Billy, on his part, is not slow to avail himself of his host’s invitation, and sinking down upon the cold rock floor goes immediately to sleep.
If it should appear, to any of our readers to border upon the incredible, that two men should thus calmly sleep and smoke in the face of danger, that to one inexperienced in the wilder phases of bush-life would appear to demand the utmost vigilance, we can only reply by offering as our defence, firstly, the old saying that “truth is oftentimes stranger than fiction;” and, secondly, that in this scene, as in each of our main incidents, we have endeavoured to sketch from memory a faithful if humble representation of an actual occurrence, in preference to indulging what latent talents we may possess in the walks of imaginative scene-painting.
Mais revenons à nos moutons. The old “hatter” sits silently smoking; sometimes glancing upwards towards the roof of the cave, where the almost obliterated representations of white and red hands—the work of previous aboriginal occupants of the retreat—are still discernible, and at others fixing his ferret-like, bloodshot eyes upon the dark, hardship-lined face of the slumbering Billy, as the firelight dances upon its swarthy surface. Nothing appears to disturb the well-earned repose of the two men, save a small black snake that comes wriggling in to enjoy the warmth of the blazing branches, and meets with a warmer reception than it had anticipated. Then the billy at last splutters out its welcome signal, and the old digger and his companion proceed to indulge that taste that has made Australians the greatest consumers of tea, per head, in the world.
“Them Myalls (wild natives) don’t seem to mean business to-night,” observes Billy’s host, when the silent meal is finished, as he hands our black friend a piece of “nailrod” with which to charge his evening pipe.
“I think they wait, boss. Watch an hour, perhaps two or three, then throw spears.” Billy leans forward as he speaks to heat a piece of tobacco in the embers, in order to soften the flinty morsel, and thereby facilitate the operation of cutting it into shreds.
“I think those beggars,” jerking his black thumb towards the darkness outside the cave entrance, “I think those beggars come by-and-by. Urraurruna (take care); I think they come presently.”
Then both men relapse again into silence, each engaged with his own unpleasant thoughts. The “hatter,” although somewhat favourably prepossessed with Billy’s appearance, and glad of a companion for the time being, has that instinctive distrust of a “nigger” common to most Australian bushmen. He does not care altogether for the presence of his new acquaintance in the cave, and even considers, for a moment, what would be the easiest way of getting rid of him, and making him seek another shelter for the night. But the feeling of gratitude to Billy for the service he has rendered that day finally prevails, and the old man determines to hear the “boy” further explain his appearance in the gorge before he acts.
Billy, on his part, although naturally of a sanguine turn of mind (as indeed all his race are), and little given to ruminating upon the sorrows of to-morrow, is trying to puzzle out a plan of future operations, whose main object is to discover the nephew of his late employer. He notices the half-concealed, suspicious glances of his dirty old host, and is almost tempted to offer to seek other lodgings, when the latter breaks the silence once more.
“’Spose you’re a runaway nigger? Station or police?”
“Yes, boss, I’m a runaway. But I’ve never worked on station. Always with the doctor. All my time mining and cooking for the old man.”