CHAPTER XII.

Tim starts for the Darling Downs—French as spoken by Mrs. Bell—Parson Tabor—Leichardt’s grave—The French “professor”—Mat unmasks the “professor.”

Next morning the leading newspapers of the town were placed in Mat’s hands by Marvin, who triumphantly remarked,—

“See what an excellent ‘coach’ I proved.”

The entire lecture was given _in extenso_,—what Mat had said, and, as he remarked after a perusal, some things he had _not_ said.

“The old folks must have these,” agreed the brothers, and the papers were accordingly sent home to the Forest.

“And now, brother,” said Tim, “there was a Darling Downs squatter got hold of me last night, and said I must come up to his station. I felt so well up there, the air is so grand, I think I’ll go. He’s promised me work, and pay, and grub.”

“True; we must get work,” rejoined Mat; “we have had enough ‘spreeing’ about; besides, I must see about getting Dromoora and Terebare to their home, only the squire has made me promise to go to his station first—a new place, called, I think, ‘Bulinda Creek.’ I can ‘spell’ there a few days, and then start overland with the chief, join you on the Downs, and send our friends on from there with a party perhaps.”

Thus it was settled, and after saying good-bye to their hospitable friends at Government House, Mat went to seek out the squire, whilst Tim found his way to the Keens, who were leaving by steamer for Brisbane.

Henry Keen was one of the early squatters of the Darling Downs, and was now returning to his station accompanied by his wife and daughter. The chief object of his visit to Sydney had been to fetch the latter from school.

Tim wondered, as he stepped on board the steamer, how he would be received by the ladies, as he had not yet made their acquaintance, but he was not long left in doubt, for Miss Charlotte Keen at once met him as he stepped on to the boat, and giving his hand a hearty shake, said,—

“You need not bother about an introduction to _me_, I knew who you were as you came along the wharf; where is your brother who lectured, I thought he would have come too?”

“Oh, no!” replied Tim, who was rather taken aback by this voluble welcome. “He has gone to Bulinda Creek.”

“What! Squire Bell’s? I was at school with his daughter Annie, a stuck-up girl, full of stupid, old-country notions. Got ‘a down’ upon me, because I suppose she went ‘home’ for a few months, and knew I had never been; or because, as some say, she’s full of nonsense, learnt from an old parson, a sort of private tutor to her brother, who’s sponging on the squire. Did you see the daughter? she’s a ‘native,’ you know.”

“Yes, I _did_ see a shy-looking, pretty girl with splendid hair, for a few seconds, whilst she was standing with her father.”

“Shy! pretty!” snapped back Miss Charlotte; “well, _my_ word, if you called rusty-coloured hair, and red cheeks pretty, why she _is_; but it’s not my idea of a handsome girl. _I_ admire the true class of beauty—the statuesque; and now I must look after pa and ma in the saloon.”

With which announcement she turned abruptly on her heel and departed.

“Here’s a row,” said Tim; “I wonder whether there are many more like _her_ on the Downs;” whilst he gazed after the retreating form of Miss Keen, as she stamped her way rapidly towards the companion. “I suppose then, that that girl’s washed-out face and tow-coloured hair is _true_ beauty. What did she call it—the statue sort? Well, I prefer t’other sort of statue.”

Leaving Tim to pursue his journey with the Keen family, we will return to Mat.

Two days after his brother’s departure, he and the squire had started on horseback to the Creek, Annie and Parson Tabor, with the two natives, having gone on before in the buggy.

It was early on a beautiful morning, as the two men wended their way out of Sydney, the air enlivened with the cries of hundreds of Blue Mountain parrots, busily engaged in chasing each other, in whole flocks in the forests, or sucking their breakfasts from the blossoms of the gum-trees.

The gay chirping of the tree-crickets, the crisp morning air, which clearly defined the soft outline of the Blue Mountains in the distance,—all combined, with the fact that he was on horseback once more, to make Mat in the highest spirits, as he and Bell cantered over the high downs.

Not so the latter, who was evidently in deep thought over some perplexing matter, which had caused his usual boisterous spirits to desert him. At length he broke silence with a sudden,—

“Drat it, man, I may as well say it at once, only you are such an independent chap, I do not know how to begin. Fact is, the Governor, and a heap of my mates in town and country, want you and your brother to accept a purse from them to help you to start.”

