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at least a week. But the Chinamen’s friends would come as usual, and the pillage went on.
    Michael Doyle puzzled himself to prostration over this insatiable and unreasonable hunger for bricks; such an infatuation on the part of men for cold and unresponsive clay had never before come within the pale of his experience. Times out of mind he threatened to “have the law on the yalla blaggards”; but the law was a long way off, and the Celestial housebreakers continued to elope with scraps of the Shamrock, taking the proprietor’s assaults humbly and as a matter of course.
    “Why do ye be shtealing me house?” fiercely queried Mr Doyle of a submissive Chow, whom he had taken one night in the act of ambling off with a brick in either hand.
    “Me no steal ’em no feah—odder feller, him steal ’em,” eplied the quaking pagan.
    Mickey was dumb-stricken for the moment by this awful pre- varication; but that did not impair the velocity of his kick—this to his great subsequent regret, for the Chinaman had stowed a third brick away in his pants for convenience of transit, and the landlord struck that brick; then he sat down and repeated aloud all the profanity he knew.
    The Chinaman escaped, and had the presence of mind enough to retain his burden of clay.
    Month after month the work of devastation went on. Mr Doyle fixed ingenious mechanical contrivances about his house, and turned out at early dawn to see how many Chinamen he had “nailed”—only to find his spring-traps stolen and his hotel yawning more desperately than ever. Then Michael could but lift up his voice and swear—nothing else afforded him any relief.
    At last he hit upon a brilliant idea. He commissioned a “cocky” who was journeying into Ballarat to buy him a dog—the largest, fiercest, ugliest, hungriest animal the town afforded; and next day a powerful, ill-tempered canine, almost as big as a pony, and quite as ugly as any nightmare, was duly installed as guardian and night-watch at the Shamrock. Right well the good dog performed his duty. On the following morning he had trophies to show in the shape of a boot, a scrap of blue dungaree trousers, half a pig-tail, a yellow ear, and a large part of a partially-shaved scalp; and just then the nocturnal visits ceased. The Chows spent a week skirmishing around, endeavouring to call the dog off, but he was neither to be begged, borrowed, nor stolen; he was too old-fashioned to eat poisoned meat, and he prevented the smallest approach to familiarity on the part of a Chinaman by snapping off the most serviceable portions of his vestments, and always fetching a scrap of heathen along with them.
    This, in time, sorely discouraged the patient Children of the Sun, who drew off to hold congress and give the matter weighty consideration. After deliberating for some days, the yellow settlement appointed a deputation to wait upon Mr Doyle. Mickey saw them coming, and armed himself with a log and unchained his dog. Mrs Doyle ranged up alongside, brandishing her axe-handle, but by humble gestures and a deferential bearing the Celestial deputation signified a truce. So Michael held his dog down, and rested on his arms to await developments. The Chinamen advanced, smiling blandly; they gave Mr and Mrs Doyle fraternal greeting, and squirmed with that wheedling obsequiousness peculiar to “John” when he has something to gain by it. A pock-marked leper placed himself in the van as spokesman.
    “Nicee day, Missa Doyle,” said the moon-faced gentleman, sweetly.
    Then, with a sudden expression of great interest, and nodding towards Mrs Doyle, “How you sissetah?”
    “Foind out! Fwhat yer wantin’?” replied the host of the Shamrock, gruffly. “T’ shtale more bricks, ye crawlin’ blaggards?”
    “No, no. Me not steal ’em blick—odder feller; he hide ’em; build big house byem-bye.”
    “Ye loi, ye screw-faced nayger! I seed ye do it, and if yez don’t cut and run I’ll lave the dog loose to feed on yer