The adventure of the broad arrow: An Australian romance

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ASHES OF A FIRE.

Save that the trees were a little bigger and more closely set, there was no change in the scenery next day. Perhaps the ground rolled a trifle more, and patches of thicker scrub sometimes turned them from the billabong. But the heat was the same, and the accursed flies got worse. Each time they lay down they were hunted by pismires, whose bite is a little red-hot stab, and they saw innumerable ants of other kinds. But though the ants, and flies, and mosquitoes were maddening, their big trouble was hunger, which they found nothing to assuage. Not yet having come to the point where they could swallow their natural antipathies and cook a snake, they let one pass unharmed which would have made a meal for six men, and Smith, who was saving his strength, did not go out of his way to kill it, though it was a black snake, and very deadly.

"It can't hurt anyone in this country," he said. "Is there a human being within a thousand miles' now? The Lord, who started earth-making in this quarter of the globe, and never brought anything to perfection but reptiles and vermin, only knows."

And the Baker was on in front. If he had endured thirst less easily than Smith, it was evident that he could stand hunger better.

"I think 'unger's very much a matter of 'abit, Smith," he said encouragingly. "If you fill yerself up reg'lar three times a day, a bit of starvin' knocks the stuffin' right out of yer quick; but if you live 'ard and uncertain, you can go without a deuce of a time. And except when I was in a job, I never 'ave been very reg'lar. And I 'ad too much say at 'ome to keep a job long. I was too h'inderpendent, that's what I was. So now we're 'ere, that's where we are."

But all the same, to use his own picturesque expression, much nearer physiologic truth than he knew, "The flaps of 'is stummick was glued together and eating each other," and the pain he suffered was at times very intense. But he grunted little, and only stayed sometimes half-bent down, when an extra spasm of anguish got hold of him.

"I give in over thirst," he said to himself, "but, Mandy, my boy, you don't give in about 'unger."

So he talked with courage, though the mosquitoes robbed him of his blood, and perhaps planted malaria and ague as they bored. For Smith obviously suffered badly, though he never mentioned food and made no complaint. He continually drank water and chewed tobacco. But his face got thin and thinner, and deep anxiety sat within his eyes.

That night they had to make a dense smoke to keep away the mosquitoes, for they were surrounded by half-dried swamps, which bred these pests in millions. Till sundown they saw them swaying in long clouds under the trees, but when the sun went down some horrible ancient instinct in them cried out for blood, though in that desert these creatures of a day could not have tasted it for unnumbered generations, and they swept down upon them singing.

Yet their instincts were still true; they knew their work, and made the long, hot night an unutterable torture, and a ceaseless, bitter combat, in which victory was theirs. The two starving men fought against them till early dawn, and as they fell asleep, the mosquitoes had them at their will. They sat in the trees mere globules of red blood, rejoicing at a satisfaction granted to one in ten thousand.

When the two men woke, they felt as if their little tortured sleep had done them harm beyond reparation. They were ghastly and worn, and poor Mandeville was half-blind. But he did not growl.

They rolled up their blankets, though this day Smith left one of his upon the ground.

"One's enough to carry," said he. And the Baker made no answer as he swung his swag on his back. Even without food in it, it now felt sufficiently heavy. At noon, he, too, dropped a heavy blue blanket, and felt the loss of its weight as an extreme relief.

Their progress now was slow. They often rested, and sat in silence, sometimes broken by a bitter laugh from Smith.

"For Gawd's sake, old man," said the Baker, but he could say no more.

But that day they caught a brown snake, and cooked it on the coals. Smith was ill after it, and as white as death. They rose and staggered on. And during the night Smith was slightly delirious. He spoke in his sleep, and once or twice the Baker heard him say, "Carrie!"

Next morning Smith talked a good deal.

"It won't be much longer, Baker," he said. "And when I drop you go on. I found water for you. Perhaps you'll find food for me. I don't want to die in this hole. Some might be glad if I never turned up again, but I'll turn up if I can."

He gnawed his lip and his blonde moustache, and, turning the end of his beard into his mouth, he chewed it in deep contemplation.

"Money, money," he said, "why, what a fool a man is. There's gold everywhere in this country. It's more and more like it. I can smell it."

He rose, staggering, but, grabbing up his blankets, walked on, followed by the Baker.

"How many days without food, Mandy?"

"This is the fourth day, Smith, bar the snake."

"Paugh," said Smith; "but do you know, Mandy, I think I could do with a bit of snake now."

He laughed thinly, and walked on again muttering to himself. But now for a time the pains had left him. The Baker, too, was easier, though very weak.

"How much more can you stand, Baker?" asked Smith an hour later.

"Two days I reckon," said Mandeville.

"That's one more than my life," said Smith. "But let's push on."

And presently Smith stayed again. He pointed through a little opening in the bush, and Mandeville saw a faint blue range.

"How far?" said Smith. But the Baker didn't know.

"Too far to reach," said Smith. "But the gold's there."

"How do you know?" asked Mandeville.

"I know," said Smith angrily. And the Baker's heart died within him. He saw his chum was failing fast. And going round the next bend of the creek, they trod in a pile of dust that rose beneath them. Smith went on blindly, but the Baker stayed with his heart in his mouth.

"My Gawd!" he said, and called to Smith, who came back. "What's them?" asked the Baker, and Smith went down on his knees.

"Ashes, by God!" he said in a loud voice, and then he fainted dead away.

It took the Baker half an hour to bring him to his senses.

"What's up?" asked Smith.

"You fainted, I guess," said the Baker. "But we must be near some people now."

And with Smith propped against a tree, they considered the matter in all its bearings.