Mat was certainly startled by this proposition, but answered promptly enough,—

“It’s very good of you all, but we have no wish to accept money until we have worked for it.”

“I knew you would say that, but _do_ take it, Mat, in the spirit in which it is offered. It will hurt their feelings—_my_ feelings—for I have a little hand in it, if you don’t.”

“In that case, squire, I’ll ask you to keep it for us, and if either or both of us come to grief, we will ask you for a little help till times are better.”

“You promise that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll hold it in trust for you.”

“And now, squire,” said Mat, after the two had ridden some distance farther, “I’ve got something to tell _you_, that I have told to no man living, excepting Tim. This ‘swag’ holds a lot of nuggets, Tim has an equal quantity, and they should start us without the purse, thanks to you all the same; and now I will tell you about our gold discovery.”

Mat then recounted full particulars of their “find” in the Golden Gully, which Bell listened to with interest, saying he “would not tell it to the _ground_.”

By the time Mat had finished his narrative, they reined their horses up at the station.

As soon as Mat had made himself presentable, the squire reintroduced him to Mrs. Bell, and they shortly afterwards sat down to dinner, where they were joined by Annie and Parson Tabor.

Mrs. Bell was an easy-going soul, who, whilst mutilating her own English tongue, managed to utterly murder the French one, on the strength of having once paid a few weeks’ visit to France, for the sake of her daughter’s education. Her husband and children had long since quenched these foreign outpourings as far as they themselves were concerned, but whenever an unlucky stranger came to the house, Mrs. Bell would open fire as soon as her guest was seated, never caring whether he or she knew French or not.

Here then was a chance when Mat made his appearance, which she was not slow to avail herself of, by asking him whether he could speak or understand French, knowing perfectly well that in his case he could do neither.

Mat, who wished to be specially civil to the mother of Annie, answered,—

“No, ma’am, I have never learnt it, and I would hardly care about trying to.”

“Not want to learn French! _the_ language of the present day! And pray, Mat, don’t call me ‘mum,’ as you did in the Forest. If I _must_ ’ave a ’andle, let it be light and pretty, and pronounce it as I do—Madam. And now will you pass me the ‘ménoo.’”

It so happened that this was the exact word, as pronounced by Mrs. Bell, for one of the snakes of the Waigonda country.

Mat was puzzled, but thinking that he must have overlooked the dish, he carefully glanced over table, sideboard, and mantlepiece; but not perceiving any roast snake, replied,—

“I do not see it, ‘mydam.’”

Mrs. Bell was just commencing, with a kindly wave of her hand, “Oh, numport,” when the squire bade her, “Stop that fooling.”

Annie meantime slyly conveyed the bill of fare over to her mother.

But the latter was not going to be shut up so soon before her guest, on this, her favourite topic, and in spite of her husband telling her either to talk English or “Blackfellow,” she continued, to Bell first,—

“Yes, my dear, I can see, having lived in Parry, not to mention Cally, that Mat does not know the divine language, but it’s never too late to learn.” Then turning to our forester: “I see you’re not quite ‘comme il faut au fait,’ but I want to hear the ’ole of your adventures, so we’ll have a little ‘cosy’ after dinner on the verandah. It is late, so come along.”

Mat said to himself, “Whatever language cosy is, it means a pipe for _me_,” as he followed the others out of the room.

Parson Tabor, whose age was nearly sixty, had, in his earlier days, had a hard life of it in Western Australia.

At one period of his life he had headed a little band of explorers to that country, starting from Melbourne in a small, badly-found vessel, with a small cargo of sheep, which they had intended taking the whole way by coast.

The result was disastrous. Their vessel was wrecked when off the north-western portion of the continent, their sheep drowned, and themselves only escaping ashore to find that they had come to a land in which there was scarcely any water, and inhabited by hostile blacks. Most of the party managed with difficulty to reach, at length, the settlements; and Tabor found means to return to Victoria by a coasting-vessel. But the hardships which he had endured for many months had told severely upon his constitution, and from the time of his arrival in civilized life, he had taken holy orders, and settled down as a clergyman. Upon arriving at Sydney, he had also accepted the situation of tutor in the squire’s family. Before leaving Victoria on his ill-fated expedition he had lost his wife, and it was this event, so preying upon his mind, which had caused him, by seeking a new colony, to endeavour to blot out associations connected with the old.

