CHAPTER X.

THE NARRUNG TRIBE.

"Coming down to see the blacks' camp, mother?" Dick put a head in at the open window of the room where his mother sat talking to Mrs. Warner.

"Do," said the latter, putting down her sewing. "Are the others going, Dick?"

"Mr. Warner and father are waiting. They sent me in."

"Well, we'll all go, if you are not too tired, Mrs. Lester," Mrs. Warner said. "It isn't a long walk."

"I should like it of all things," said Mrs. Lester. "Run for my hat, Dick, please. May we take that nice fat Bobby?--and Merle?"

"Bobby, certainly--he adores the camp. But Merle had better stay--she's in an unfortunate kind of mood," said her mother, with a little sigh. "I tried to get her to go out for a ride with Dick, but she wouldn't. She's very difficult at times."

"Oh, she will grow out of it," Mrs. Lester said, comfortably. "Some children don't like strangers--and I honestly think that a good deal of Merle's trouble is shyness. Don't worry about her, Mrs. Warner."

"I try not to, but she's rather a problem"; and Mrs. Warner's kind face was clouded. "Dick is so nice with her that it is a shame for her to treat him badly."

"Oh, Dick is all right----" Mrs. Lester broke off as her son came running back with her hat, and with Bobby in close attendance. He swung the little fellow upon his back and galloped off with him, Bobby drumming his heels delightedly on his sides, and the two mothers following.

The well-worn footpath they took led them away from the homestead, on the far side from the lake. It snaked through the grass of the home paddock--no black fellow ever makes a straight track--and then turned down a hill towards a bend of the creek, where, half a mile below the house, the camp was situated. The place looked sleepy enough as the visitors came down to it in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the men were away hunting, and a good many of the lubras were in the scrub looking for yams and berries, or gathering lily pods in the lagoon, a wide swamp with stretches of deeper water, that gleamed a mile down the creek. The miserable-looking dogs that always hang about a blacks' camp woke the echoes with sharp barking as the visitors approached; and from the tumble-down wurleys of bark and interlaced boughs came the blacks, men and women, while children of every age suddenly swarmed into view.

"There's old Tarwan--he's the Chief," remarked Mr. Warner.

A tall old fellow came to meet them, giving them a courteous enough greeting in his own language, which the Warners spoke as well as they did their own. They shook hands with him, and the Lesters followed suit.

"He says you are welcome," translated Mr. Warner.

Mr. Lester smiled and said, "Thank you," and produced a large parcel of coarse tobacco which he had brought from the store. It made a great impression upon the tribe, who uttered guttural ejaculations of pleasure, and expressed the opinion that he was a great chief. From his pockets came a few handfuls of sweets for a scramble for the children--but it was a scramble in which the entire camp joined, even old Tarwan finding it impossible to refrain from diving for a brandy-ball that rolled to his very feet; while the other men pursued the sweets as whole-heartedly as any picaninny. When the hunt was over the camp was on very good terms with the new-comers.

The wurleys were pitched here and there, with no attempt at order, Tarwan's standing a little apart from the others. There was no attempt at architecture either--most of them were lean-tos, affording scarcely any protection and looking as though a gust of wind would blow them away. Here and there smouldered the embers of a fire, over which crouched a few very old men and women. Mr. Warner had brought a little tobacco for them, and their bleared old eyes lit with something like delight as they grasped at the gifts. Some concealed the tobacco hurriedly in their bags. A few brought out short black pipes and prepared happily to smoke.

"You can't do much for an old black fellow," Mr. Warner said. "They have only three wants--warmth, food and baccy. The Government grant of blankets supplies most of the warmth, and this tribe lives well enough not to let its old folk be hungry. Baccy is the one real luxury, and there's no doubt it eases old age enormously. I generally carry a few bits for the old folk."

"Money is no good to them, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Lester.

"No, thank goodness, so you don't get the perpetual whine of 'Gib it tickpen,' that is always on the lips of more civilised blacks. If they get an occasional coin it's only valued as an ornament," and he pointed to a young lubra who proudly wore a penny as a locket.

"And do they stay here always?"

"Oh, no. They go off, perhaps in the summer, or if game gets scarce. You don't get any warning. One day they'll be here as usual, the next the camp will be deserted and the tribe 'gone bush.' But they always come back, especially when it's near 'blanket time.' Then the women go fairly far afield for the rushes and grasses they want for their weaving. These women are quite industrious--we can get you anything you'd like in the way of woven mats or baskets or bags."

"They won't do much of that work in the eastern states," said Mr. Lester. "It is becoming a lost art."

"Yes--a pity; for much of it is beautiful work. But the civilisation of cities kills every decent impulse in them. To like the aboriginal you want him as we have him here--neither civilised nor wild. Once he gets to know the meaning of either money or drink he's done for."

There was a cluster of picaninnies round Bobby, staring at him with great, wondering eyes. The little fellow, rosy cheeked and fair haired, in his white linen suit, was a curious contrast to the black babies, most of them innocent of a rag of clothing. Bobby was enjoying himself hugely--making occasional dashes at them, at which they would scatter in every direction, shrieking with laughter.

"The twins were a particular source of interest to them," Mrs. Warner said. "They used to come to the house in flocks, begging to be allowed to see the 'two-pfeller picaninny'--and so many wanted to touch them that we had to make an absolute rule against it for fear the poor babies would be poked to death. Even now I hardly dare to bring them near the camp--not that they will touch them without leave, but they make a ring round them, everyone trying to see them, and blackfellow in the mass is rather overpowering."