"Black-fellows," said Smith. "How old is the fire do you think?"

But Mandeville shook his head.

"It's dead cold, and might 'ave bin 'ere a year.'

"No!" said Smith, with his hand in the grey ashes, "it hasn't rained here since it was lighted."

"And when was the last rain 'ere?" asked the Baker cheerfully.

Smith looked at the dried grass, and tore up a thin tussock.

"Not so very long," he answered. "But the blacks who lighted it may be a hundred miles off, and that would lick us. And if we found them they would most likely spear us."

"It ain't certain," said Mandeville.

"No!" answered Smith. "But probable."

And rising, he took up his swag, and walked on side by side with his chum.

"It's likely they will stay by the billabong," he said. "There may be fish in it, and there's sure to be fish in the river. And though we have seen very few kangaroos, yet there'll be plenty about somewhere. We may strike them yet."

He walked a little faster at the notion.

"If I have to live on grubs out of a rotten stump, I'll live," he said. And hope gave him more strength. He walked better, though he felt light-headed.

And just before sundown they came on the ashes of another fire by the creek. This time Smith spotted them first, and he thrust his hand in to feel if they had more warmth than the day's burning sun could give them. But they were cold.

Smith sat down on a fallen tree, and contemplated the ashes in silence. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, but he said nothing. The Baker brought up some water from the billabong, and made a little weak tea of the last tea they had, and part of that was leaves saved from two infusions. Then Smith spoke:

"I suppose we are the first white men that ever got so far in this direction," he said, "unless we are near Warburton's track when he crossed the continent in 'seventy-three. We'll call it Mandeville Land if we ever get back."

The Baker smiled faintly, and lighted a little fire.

"Not too big," said Smith; "we want to see the blacks first, and then we'll have a chance."

And after the tea they lay down.

"No further to-day," said Smith, and Mandeville undid his swag for him. And, presently, it was quite dark, and Mandeville fell unto an uneasy slumber. How long it lasted he could not say, but he was waked by hearing Smith talk. He turned over in alarm. But Smith presently broke into laughter. "Mandeville, you damn fool, wake up," he said.

"Yes," said the Baker, shaking.

"You're a fool; I'm a fool; but I see it now. I see it now!"

"See what, Smith?" asked the Baker, and Smith came over to him and knelt down.

"It was a white man's fire, Mandy."

CHAPTER IX.

THE WHITE MAN.

The Baker's first and most natural impulse was to curse Smith for waking him up in the middle of the night, and his second was, that now, and at last, his chum had gone definitely off his head. He groaned as he sat up and prepared to soothe the man, and combat his wild delusion. But Smith was by no means crazy or delirious. Indeed, he was keen enough to perceive from the very tone of Mandeville's voice what was in his mind.

"I'm not crazy, Baker," he said earnestly, as he raked the ashes of their own fire together. "I'm quite sane, and what I say is right."

"That white men lighted this fire?" said the Baker. "And 'ow the deuce did you find that out in pitch dark?"

Smith laughed, a far more pleasant laugh than usual.

"Why, man alive, I saw it last night, and I didn't see it. It was written large, and I missed it. How, I can't tell, for it's plain enough. It was far too large a fire for any black-fellow to light. Haven't you heard me often enough tell you to light a black-fellow's fire, three sticks and two hot coals? Well, and this fire was big enough to roast a sheep whole. I tell you white men did it."

But the Baker was not so easily convinced. His mind was acute.

"And 'ow do you know as black-fellows always does as you say? Australia's big enough for a 'undred ways of fire lightin'?"

"That's all right," said Smith impatiently; "but I know their usual custom, and I'm justified in thinking what I say is right."

The Baker shook his head.

"And, granting as some white man lighted it, where is the bloomin' white man?"

And poor Smith's castle in the air collapsed. His head sank upon his breast.

"That's true," he groaned. "But it was a white man anyhow. When it's light we can search and see if there is nothing to confirm it."

"No," said the Baker; "if it's so, don't let's waste no time. Let's hoff straight down the creek. If so be as he was 'ere at all, 'e would go that way. And I dare say we shall find 'im a bloomin' corpse, if we find 'im at all."

"You're a croaker," said Smith, who was recovering again, and they lay down till dawn.

The pace they went at the next day was very slow, for they were at an extremity. The internal pains which had tormented them on the second and third days of starvation returned again like seven devils worse than the first, and Mandeville, who was the stronger, suffered the most. They had covered little more than six miles, when they camped just before noon.

"If we strike nothing to-night, it's all up with Smith," said the Baker, and when they started again about three o'clock, he insisted on carrying his chum's swag.

"Drop them both," said Smith.

About four o'clock they did drop them, and walked on light, the Baker leading through the open forest, carrying nothing but the water-bags. Smith even threw away his coat, which hung on him as loosely as if it had been made for Hicks. He found it easier going, but hope was gradually dying. White-fellow or black-fellow, what did it matter? He was a thousand times inclined to stay, to lie down and die.

And when he was at his lowest he saw the Baker stop and bend down.

"Poor devil, he's got the gripes again," said Smith, in a curious detached way, as if the Baker was some one whom he was looking at from some other than a human stand-point.

But Mandeville had nothing wrong with him when he stooped. He bent down to pick something up; and that something made his eyes bolt out of his head. He put it in his coat pocket and walked on.

"No, I never picked h'anythin' up," he said obstinately to himself, and then diving into his pocket, he pulled the thing out again.

"If I shows it to Smith 'e'll go fair off 'is nut," he said. "It ain't possible, that's what it ain't. But, Lordy, ain't it 'eavy."