When the little party at Bulinda Creek had stepped out on to the verandah, and made themselves comfortable in easy chairs, Tabor turned to Mat, and said,—

“Your history, that you related the other night, is of the deepest interest to me, for I have suffered hardships and lived for a time amongst the natives, but in my case they were not the friendly-disposed fellows that yours proved.

“One matter that you mentioned has struck many of us, especially a friend of mine—an old explorer, too—named Lund. He was not in Sydney at the time of your lecture, but he received the newspapers which so fully gave the account, and wrote to me by return of post. This is what he says: ‘Find out from Stanley anything more about the white men he heard of as passing to the west.’

“I mention this to you, as Lund asked me to; but I may as well say that I heard you asked this very question by numbers of people after your lecture, and, from what I gathered, you said that you knew no more than what you had told them there.”

“That is so, Mr. Tabor; I can add but little to it. Before we knew the language, we guessed, from the signs of the natives, that there _were_ other white men far to the west of us; and months afterwards, when we could speak to the tribes and understand two or three dialects, they again said that they had heard that there was a white man, with some black men and some very large and strange animals, working their way northwards.”

“_Then_,” said Tabor, with emphasis, “_that_ which every one surmises _must_ be the case. The white man, without doubt, was one of our greatest explorers, who has disappeared for years without leaving the slightest clue as to his ultimate fate.

“My friend, who loved this man as a brother, found himself too old to search for him himself, but he organized an expedition to try and follow him up, with but faint hopes, however, of finding the lost man, as previous similar attempts had utterly failed.

“I have made myself acquainted with poetry and poems, more or less, which have been written by the greatest British and American poets, but _never_, to my mind, have I ever heard anything which, for lovely expression of holy feelings and great beauty of wording, came up to the lines which my friend wrote on the eve of the departure of the explorers in search of the lost _one_,—on the _one_ who ever dwelt lightly on the keen sufferings he endured on his former grand expedition, whose simple faith in the goodness of the Almighty seems silently to have supported him in his trials, and to have been thankfully acknowledged.”

So far, the conversation had been carried on between Parson Tabor and Mat, but at this point Annie broke in with,—

“Do you remember those lines, Mr. Tabor, and can you repeat them to us?”

“Do I remember them, Annie? _Yes_; I could never forget them. Listen!”

It had now become almost too dark for our little home party to see each other’s faces. A “moon-plant,” in the full glory of its lovely large white flowers, partly covered a corner of the verandah, which a last streak of evening light had brightened from the surrounding gloom.

Under the soft white blossoms of the gigantic convolvulus Parson Tabor took his stand, and with outstretched hand, and in soft, yet manly tones, rehearsed the following lines:—

“Ye, who prepare with Pilgrim feet Your long and doubtful path to wend, If whitening on the waste ye meet The relics of my murdered friend. His bones with reverence ye shall bear, To where some mountain streamlet flows, There by its mossy bank prepare The pillow of his long repose.

“It shall be by a stream whose tides Are drunk by birds of every wing, Where every loveliest flower abides The earliest wakening touch of spring. Oh! meet that he who so caressed All beauteous nature’s varied charms, That he, her martyred son should rest Within his mother’s fondest arms.

“When ye have made his narrow bed And laid the good man’s ashes there, Ye shall kneel round about the dead And wait upon your God in prayer. What though no reverend man be near, No solemn anthem with its breath, No holy walls invest his bier With all the hallowed pomp of death;

“Yet humble minds shall find the grace, Devoutly bowed upon the sod, Which calls a blessing round the place, And consecrates the soil to God. When ye, your gracious task have done, Heap not the rock above his dust. The angel of the Lord alone Protects the ashes of the just.

“And oh! bethink in other times, And be those happier times at hand, When Progress, like the smile of God, Comes brightening o’er this weary land. Then shall her pilgrims hail the power Beneath the drooping myall’s gloom, To sit at eve and mourn an hour, And pluck a leaf from Leichardt’s tomb.”[1]

As the parson concluded his recital, the suspicion of a gentle little sob came from the direction where Annie was sitting, whilst Bell and Mat said they thought that they would take a turn and finish their smoke in the garden, until it was time to go to bed.

