those of your lad, are tied.’ He gave a sniggering laugh. ‘Come, Constable Thomas. We’re wasting our time.’

‘No! Don’t leave me here!’ Henry pulled hard at the handcuffs, hurting his wrists.

Father put his hand in his pocket and took out his silver fob watch. The watch-chain glinted.

Henry drew a sharp breath. Surely Father wasn’t about to give the trap his watch! It was the only valuable thing he owned, a gift from his own father. His initials, AJB, were engraved on the case in a fancy scroll.

‘This is worth far more than the licence,’ Father said. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to consider it as payment, Sergeant.’

Billygoat’s eyes gleamed. ‘Naturally we’d prefer to see the money, sir, but I’m prepared to be understanding. I’ll make sure it goes to the right place.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Father said under his breath. He gave Billygoat the watch. ‘And now I’ll have my licence and my son, if you’d be so kind, Sergeant – ?’

‘Sergeant Silas Nockles, at your service,’ said the trap. He looked at the watch, flipped it open, closed it, and put it in his pocket. ‘I don’t have the paperwork on me, but you have the right to continue mining – for the present. I’ll give you the licence later.’

‘A receipt, then?’ said Father.

Sergeant Nockles chuckled. ‘Afraid we don’t do receipts, Mr Bird. But you can have your lad back.’ He threw a key to Pig Face, who unlocked the handcuffs.

Henry slapped himself all over to get rid of the horrible crawling ants. He rubbed his sore wrists. Then he dared to look at his father.

‘I’m sorry, Father.’

‘Not nearly as sorry as I am,’ Father said grimly. ‘And not nearly as sorry as you’ll be when we get home.’

‘Go easy on him, Mr Bird,’ said Sergeant Nockles. ‘The lad has been very helpful. We should sign him up to the force, shouldn’t we, Constable Thomas?’ And he and Pig Face actually laughed in Father’s face.

Henry couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘I wouldn’t work for you lot even if I was starving to death,’ he shouted. ‘You’re thieves! Thieves and bullies!’ He would have shouted more, but the traps had turned their backs on him. And the look in Father’s eyes said, Henry, that’s enough.

Henry’s bottom hurt. It hurt a lot. Father had thrashed him with his belt – not the buckle end, though, because Mam had never allowed that. When Father was really angry he forgot to count the strokes. The usual number was six, but this time Henry had lost count. Now he couldn’t sit down.

His legs itched and burned where the bull-ants had bitten him. His back was on fire. His shoulders felt as if they’d been pulled out of shape, and his wrists were bruised red and purple where the handcuffs had been.

It was all the fault of the damned rotten stinking traps. If they hadn’t come on to the diggings, none of this would have happened. Weren’t policemen supposed to help people? This lot enjoyed being bullies. Sergeant Nockles was the worst of all.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around.

‘Let that be a lesson to you, Henry,’ Father said. ‘If I give you an order, I expect you to obey it. I told you to run, and you didn’t. It has cost us dearly.’

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Henry said. ‘But it’s not us who’re the criminals, is it? Everyone says half the police used to be convicts in Van Diemen’s Land.’

‘I don’t like the police any more than you do, Henry,’ said Father. ‘But that’s beside the point, because we are talking about your disobedience.’

After a while Henry’s bottom didn’t hurt quite so much. He was able to sit at the table for the evening meal, putting a folded blanket on his seat first. The meal was what they nearly always had – damper, mutton stew and black tea. They ate by candlelight.

That night Henry lay on his stomach on his thin, lumpy straw mattress and thought hard. Knowing that Father had been forced to hand over his watch made him feel much, much worse than the thrashing. The traps would never forget him now, or his father.

There was no point getting on the wrong side of the law, because the law would always win. And the law – or at least Sergeant Silas Nockles – was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.

I’ll bet Nockles won’t get Father a licence like he said he would, Henry thought. He put that watch right into his pocket. He stole it, as good as if he thieved it from where we live. I’ll have to help Father by earning some money. Tomorrow I’ll ask him for the day off, and I’ll see if I can get a job running errands. If I earn enough, I can buy Father a new watch. A gold one, maybe!