And sitting down, he waited till Smith came stumbling along blindly.

"I've found something, Smith," he said casually.

"Yes," said Smith dully.

"It's gold, Smith."

Smith smiled wanly, and sat down.

"Let's eat it, Mandy."

But the Baker produced his find and handed it over. It was obviously human handiwork, and Smith livened up.

"A ball, and weighs about seven pounds," he said. "And the hole through it is for a handle. By Jove, it's a costly kind of a black-fellow's waddy. But what's this?"

And he sprang on his feet.

"Look!" and Mandy saw what he had not noticed before. He paled to the lips, and Smith fell back again on the log.

"It's white men again; and why this mark?"

But Smith could not tell him. For the heavy ball was plainly marked with a broad arrow—thus:— and with his thumb on it, Smith sprang up again and shouted loud:

"Cooey!"

But the forest swallowed up his cry as it had swallowed them up.

They walked again, and Mandeville carried the gold ball.

"The broad arrow is the naval sign on stores," said Smith.

"And on convicts' clothes, too," said Mandeville. "I know'd a man as did time, and 'e told me."

"We're not likely to meet either sailors or convicts here," said Smith. "It's a mystery. I don't feel hungry, but sick. What kind of a country is it? It's full of horror, and thirst, and hunger, and cannibals, from the Leeuwin to the North Cape." And he stopped trembling.

"Steady, old man," said the Baker, "we may strike it yet."

"We'll never get out. It's my luck," said Smith. "This day will do me. Give me a drop of water."

He sat down and twisted.

"Oh these accursed pains," he groaned, and then he looked up at the Baker. "I'm sorry to howl, Baker, but it did catch me then."

And Mandeville was quite as bad, though, being a bit stronger, he said nothing.

They went on again for half an hour by the billabong, which was here pretty straight, and deeper within its banks, but in that half-hour they did barely a mile.

"What's the use?" screamed the man Smith, to his inherited desire of life. "What's the use? Why should I suffer? Why not lie down and die?"

And yet the desire for life clawed on to hope, and struggled still, driving the failing creature of a day through torture which was sometimes lulled, and sometimes grew monstrously, splitting the man's mind as a tree's roots drive rocks asunder, as a cancer penetrates the living tissue.

When they talked, they returned again and again to the white man's fire, and to the great ball of gold, the lost weapon of some impenetrable mystery. And Smith's striving with its solution was near setting him mad; he felt almost as he had done in that day of thirst when his personality left him, and he became a nameless, brainless creature that only suffered blindly, ignorant of destiny.

But though they knew it not, a partial solution of the strange problem was at hand, a solution which solved it to present another still more terrible, still more inexplicable. As the sun went down upon the trees, they came suddenly, and without any dreadful warning in the warm wind, upon the body of a white man, only a few days dead.

But what a white man he was, said the two dying wanderers who found him lying there. No, indeed no! he was like no man they had ever seen, for his hair hung down his shoulders, his beard was below his breast. As he lay upon his back, with bared teeth, they beheld the great arched chest of a giant, and they could note, even yet, the scars of spear wounds on his breast and arms. He looked a savage, a strange and awful survival, for in the aspect of him was no suggestion that he had ever known any influence of any civilisation. He might have been solitary from his birth, for aloofness and suspicion were visible in him still. His face was burnt to an extreme brownness, which might have left doubts as to his race, but the muscles under the arms were white. He lay there with a rudely-tanned kangaroo skin just across his feet. There was no ornament nor any sign of personal adornment upon him. But in his hand was clenched a short stick, which Mandeville dared to drag from him. It fitted the golden ball which he still carried.

"My God," said Smith, "what's all this? Didn't I say it was a nightmare land? What's it mean, Mandy?"

But the Baker shook his head.

"Save us from such white men," he said, in a whisper. "Did he die, or was he killed?"

When they went round the other side the answer was easy. They saw the broken shaft of a spear still in his side.

"He fought down yonder, and came here to die," said Smith. "But, Mandy, whom did he fight with?"

"Let's get away," said Mandy hurriedly. And they left the awful sight in silence.

"Was it blacks or other white men that killed him?"

They fought the question out for an hour, but could give it no answer.

"What could he be? Did we dream it?" said Smith. "He looked just like a savage."

"Perhaps 'e got lost, like us, years ago," suggested Mandeville.

But Smith shook his head.

"If he had been lost as a child it might have been."

And, with that horror behind them and death in front, they wandered on, presently half forgetting what or where they were. They sat down, and rose again, until it got almost dark, and just as they were failing utterly, they came out of the forest to a line of big gum trees.

"The river at last," said Smith; and he fell in a limp heap.

Mandeville left him, and running twenty yards, he saw the river. Across it was the light of a camp fire.

CHAPTER X.

THE BRODARRO.

"According to Smith's notion, it's too big to be black-fellows," said the Baker. "But black or white, it's all one! And here goes for death or glory, spears or grub."

And he cooeed very loudly, standing right out in the open, on the edge of the deep-cut bank. As his voice echoed from the dense trees opposite, he saw a figure or two pass in front of the blaze.

"I've roused 'em," said Mandy, and he felt his revolver in his belt. "If they're man-eaters, I'll do for one or two."

Then his cooey was answered from the other side of the river.

"Hallo," said the Baker, and he dimly distinguished some tall figures on the opposite bank. But his answer appeared to disturb them curiously. He could hear a quick, low chattering, and saw them disperse. He cooeed again impatiently, and this time he was answered in an unknown tongue.

"Blacks," said the Baker disconsolately. "I guess we're done."