The next day, after breakfast, the squire said,—

“Come along, Mat, let’s go towards the stockyard; I want to have a chat with you. You will have to hang your hat up here. I will show you a room I have for you in the bachelors’ quarters presently.”

“You are very kind,” answered our forester, who had noticed the little preparations made for him, and had been thinking it all over; “but I would rather join Tom at the out-station.”

“Bless my soul! Why, you have had enough of a lonely life, surely, my boy. Tom is out all day, and there are only blacks there, besides a stockman.”

“Well, squire, I’d like to see Tom again; besides, I am not used to ladies’ society.”

“My prophetic soul! Stuff and nonsense! Mrs. Bell wants to hear your adventures from your own lips, and says you _must_ stay. I’ll call her. Follow me into the house!”

When Mrs. Bell appeared, she begged that Mat would remain; as, she said, she “’adn’t ’eard ’alf his adventures,” and, besides, there was a most “distinguéy” professor of the French language coming to stay with them, who had brought most flattering testimonials from friends down south, and she wished him to make his acquaintance.

“Thank you, ‘mydam,’” answered Mat; “but I do not want to know the Frenchman.”

“But he’s such a tall, distinguished-looking ‘parrty,’ and he is coming to perfect my daughter in his language. Of course, I shall hear what his pronunciation is like before regularly engaging him.”

Mat was still obdurate. So Mrs. Bell continued,—

“If you _must_ go and join Tom, as the squire says you wish to, will you drop in sometimes—it’s not twenty miles from ’ere, you know—and take a short lesson? You will find it the greatest comfort.”

“Yes, I will do that,” answered Mat, thankful to have “got out” of the Frenchman for the present.

“I am so glad to hear you say so. The professor won’t be here for a month, I expect, but I shall see you before then. Now, go and get some air, for you look quite ‘dégagé.’”

“Is she gone?” asked Bell, who, finding that French was coming up again, had made his escape, and now met Mat as he appeared outside the house. “Well, then, I want to ask you where you would like to stow those nuggets you were telling me about. The bachelors’ quarters are not safe, as every one goes in there. Supposing you put them in my room?”

“Thank you; that will be safe enough, I am sure,” and the two men separated.

The following day Mat had intended to join Tom, but was delayed on account of Dromoora and his wife.

He had told them that the squire had promised them an escort to see them safely back to their tribe; but the chief, being now away from the towns, begged to be allowed to see a little more of station life, as he could hunt and fish, and be his own master in the bush, besides, he had made friends with some station blacks who were camped at the lagoon, and now he thought Mat might teach him how to use the thunder-stick.

This change of plans relieved Mat, as he knew that Bell was rather short-handed, and could ill spare the men for this escort just then; so he took the opportunity to instruct Dromoora in the use of a gun, finally leaving that doughty chief a proficient in the art of shooting anything sitting or swimming.

Our forester had been for some few weeks at the out-station, when one morning two letters were handed to him, one from Mrs. Bell to say that the professor had arrived, and the other from Tim—a very short one—saying that he did not much fancy the Keens, that he had got rheumatism again, and altogether felt restless, and was determined to join his brother, and might turn up any day.

To Mrs. Bell’s delight the Frenchman had, indeed, arrived at Bulinda Creek, bowing his way into the house and making pretty speeches to the ladies.

Mrs. Bell had once before, in Sydney, had an interview with him, and now, after introducing him to her husband, beckoned the latter out of the room.

“Isn’t he _charming_, Bell,” she said; “I really quite felt in dear Parry again when he spoke.”

But the squire was by no means so favourably impressed. He had eyed the professor askance, and now told his wife to lock up her spoons.

“What! my dear!” she answered, “you’re joking; look at his manners, look at his ‘ton.’ What a grand face, what eyes, and such a lovely moustache!”

“Yes, it’s just his face I don’t like,” retorted her husband; “and his eyes are beastly cunning when he thinks you’re not looking at him; his moustache, to _my_ mind, is rather _too_ good.”

“But,” sharply continued Mrs. Bell, “you will never see that the French, though perhaps a little vain as to their personal appearance, are ‘au fond,’ a noble race; which means that they are a fine people ‘at bottom.’”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the squire, “you’re getting worse and worse, that’s exactly what the great Duke said,—but I’ll tell you the story.