"That's so," said Mr. Warner, with feeling. "'Possum fat is one of the chief toilet articles of the camp."

"Ugh," said Mrs. Lester, and shuddered.

"What do the men do?" asked Dick.

"Mighty little. They hunt, of course, whenever necessary, but they're lazy even over hunting. If a gin will keep one supplied with any other food he won't go hunting until he actually craves for meat. They make their weapons--spears, throwing sticks and boomerangs--but they are by no means as skilful with them as they used to be. They like to get a job on the station, but only a few manage to keep their jobs. They can't stand the regular employment. Still, even if they go back to the tribe, they don't forget all their teaching, and we can always count on them for odd help in a time of stress--a big muster, a bush fire, or any other emergency."

"I have one as a stockman," said Mr. Lester. "Very good boy, too."

"Yes. When you get a good boy with stock he's a treasure. It's the work they like best, and they are born riders--but apt to be cruel with horses. We have to keep a sharp eye on them in that respect." He turned to the old chief, and spoke to him in his own language. "Can any of your young men show us how they throw their weapons, Tarwan?"

Tarwan hesitated.

"Nearly all my young men are away," he answered. "But there's one who can throw the boomerang."

"All right; let's see him."

There was a little delay before a tall young fellow appeared from one of the wurleys, with three or four boomerangs in his hand. He walked to the edge of the camp, where the green of the creek bank gave place to tussocky plain, and then, poising himself suddenly, flung one of his weapons, apparently with little effort. The boomerang seemed to move slowly at first--then it appeared to gather way in mid air, whirling round and round until it turned and came back with a low, dropping flight, falling almost at its thrower's feet. Before it had returned he flung the remaining weapons, one after another, so that they seemed to be leaping and pursuing each other in the air, making amazing circles and dives. Two came back to the black fellow so truly that he caught them in his hand. A crow flew slowly across to a tree; he watched it for a moment, and then flung a boomerang that caught it just as it alighted, and brought it like a stone to the ground. A chorus of delight arose from the camp, and half a dozen small boys dashed to pick up the bird. The visitors applauded energetically, and complimented Tarwan.

"Well, I've seen a lot of boomerang throwing, but it always beats me," said Mr. Warner. "Some of these fellows seem to be able to make the blessed thing do anything they like after it leaves the hand. Kind of wireless, I believe! Well, Mrs. Lester, have you seen enough of the gentle aborigine for to-day?"

They bade good-bye to old Tarwan, whose extremely hideous face relaxed into a toothless smile as they shook hands with him. An escort of small boys accompanied them half-way up the hill, until sent back by Mr. Warner, who evidently was a great and terrible being in their eyes, for they scuttled like rabbits when he spoke to them.

Tea awaited them on the wide verandah, with Mrs. Macleay anxiously watching for their arrival, lest her hot cakes should be toughened by waiting. Presently three jackeroos drifted in, tall and brown and silent--two of them young Englishmen gaining colonial experience, and the third a Perth boy, not long emancipated from school. They had been camping at an out station, helping to muster some young stock.

"The black boys out there are keeping pretty close to camp," drawled one of the English lads. "They won't talk, but old Bill Summers says he believes some of the Northern blacks aren't far off."

"Is he taking any extra precautions?" Mr. Warner asked. Summers was an old hand, and could be trusted to deal with any emergency.

"Well, he can't hear anything definite, so he isn't really bothering. But you can be sure he's keeping a wary eye on the cattle."

"Yes. I'm very sure Bill is," said Mr. Warner laughing. "Bill's jumpiness is a family joke where anything black is concerned; the men have a story that he found a black beetle once among some stores and fired his gun at it before they could stop him! These rumours of blacks are always cropping up, but, as I told you, it's two years since we had any trouble."

"All the same, it's a good thing to have a man constantly on the jump," commented Mr. Lester.

"Oh, the best thing possible. Bill's so jumpy that I never have to be jumpy at all!" Mr. Warner answered. "He saves me any amount of worry. How are the cattle looking, Downes?"

"First rate, Bill says. I thought you'd rather have his evidence than mine!" answered the jackeroo, who had a lively sense of his own limitations. "He's awfully pleased with them. The feed out there is better than usual; even the men's horses are in great form. We had some good shooting, too; Bill was anxious that we should fire as many cartridges as possible, as a warning to possible trespassers."

"Very sound," commented his employer. "No," he added hastily. "I don't mean that for a pun! You needn't look as though you suspected me, Dick. Have some more cake?"

"No, thank you," said Dick, laughing.

"When I was a boy I wanted more cake all the time," Mr. Warner said. "Well, if you won't, how about some tennis? You three boys ought to be ready for a game after a week in the wilds."

The jackeroos were very ready, and said so as one man. They trooped off to the court, taking Dick with them.

"You're not really worried about the blacks, Robert?" his wife asked.

"My dear, no! Old Bill will send a boy in to me long before there's any need to worry. Of course I'll keep in touch with him, but my own impression is that the northern tribes have long ago given us up as too hot to handle." He rose, stretching his great form; like many very big men he was constitutionally restless. "Come on, Lester, and we'll go and see if these youngsters have learned as much tennis as you and I have forgotten!"