was somewhat older than the others; Fiddle-Head, so
called because of his long thin face; and Jack Johnson, a native of
splendid physique from one of the great rivers which flow into the Gulf
of Carpentaria. Another black stockman had stayed behind to help Mick
Darby and the white boys with the packs. His name was Poona, and he
understood station ways better than the others, because Dan Collins had
taken him in hand when he was a piccaninny, and taught him to be very
useful.

Just before dinner, when Mick was busy mending a pack-bag and Sax and
Vaughan were having their first lesson in making waxed thread for
sewing leather, Poona came up to the drover with another black-fellow.
His companion was naked except for a rope of hair tied round his waist
from which a small apron hung down. Sax looked up and recognized him
immediately; it was the native with the mutilated hand who had been
such a good friend to the white boy. Stobart was about to call out,
when the man put his finger on his thick black lips and pointed to the
Musgraves. He did this three times, and shook his head so earnestly
that Sax knew that, for some reason or another, the black did not want
to be recognized.

Mick Darby finished a row of stitching and then paid attention to the
two men who were standing so silently in front of him, waiting the
pleasure of the white man. He knew Poona, but the presence of the
other native needed explaining. "What name, Poona?" he asked.

"You want um 'nother boy go mustering?" asked Poona, pointing to his
companion.

Mick looked at the naked man for a moment, and then asked: "Is he any
good?"

"Yah. Him bin good fella," replied Poona eagerly. "Him bin ride like
blazes. Him work one time longa Eridunda," mentioning a famous station
farther north. This was not true. The warragul black had never worked
on a station in his life and knew very little of the ways of white men.
He was a Musgrave nigger who had recently come down from the Ranges.
Mick wanted as many helpers as he could get, for the muster was to be a
big one, and he engaged the newcomer without further inquiries.

"All right," he said. "What's his name?"

Poona grinned and pronounced a name which he knew was quite impossible
for a white man's tongue to manage. Everybody laughed, including the
newcomer, who put up his mutilated hand to cover his grinning mouth.
Mick noticed the deformity at once. The man's hand, with its three
fingers set wid