“Some time after the Battle of Waterloo, Wellington’s health happened to be proposed at a great dinner at which he was present, and at which there happened to be also a number of French officers. These stood up, but on hearing who the individual was that was about to be pledged, immediately faced round and turned their backs towards the Duke, who simply remarked, as he sat at the table, ‘Not the first time, gentlemen, that you have turned your backs upon me.’

“I want no more arguments,” concluded Bell, “but the less I see of this hair-dresser, the better I shall be pleased.”

So Monsieur Rayon, such was the Frenchman’s name, was duly installed at the Creek, making himself agreeable to the ladies, and, whilst showing an equal civility to the squire, avoiding him as much as possible, explaining to Mrs. Bell that it was natural her husband took no notice of _him_, as he disliked the French language. Matters, however, went on smoothly enough, Rayon giving lessons to mother and daughter, and rendering himself tolerable to the squire, by insisting upon every one speaking _English_ when he was present, a language which seemed as facile to him as French.

After Rayon had been settled a few days at Bulinda Creek, Mat happened to return late one evening to the station, and discovered the squire smoking a cigar with the Frenchman.

The latter, as it turned out, had brought some full-flavoured “Havannahs” with him. Now, if Bell had one weakness, it was a good cigar; so that in spite of his dislike to the foreigner, he felt bound in honour, as he explained to the members of his family, to smoke with him, when these were produced.

Mat had never seen Rayon till now, and on _this_ occasion it was too dark to see his features distinctly. On reaching the verandah he was introduced to him, when the foreigner made him a profound bow, and said how proud he was to make the acquaintance of such a “voyageur,” as all Australia was ringing with his name; which flowery speech Mat received with a slight bow, and addressing himself to the squire, the two were soon deep in matters connected with the out-station, which they discussed until it was time to turn in.

Next day, Mrs. Bell seeing Mat at the station, accosted him with,—

“I’m so glad to see you, Mat; now you’ll stop and ’av a lesson.”

“No, I’m sorry I can’t,” he replied. “I only came in for the two horses ‘Wallaby’ and ‘Timeringle,’ and Tom must have them to-night; but I’ll be back again soon, and stay a few days.”

“Oh, _do_! Monsieur Rayon is such a dear man, and tells such amusing stories of ‘Parisien’ society, and he’ll talk to you in English too. Poor man, he is dreadfully troubled with indigestion, and walks in his sleep. One night I was sleeping heavily, as I had taken a little chloral for neuralgia, when my husband saw him in our room, and called out; yet he took no notice, but walked on, out of the ‘French light’ and back to his own quarters, and the next day remembered nothing about it. What a wonderful thing somnambulism is!”

Mat reached the out-station and delivered the horses in good time. Tom thanked him for his ready help, and asked him if he would go again on the following Monday and bring his father back, as there was to be a meeting of importance, at which Parson Tabor would also be present, who with his sound advice would be of great service in discussing the question as to how they could put an end to the encroachments of the “cockatoo squatters,” or small free selectors who, as a gang of useless loafers, infested the run, with suspicious-looking intent.

Mat expressed his readiness to go, and accordingly, when the time approached, prepared to start for Bulinda, but as he could not find the horse he wanted for the journey, he had to put up with an old one that had had a hard week of it after cattle, and in consequence he did not reach the station until midnight.

Having turned his weary beast into the paddock, he entered the house to tell the squire of Tom’s wishes.

Bell was asleep, but came out at once on hearing Mat’s summons, told him in answer to his question that he would be ready to start in the morning with Tabor, bade him get some refreshment, and turn into the empty room next the Frenchman’s.

Mat went off to the sleeping-quarters to which he had been directed; but not finding any light, felt his way to the “bunk,” and turned in, though he did not go to sleep, as he had much to divert his thoughts with regard to a proposition which Tom had made him in connection with his taking charge of the out-station. After he had been in bed but a short time, his train of thoughts was diverted by the sound of whispering; then a match was struck apparently close to him, yet he could see no light. Softly creeping out of bed, he was aware of a glimmer which came through a chink in the log-hut, evidently from a room next his own.