But he replied.

"Don't understand your lingo," he said boldly; "but we're starving, and want some grub."

And, to his horror, for it was now utterly unexpected, he was answered in English, but in English of an accent that he had never heard. It sounded rather guttural, and quite foreign.

"Who are you?" said the man who spoke.

"Two miners," said Mandy; "and for Gawd's sake send over some grub. I and my mate have bin five days without food, and we're near dead."

"Where do you come from?" asked the voice.

"Up the billabong."

He heard them repeat the word "billabong," and then there was silence.

"How many are you?" said the voice again.

"Only two, damn it," said Mandy, and then he heard a bit of harsh laughter.

"Then stay where you are till we come," said the voice. And Mandy sat down, with his face to the river.

But in five minutes someone leapt on him from behind, and had him pinned as in a vice. He could not move, and would not have been able to help himself if he had had his full strength.

"Hallo, what's this?" he said, as he heard the heavy breathing of the man who held him. Then he saw another figure in front holding a spear. "If it's whites the other side, it's blacks this," said Mandy; and he called aloud to Smith, "Good-bye, old man, they've got me."

And Smith, who had recovered from his faint, came staggering to his doom like a drunken man. He, too, was made a prisoner in a moment by yet another man whom the Baker had not seen.

Then their captors spoke in English. "Is that all?"

Mandy made a struggle.

"Why, are you English? Holy Moses! I thought you was black-fellows."

"No, we are English," said the man who held him.

But the voice was so strange, so wild, so utterly unlike any voice that he had ever heard, that it made his blood run cold. His skin crept, and his hair bristled.

"Then why do you hold me?" said he, when he got his own voice back. "I'm half dead, and my mate's worse than I am. Lemme go, do now."

And at a word from the man with the spear, Mandy's captor let go. The Baker went to Smith.

"They're English, old man," he said, "and it's all right. They must be miners, too, or something, I don't know what. By the Lord, my head's gone wrong I do think."

He looked up, and saw the big man who had ordered his captors to release him. He saw his great beard dimly, and like a flash there came back to him the great bearded white savage whom they had seen that day.

"If they are like that, why, the Lord save us," he muttered. "It's a dream."

But Smith was lying there dying. The thought of that brought his courage back.

"We can talk to 'em anyway," he said, and tried to get Smith upon his feet. One of the others helped him. And they went down to the river bank silently.

A little way further down the river than the place the billabong entrance lay were some rough canoes, and they put Smith in one and Mandeville in the other.

"Cheer up, old man," said the Baker, and they shot out on the gloomy water, just there some thirty yards across, and with about ten strokes, they reached the other side.

The Baker landed easily, and the other men helped Smith, a bit roughly, but not unkindly. They went up the bank, and going about fifty yards, came out on an open space in which was a large camp and some native-looking gunyahs, or leaf and branch huts.

And then Mandeville could see his hosts, or his captors, whichever they might turn out to be, and his heart sank within him, for they were nearly all big, and one was gigantic, and their whole appearance was that of the dead man whom they had seen. It was like a nightmare truly to see them clad in skins, rough and hairy, and burnt as black as white men can ever get. But their features were English, if strangely altered, and very few appeared to have traces of black blood in them. Those who had were the smaller, and apparently the less considered.

And he saw the women, too. They did not at first lessen his fear of the men. But he had no time just then to speculate ignorantly; Smith called for his attention. He seemed absolutely dying; he lay quite unconscious, and only moaned a little every now and again.

"Can you give me somethin' for my mate?" he asked, and the chief nodded and spoke to one of the women. She disappeared into the largest gunyah, and brought out a dish with some boiled or stewed meat in it.

"I 'opes to God it ain't man," said the Baker. But when he took the dish from the savage woman, whose matted hair hung to her bare knees, he nearly let it drop. It was heavy truly, but it was of pure gold!

"I'm done," said Mandy, going on his knees by Smith. "I'm fair beat. This cooks my goose. When did I die?"

And he fed Smith with his fingers until the same woman who had given him the dish snatched it away from him, and taking Smith's head on her lap, she fed him with a rudely-fashioned spoon of the same metal as the dish.

Then another woman, who was younger and fairer to look on, brought Mandy some food, which he ate too ravenously. But when he nearly choked, he put the brake on, and forcing himself to stay, he took out his pipe, and lighted it with a hot coal.

This proceeding was curiously, not to say anxiously, watched by every one of the twenty or thirty people, young and old, who composed the camp. But when he took a deep inspiration, and then blew out the smoke, there was a stampede among the little boys and girls. But the men were intensely interested.

"Is that 'bacca'?" asked the big man.

"Yes," said the Baker.

"I've heard of it," said the chief; "my father's father told me. Is it good? My father said it was good."

"Would you like to try it?" asked the Baker, holding his precious pipe out. "But not too much, or it will make you sick."

And the chief very solemnly took a draw, which he managed fairly well. It did not seem to commend itself to him, however, and he handed it back to Mandy, who, alternately eating and smoking, was soon in a state of repletion, which prevented him caring what happened. And now Smith began to get really conscious.

"Where am I?" he asked the Baker, whom he found sitting by him.

"We're in a camp with white men," said the Baker loudly, and then he added rapidly, and in a lower tone, "And I'm beat, Smith. They are all like the man wot we saw dead this afternoon."

Smith sat up as if he had been pricked by a spear, and looked at their captors standing in the glare of the fire.

"Pre-historic men," he said. "I knew I was crazy. I want to go to sleep."

