“Oh, I don’t really think that it is worth while my going into the long exposition of household arrangements that an explanation would necessitate.”
Mr. Giles looks sideways at the calm dark eyes that are lazily looking upwards, as their owner sits slowly rocking her chair by his side.
“I’ll soon fix their hash for them,” he growls forth at last, feeling glad of the opportunity to wreak his anger on somebody. Then he whistles upon the boatswain’s call, which had once before that morning heralded a punishment, and shortly a big native appears, whose well-pronounced nasal bones proclaim him to belong to a Cape York or Torres Straits tribe. The black’s oily face is surmounted by an old cabbage-tree hat, and he wears trousers and shirt like the other boys; but he also rejoices in a pair of Blucher boots, of which he is inordinately proud.
“Here, Carlo,” says Mr. Giles, in the curious pigeon-English already referred to, “you know that um fellow waddy (that stick); him sit down alonger office (it is in the office); mine beat it black fellow (my black fellow beater). You fetch um along.” The oily face lights up with a smile of anticipation, for he it is that generally acts the part of executioner, and “combs down the gals” by Marmie’s orders when it is needed in the cause of discipline. As a member of an alien tribe, Carlo returns the hatred of the station blacks with interest.
The waddy, a long-handled “cat” of six tails, made of leather, is brought to Mr. Giles.
“Go and catch Lucy and Dina,” says that gentleman.
Both uncle and niece sit in silence till the girls arrive, the two miserable creatures having been found at the collection of huts close by, known as the native camp, where they had run to hide on seeing Carlo take the whip to the “boss.”
“Don’t move till I come back. Won’t be long,” murmurs the squatter rising, and presently the yells and screams of the two girls are heard down by the stockyard, where the boss is standing admiring their graceful, naked bodies as they writhe beneath the lash wielded by the brawny Carlo.
Mr. Giles returns quite an altered man. Either the enjoyable sight he has just witnessed, or a couple of “pegs” of whisky he swallowed medicinally afterwards, has sweetened his soul for the time being.
“Well, niece,” he said, sitting down, “I’ve done your little job. And now I want you to listen to what I’m going to tell you, and tell me what you think of it.” Miss Mundella’s handsome, white-draped figure rocks a little faster than before, but her eyes remain still fixed on the leaves above her head.