Straining his eye to the crack, he saw a human hand on a table—more he could not see. So feeling about he found a beam, and cautiously drew himself up to where the chink was larger, when just as he was about to apply his eye to the crevice, he heard the whispered but unconnected words, “That—gipsy—to-morrow.” Again straining his eyes, he could indistinctly make out two scrubby heads in the dim light beneath him. Whilst he was thus watching, one of the speakers slightly raised his face. Our forester was certain that he had seen those features before, but to obtain a better view he slightly shifted his position, and in doing so knocked off a piece of harness which had been left hanging on the beam, and which fell with a heavy thud on to the earthen floor.

Instantly the light was extinguished, and dead silence reigned.

Mat quickly let himself down, regained his bunk, and sat there till morning, pistol in hand, and nothing more happened to disturb him through what appeared an endless night. Had Jumper been there to guard him, he might have enjoyed some sleep, but Jumper he had always left to guard the squire’s bedroom at the latter’s request.

When the family were assembled for breakfast next morning, the Frenchman, amongst others, greeted Mat most cordially, and asked him how he had slept after his fatiguing journey, not being aware that he had occupied a different room to that which he was accustomed to use.

“Not very well,” replied our forester. “Some one talked all night, and struck lights, and I could not sleep.”

This he said, fixing his piercing eyes on the Frenchman as though he would look him through. But Rayon, whilst avoiding his gaze, answered in an apparently unconcerned manner,—

“Ah, my dear friend, I expect it was _me_ you heard. I had such an attack of indigestion, and when I suffer from that, I walk in my sleep.”

“Oh!” began Mat, still fixing the man with his gaze; but he was interrupted at this point by the entrance of a boy with the mail from Sydney.

One letter was for Rayon, who, after glancing at its contents, said in an apparently agitated voice,—

“Business of great importance obliges me to ‘render’ myself in Sydney. I bought some valuable land there, and my agent, I now hear, has run away with the title-deeds.”

“How dreadful!” said Mrs. Bell. “When will you be back?”

“Directly I find the deeds, madame; I must be off at once, and try to discover the agent.” And bowing profusely in a general way, the Professor left the table.

“And I will see him off,” thought Mat, as he followed the Frenchman out.

Going to the hut, Mat found “his man” in the act of packing his things, and under pretence of helping him to strap his valise, brushed his arm across Rayon’s head, when, presto! off tumbled a wig, disclosing a shock head of hair of a much lighter colour underneath.

A furious oath of a strictly British character escaped Rayon’s lips, but the next instant he collected himself together, apologized most deeply for swearing, and explained that having had a fever, he was obliged to wear a “peruke.”

“Yes, I see,” laughed Mat; “but I wish you would give me the address of the gentleman who cropped you. I want my own hair cut!”

By this time Rayon had mounted a horse which was tied up close to the hut, and which Mat saw was a stranger to the station, a better class of animal than he had seen on the run yet. Feeling himself now safe, the “Professor” turned to Mat with a scowl,—

“You’ll find out before long, you low-bred gipsy.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled our forester, as the man rode away. “You lost your _head_ when you lost your wig. Why didn’t you keep to French, you fool? I mightn’t have understood you _then_. _I do now._”

Rayon seemed half inclined to rein up as he heard this parting shot, but thinking better of it, only replied by an insulting gesture, and the next minute galloped out of sight.

Mat was now in a dilemma.

He would have given anything to have stayed behind, and let the squire and Tabor go on to Tom’s abode; but when, upon meeting with Bell, he suggested this, and gave his reasons, the latter would not listen to him, but for once lost his temper with our hero, replying in an angry tone,—

“Stop behind? We go without you? Don’t talk like that, Mat, when there’s all this bother at the out-station. You don’t know foreigners as I do (the squire had met somewhere about a dozen in his life). Three parts of the French nation wear wigs, just as all the Germans wear spectacles. Tell “Dromoora” to look after the station; we shan’t be gone long. Come.”

Mat was not convinced, but was fain at length to let the old man have his way, as he was getting more purple than ever with rage. So calling up the chief, he put him on his guard, at the same time telling him to warn Tim, who might arrive any hour.

Dromoora replied that he would look out a good deal now, as he had to be all round the country to procure some plain-turkeys, or bustards, which Mrs. Bell wanted him to shoot.

So Mat, bidding farewell to Mrs. Bell and Annie, rode away with his two companions to the out-station.

[1] The writer learnt these verses in Northern Queensland many years ago from an old Bushman (since dead), who had picked them up in the same casual manner.