And the Baker took off his coat to roll it up for a pillow. He still had the golden ball in his pocket, and he took it out. It was snatched from his hand the next moment by the chief, who seemed greatly disturbed.

"You, where did you get this?" he demanded.

And the Baker related as simply as possible what they had found by the billabong. His recital was listened to with groans, and one woman shrieked, and was taken away by the others. She was his wife, and apparently the dead man was the chief's brother. When the Baker finished, he placed his coat under Smith's head, and his chum fell fast asleep.

But now the camp was in agitation, and every one got out his arms, which were all of a kind resembling black-fellows' weapons. But most of the clubs were of gold, with wooden handles, and some were globular, some pear-shaped, and some the shape of a jagged nugget. When they were ready, the chief called to the Baker:

"You will stay, and I will leave five men here. To-morrow night we shall be back. You are friends. But if you are not, we will burn you alive."

And he departed with fifteen others towards the river, while the Baker lay down under a kangaroo skin, given him by the girl who had offered him food.

"She'd be good-looking if she'd comb her hair, and take her first bath," said the Baker. "But who they are, and what they are, and 'ow they came here, just licks me."

He fell asleep, and every time he woke during the night he heard the melancholy wail of the bereaved woman. It struck him as if she ought not to feel it so much, being so savage to look at.

When he woke in the morning, he found Smith sitting up with his hands to his head.

"Am I crazy, Baker?"

"If you are, I am," said the Baker.

"Then, we are alive, and not so hungry, and in a camp of pre-historic men?" asked Smith.

"I dunno about prestoric, but we're in a camp of jumped-up white savages that talk English," said the Baker.

Smith rose.

"Look, here, Baker, draw it mild!"

"I tell you they talks English just as good as you or me, though sometimes they shoves in a word I don't savvy," said the Baker. "And what's more, everything they 'ave is solid gold—jugs and pots and clubs and h'everything. And they thinks no more of it than you or I would of a bally old iron camp oven."

And to convince Smith of that, he went to the outside of a hut and brought back a hammered-out basin, which must have weighed eight pounds at least.

"Is this my luck?" said Smith. But he could believe nothing till a girl came out into the dawn. "Do you mean she talks English?" asked Smith.

"That's what I mean," said the Baker stubbornly.

And Smith called to the girl, who came nearer, somewhat in the manner of a shy and curious filly.

"Are you English?" said Smith.

"Yes," said the girl.

"And you can talk it?"

"Of course," said the girl; "what the devil do you mean?"

But she used the word in an odd, wild, natural way, which showed mere curiosity, not anger. It struck Smith as being so utterly incongruous that he was absolutely thunder-struck, and for a moment could say nothing. Presently he recovered.

"But what are you all doing here?" he asked.

"I don't savvy," said the girl a bit sulkily.

"Have you always lived here?"

The young savage shook her head, and looked at him contemptuously.

"No fear," she replied; "we came here from Wonga Wonga."

"And where's Wonga Wonga?"

But this was too much for the girl. If this strange-looking man didn't know where Wonga Wonga was, and couldn't believe she knew her own language, he was evidently neither more nor less than a fool.

She didn't answer, and turned away. As she went, two of the men came from the river with some fish. They were absolute savages to look at. A Fuegian, or the wildest Tartar on the Siberian steppes was a civilised being to them.

Smith rose, and said, "Good-morning."

The bigger man of the two looked at him with peculiar apprehension, mixed with some ferocity, and passed on, but the younger, who was far more open countenanced, returned his salutation civilly.

"Will you have a fish?" he asked, and without waiting for acceptance, he dropped a Murray cod or big barbel at Smith's feet.

"Thank you," said Smith, and as the man looked quite as friendly as his gift showed, he invited him to sit down and palaver. But it was a continual effort for him to comprehend that the other understood him if he used any but the very easiest words. And, indeed, he soon discovered that many abstract terms were beyond them.

"How long will the other men be away?" he asked, as he and the prehistoric person sat on a log, and the Baker lay on the ground.

"Not long, mate," said his friend. "When they have killed all the Emus they find."

"Emus?" said Smith.

And his new pal explained that he meant a tribe of black-fellows.

"What's your name, mate?" asked Smith.

"Billy."

"Billy; and what else?"

But this the man didn't comprehend. He was Billy, and was the son of Bill who was out Emu-hunting, and the man who didn't understand that must be a fool. That was his opinion.

And now it began to dawn on Smith that the accent, which had sounded so strange even to the Baker, was nothing else than a variation, or descendant, of the purest Cockney. The aspirates were invariably omitted, and most, if not all, the a's had come i's, and the open o of English was undeniably the u with the umlaut of German. What other changes had taken place were due, probably, to the influence of climate, and some black-fellow lingo, which they could all talk fluently, and mixed with their English, especially when talking together.

But now Bill wanted to satisfy his curiosity.

"Give me the smoke thing you gave Big Jack yesterday," he said to the Baker.

And as the Baker filled it, some of the others came round. When it was filled, Mandeville struck a match on the seat of his trousers, and this caused a monstrous and absurd commotion. One of the men at last grabbed hold of Mandeville, and insisted on examining his breeches, and the Baker only obtained release by striking another match. They stood a little further off then, and were terribly suspicious. But Bill tried the pipe very courageously.

"That's enough," said Smith, when he had had a few puffs, "or else you will be very sick."

But Bill was loth to relinquish the extraordinary object he held.

"I like it," he said, as if that settled it. However, after a few more puffs, he gave it up, and resumed the conversation, this time taking the lead.

"Where do you come from, and what tribe are you?" he asked.

"We come from New Find; many days' journey," said Smith, pointing to the south-west. "But we are not a tribe. We are English."

