“Come here, Angland, to the light from the captain’s cabin, and read this.”
The doctor hereupon takes a South Queensland newspaper from his pockets. Claude reads as follows in the Thargomindah Herald, of date May 30th, 1889:
“(From our Correspondents.)
“THE RECENT MURDER BY BLACKS.
“In connection with the recent murder of Edmund Watson, and the attempted murder of James Evans, by blacks at Pine Tree Station, in the Cook district, it has been ascertained that the weapons used were a knife and axe, which were supplied by a station black boy. The perpetrators were caught next day. Every station on the Peninsula is contributing men to give the blacks a lesson.”
“The perpetrators, who were station-hands, were caught next day, as the telegram says, but I suppose the excuse for the slaughter of the whole tribe will not be missed.”
“Well, they don’t believe in Buddha’s assurance that ‘With mercy and forbearance shalt thou disarm every foe,’ up here, evidently,” says Claude, as the two men descend the companion ladder on their way to “turn in.” Down below, an impromptu concert is being given by a cluster of young men round the piano at the end of the saloon, and the performers, who are mostly smoking, turn round constantly for refreshments to the interesting collection of bottles and glasses on the table behind them. A grand finale chorus, composed of a conglomeration of “Ballyhooly” and “Finnegan’s Wake,” is just coming to a close, and the gifted accompanist, being only six bars behind the leading tenor, is hurrying up to be “in at the death” when Dr. Junelle’s, entrance is noticed.
A shout of recognition hails his appearance, and he is forthwith hauled off to the piano, where a dozen voices press him to “name his pison.” Having refreshed himself with a foaming glass of “Irish Liminade,” he protestingly complies with the loudly expressed desires of the company, and throwing himself into the spirit of the fun around him, as only an Irishman can do, at a moment’s notice, forthwith bursts into melody.
“An’ mind you handle your tongues at the chorus, bhoys, for I’m afther thinkin’ it’s me own will want breathing time betwane the varses, the kays are that sticky wid lime juice and tobacco.”
Striking a few preliminary chords to silence the “bhoys” who are all shouting for different songs, the doctor forthwith “trates” the company to the following thoroughly “up-country” song, well-known in Northern Queensland, which goes to the ancient air of “The King of the Cannibal Islands.”