on aware of something else being wrong, for
Brookes was rating the three blacks, who had thoroughly enjoyed their
truant holiday, and would have stayed away for days in the myall scrub,
but the bush in wet weather is to a blackfellow not pleasant, from the
showers of drops falling upon his unclothed skin. Consequently the
storm had sent them back, and they were all found clothed and curled up
fast asleep in the wool-shed by old Sam, who had roused them up.

His words had brought Brookes on the scene, armed with a stout stick,
with which he was thrashing them, while the rascals were hopping about
in a peculiar shuffling dance, whose steps consisted in every one
wanting to be at the back and pushing his fellow to the front.

Bungarolo was the least adept player, and Damper and Rigar managed to
keep him before them as a kind of breastwork or shield, behind which
they could escape the threatening stick.

"Baal mumkull! baal mumkull! (don't kill)," he kept crying piteously.

"But that's all you're fit for, you lazy rascals. Where did you go?"

"Plenty go find yarraman. Budgery yarraman (good horses). Plenty go
find. Run away."

"I don't believe it. What horses ran away?"

"Kimmeroi, bulla, metancoly (one, two, ever so many)," cried Rigar, from
the back.

"It's all a lie. Come: out with you!"

"No, leave him alone, Brookes," said Nic sternly. "I'll have no more
quarrelling to-day."

The man faced round sharply.

"Look here, young master, are you going to manage this here station, or
am I?" he cried.

"I am, as far as I know; and I won't have the black-fellows knocked
about."

The three culprits understood enough English to grasp his meaning, and
burst out together in tones of reproach:

"Baal plenty stick. No Nic coolla (angry). Black-fellow nangery
(stay), do lot work."

"Work! Yes," cried Nic. "Go away with you, and begin."

The three blacks set up a shout like school-children who had escaped
punishment, and danced and capered off to the work that they had left
the day before.

"Look here, sir--" began Brookes again.

"Why don't you hold your tongue, Brooky?" cried old Sam. "You ain't
looked in the glass this morning, or you'd see enough mischief was done
yesterday."

"Who spoke to you?" cried Brookes fiercely.

"Not you, or you'd get on better. Young master's quite right. You
can't deal with the blacks that way."

"Breakfast!" cried a clear voice; and Nic turned to find his siste