"So are we," said the big, suspicious-looking man, "and you are not like us."

"Then, how did you come to be in Australia at all?" asked Smith. He was rapidly reaching the conclusion that they must be the descendants of people shipwrecked generations ago upon the Australian coast. But his question was greeted with laughter. The real question to them was where these white men came from.

"We shall 'ave to ask Big Jack," said the Baker; "he seemed to 'ave more savvy than all this lot put together. Blow me, if I hever saw sich a bloomin' crew."

"Dry up," said Smith; "you'll get your head caved in, and mine too, if you shoot off your mouth here and they catch on to your guff."

And as the community proceeded to make a morning meal in the most savage and primitive way, they joined in, and, roughly cleaning the fish Bill had given them, they cooked it in the hot coals in the approved manner.

"Where does all this gold come from?" asked Smith, when he was satisfied.

And Bill pointed east.

"Over there," he said

"How far?"

"Not far," said Bill

"Show it to us, Bill," said the Baker greedily.

But Bill shook his head.

"Not now; wait till Big Jack comes back. And what is your name?"

He spoke to Smith, who told him.

"Smith, Smith," said Bill; "and you?"

"Mandeville," said the Baker.

Bill tried it, but seemed to decide it was too long.

"He called you Baker," he said, looking doubtfully at the little man.

"Baker will do," answered Mandy.

And the idle throng returned to them, and asked questions about their journey and their people, which made Smith despair. He prayed for night and the big man's return.

CHAPTER XI.

A SOLUTION.

They spent the remainder of the day in sleep, when they were at last left alone, except by Bill, who seemed to consider himself their companion or custodian. For Smith was thoroughly done up by the journey and starvation. The excitement had been too much for him, and the speculations his tired brain indulged as to the origin of an English-speaking white race of savages, nearly drove him crazy.

Who could they be? The likeliest solution was certainly the one he had struck on. It occurred to him once that they might be the descendants of some lost explorer, such as poor Leichardt, who had taken up with some tribe of black-fellows. But there were very many in the camp obviously without a taint of black blood in them. Some would have been as fair as himself if they had not been burnt so intensely by their wild life, and nearly all had big blonde beards, and moustaches which reached to their shoulders.

And so far, whether they had legends as to their origin of not, he had not been able to get them to speak plainly. They had come from "over there" a long time ago, Bill said when pressed; but "over there" was not definite, and though he pointed due east, it meant little. He tried once before he fell asleep to find out if Bill understood anything about the sea. Yes, the word was familiar to the man, but it obviously meant nothing more than a lagoon or water-hole much bigger than any piece of water he had seen. And when Smith suggested to him that the sea was like the boundless plain and without limit, the notion became abstract, and as unintelligible as eternity.

That this was so seemed to dispose of the notion that they were castaways, such as the Pitcairn Islanders might have been if they had reached their island without any implements of civilisation, and had been left to a hand-to-hand fight with a barren land and fierce savages. He fell asleep thinking that he had perhaps discovered a new white race who had learnt English from the lost explorer whom he had once believed their ancestor. But why they should give up their native tongue was an insoluble problem, unless indeed they had regarded the new white man as their superior, and had learnt his language as a quasi-court language fitter for them than their own. And from what period did they date? Obviously, he said, they must have been savages for centuries.

When he woke it was quite dark, save for the light of the camp fire, by which he saw the Baker sitting with several of the younger men, some of the boys, and one or two girls. The girl whom they had interrogated was on Mandeville's right hand, and the strange party seemed to be enjoying itself thoroughly. For the Baker was singing "Sweet Belle Mahone" to them, and the simple melancholy of the old air seemed to please them greatly. They tried to join in the chorus, and the Baker's right-hand neighbour caught the air pretty accurately. Smith advanced to the fire, and was greeted with a "Sit down, mate," which, if he had closed his eyes, would have seemed to emanate from any ordinary crowd of miners. But there they were, savage, hirsute, wild, and half-clad in untanned skins.

Smith was careful not to sit next to the Baker, for he wished to be as friendly as possible with those who might resent with a gold club any sign of suspicion or aloofness. He squatted amicably between two of the men, and held out his hand to the blaze.

"How goes it, matey?" said the Baker.

"Bully," said Smith. "And you?"

"Fust-rate," said the Baker. "I'm all at 'ome, and makin' a regular sing-song. These chaps are a good sort, a bally good sort."

"I should have been dead now but for them," said Smith, and catching Bill's eyes shining under his matted forelock.

Bill appealed for his pipe. It was lighted and passed round; the boys and girls each took their turn to splutter and cough over the magical instrument. When it was returned to Smith, he was glad that it was out, for he would have felt obliged to continue smoking without wiping the mouth-piece. As he filled it again he managed to do that furtively.

"Sing again, Baker," said Bill, showing his teeth. And the Baker began the song of the old convicts:

"I'm off by the morning train
To cross the raging main."

And to the astonishment of Smith, they all burst in and joined the Baker, knowing both the air and the words. He sat as if he was turned into stone and could not sing, for his jaw had dropped.

But when they came to the lines,

"Doin' the grand in a distant land,
Ten thousand miles away,"

the truth came to him like a lightning flash, and he half rose, to sit down again, gasping.

"By all that's holy and unholy, by all the gods and little fishes," said Smith, "I've hit it this time."

The Baker, too, though he did not understand, was so taken aback that he stopped in the middle of the verse, and let the wild crowd thunder through it by themselves.

"'Ello!" he cried, "and 'ow the blazes did you learn that 'ere song?"

"Our fathers sang it," said three or four, wondering at his astonishment.

"And 'ow the deuce did they know it?" asked the Baker.

But that was too much for them. Why did these strangers ask such silly questions? Their journey from their far-off tribe had obviously affected their minds.

But just then they heard a cry from across the river, which was answered, apparently, by a sentinel on the bank, and the crowd deserted the fire at once, leaving Smith and the Baker alone. Bill and the other man and the boys took their spears, but without any such haste as would suggest an enemy. And then they heard a wild noise, which sounded strangely like a clamorous "hurrah" repeated angrily.

The women who were in the gunyahs came out, and thronged to the edge of the open space on which the camp stood. Presently the throng split open, and the fifteen warriors, who had left the night before under the command of Big Jack, came through, amidst strange guttural cries and screams of triumph and revenge. The woman whose man had been killed was the only one who did not join in the triumph. She sat moody and alone outside her savage hut, in terrible and inconsolable mourning. Her face was scored with the marks of her own nails, and the blood dried on the wounds made her look as if she were tattooed.

"Where is the wife of the Slayer?" said Big Jack, as he came into the light.

"She is by her gunyah, father," cried the others.

But the Baker clutched Smith's arm.

"What have they got, Smith?" he cried in a thick whisper.

"D'ye think they ate the rest?" asked the Baker.

But Smith, who felt sick, could not answer that question. How could he tell if these men were cannibals? If they were, what a strange and awful reversion! what a savage satire upon the white world of a boasted but vain civilisation!

And meanwhile Big Jack related their experiences.

"We found the Slayer's body, and his wound was made with an Emu's spear. Yesterday we followed their tracks, and caught them by noon. There are none left."

But some of the men were wounded, and the woman attended their hurts. Their chief or captain was not touched. The others told stories of his strength and skill in a strange, mixed dialect, that came to them easiest when excitement stirred them.

Smith and the Baker, who kept rather out of the way until the fervour of the savage welcome was overpast, now came into the crowd about the fire; for Smith was horribly curious to know if they had brought anything else home from their hunting but heads. He was reassured when he saw the women cooking fish and a big kangaroo.

"Yet that says nothing," Smith told himself. "They have been away twenty-four hours and more. They may be cannibals when they are pressed. May Fate send them plenty while we are here, if indeed we ever get out."

So, when the feeding was done, he came in again, and sat down by Big Jack.

"Good-day to you," said he civilly, and Big Jack nodded a grim salute.

"You did well to-day," said Smith.

"We killed them all," mumbled Jack with gusto: "men, and women, and the children. It is a bad day for the Emus. But the heads we brought were all men's heads."

"May I talk with you?" said Smith; "or are you weary?"

"I am never weary," said the giant. "And I want to talk with you. Who are you? and where do you come from?"

Smith told him.

"Then there are many white men in this land?" asked Big Jack.

"Very many."

"Then why do they not kill all the black-fellows?" asked Jack.

Smith explained to him that the white men had done so as far as they could, until the law stopped them.

"The law!" said Big Jack. "My father's father used to speak of the law. But I never understood it. Tell me what it is."

And Smith toiled hard to explain that enigma. But he had to come to concrete examples.

"The law is a custom which says one man must not kill another except in war. And if he does he is killed, too."

"Who kills him?" asked Big Jack.

"The people who have the power," said Smith, who was rapidly becoming confused.

"Then it is not wrong to kill if you can?" asked Jack.

"Yes it is, unless you are in the right," said poor Smith.

"What is right?" asked Jack.

And then Smith was quite done.

"It seems foolish talk," said Big Jack. "Let us speak of other things. Why did you come here?"

"To look for gold," said Smith.

"Do you want to make clubs with it?" asked Jack.

And when Smith had finished explaining currency, Jack wanted to ask no more.

"The tribe you belong to must all be fools," he said. "Gold is useful to make clubs with and things to boil food in, but who would give me a fish for a little bit of it when he can go out yonder and get all he wants. It is foolish talk. My father's father used to speak of such things, but he was an old man, and very silly."

"Who was your father's father?" asked Smith eagerly.

And the Baker, too, came closer. He had been listening to the talk with his mouth open, for the mystery weighed on him heavily.

"He was an old man, and silly," said Jack, "but he was a good fighter when he was young. And my father says he had killed white men belonging to a tribe over yonder."

He too pointed to the east.

"Where, at Sidney?" asked Smith.

"I do not know," said Jack, who was wearied of the aimless talk. "You can ask my father, who is now an old man, and no good except to talk and eat. And very soon he will die, which will be a good thing, for now he cannot even catch fish."

And Big Jack dismissed Smith with a wave of his huge paw.

As they went to their tree, they saw the widowed woman sitting close to the pile of heads, and talking to them. The Baker shrank away, and got the other side of Smith. They lay down close together.

"Do you know who these people are?" asked Smith.

"Ain't got a notion," said the Baker.

"They are the descendants of convicts escaped a hundred years ago," said Smith.

And the Baker fairly gasped.

CHAPTER XII.

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE.

Whether Smith was right or wrong in this assumption of his remained to be seen, and from the vague way in which Big Jack spoke he might never get sufficient evidence to corroborate or upset his theory. The evidence for it would depend on the chatter of a senile old savage, who, in his turn, had obtained it from an outlaw. Smith knew enough of testimony to be aware that this might be no more than a presumption easily capable of being upset. But he desired intensely to solve the mystery, and not even the danger and uncertainty of being the guests of people little superior in their habits and customs to men of the Stone Age, could prevent his feeling ardent curiosity.

And then there was the question of the gold. From the way they employed it, from Bill's talk, and from what Big Jack said, it was obvious that there must be sufficient near at hand to make the fortune of a hundred men. On a rough calculation he estimated that there was then in the camp, consumed in the making of their waddies and other weapons, and in the rude bowls which represented their degree of civilisation, at least two hundred pounds weight of the metal, and that at £4 an ounce was worth roughly about £12,000. Besides this, he found lumps of gold quartz about the camp sufficient to make any ordinary miner go clean out of his mind. The boys used the smaller pieces as missiles, and one big lump was used in putting the weight. On lifting it, Smith found it weighed at least forty pounds, and its bulk was gold.

"There must be an outcrop of a vein here," he said to the Baker, "which would take our breath away. There can't be a mine like it in the universe. If we can only get out of here and find it again, we shall be the richest men in the world. That is, unless we sell it to a syndicate. But the getting out's the thing."

"I've a notion," said the Baker, "that it will be good to slope pretty soon, as soon, any way, as we see this 'ere mine, for, to tell the truth, Smith, I think there will be a row."

He looked so serious, and yet so ashamed, that Smith was puzzled.

"What have you been up to?" he demanded.

The Baker shook his head, and looked down half bashfully.

"Well, Smith, I ain't done nothing," he began, "but do you know I've a kind of a notion that the wild cat that gives me the tucker reg'lar, is a bit mashed on me."

Smith was uneasy. Of all things, this was the most likely to cause trouble.

"Go on," he said severely.

But the Baker remonstrated against the way he spoke.

"You ain't no call to look at me in that tone of voice," he said. "If it's true, I can't help it, and, Lord knows, I've done nothin' to encourage her. But she just freezes to me quite natural, and the bloke that goes with Bill, I think he tumbles to it."

Smith was quite alarmed.

"If you aren't careful, you'll do for us, Baker," he said. "You must be careful. Are you sure of it?"

The Baker shrugged his shoulders.

"You just watch it yourself. You'll see me icy perlite, and 'er tryin' to thaw me out. And if the bloke's about, 'is eyes'll be like gimlets. It fair gives me the 'ump for a savage woman to be gone on me. I'll 'ave my 'ead opened when I ain't lookin'."

"Then just avoid her," said Smith.

"And then, maybe, she'll jab me with a spear," said the Baker, half between crying and laughing. "I'm glad I've got my revolver. Where's your'n, Smith?"

Smith tapped the waist of his trousers.

"Inside, in the lining," said he. "I wish it was a bit bigger. But it will scare them anyhow, if it comes to trouble."

The Baker, forgetting his woes and the danger he stood in between the lady and the savage, fairly laughed.

"I should think so, mate," he said. "Sometimes I think it would be a good thing to let 'em hear it, and see what it'll do."

But that meant the loss of a cartridge, and one out of about fifty between them might be wanted in a tight corner.

"You keep it dark till it's useful," said Smith, "and find out what you can about the canoes in the river. See how many there are, and keep your eyes skinned. For they may shove us out of this at any moment."

"Or shove us in if grub gets scarce," cried the Baker. "I wish I was h'out of it. If I was on the track with ten days' tucker, I'd be 'alf inclined to 'oof it back down the billabong, and make a big shy for New Find."

And then their conversation was cut into by Bill, who came demanding a smoke. The Baker, who, for a moment, thought he was the man he was most particularly in dread of, stepped aside. When he saw his mistake, he couldn't help watching the two men together.

For Smith was as tall as Bill, and very lithe. His beard was almost golden, and short and curly. In spite of his moleskin trousers, his broken boots and his ragged shirt, he looked a gentleman. And to see him give his pipe to a savage, who, ten times over, satisfied all the Baker's child-like notions of savages, was something strange, horrible, and yet irresistibly ridiculous. For Bill was broad, and as muscular as a young Hercules, and if he had been shaved both on his breast and back, as well as his head and face, he might, except for his feet, which were over large, and flat and misshapen, have stood as a model for the nude. But it was the possession of his beard and hair, and the skin which covered him, and his wild carriage, which made the contrast tremendous. If he had been black, it would have seemed natural enough. If he had spoken some unintelligible language, it would not have presented so many features of tragic and comic interest, irresistibly combined.

So when Bill remarked that he now wanted a pipe of his own because he liked tobacco so much, the Baker was all of a sudden taken with a hysterical fit of laughter, which he could not control. He fairly screamed and shouted, and at last lay down.

Smith, who had a notion of what had taken the man, was at first alarmed, lest Bill should understand. But he reckoned on his possessing keenness and a sense of humour which were both beyond him. And, like a flash, it came to his chum that it would be no bad plan to suggest that the Baker was not quite in his right senses.

"He's mad, I think," he said to Bill, who was puffing at the pipe quite calmly; and taking no notice of the laughter. "He's mad, Bill. The hunger was too much for him."

And at that the Baker yelled till the whole camp came in sober curiosity to see a phenomenon which was curious and highly absurd, for they very rarely laughed. During generations life had been too hard for humour, and not advanced enough for sarcastic or sardonic laughter. It pleased Smith to see the girl whom the Baker believed to have taken a fancy for him, looking at the lunatic on the ground with something resembling contempt.

"Perhaps someone once hit him on the head with a waddy," said Bill. For such an incident might account for a man's acting in an absurd way.

But when the crowd dispersed, and Bill was full of as much nicotine as he could take, Smith gave the Baker a word.

"They think you are off your chump, old man, and if you keep it up a little you will choke off the girl. And as soon as we get a look at the mine, and I have a bit of a jaw with the old man, we'll try and hook it."