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Those wild black men had creeds and poetic legends of their bush world, much the same as the wild white men. For some historic ancestor’s deed with the boomerang filthy old men and women were waited on by the low-caste tribe, who gazed upon their aboriginal gentry with awestruck eyes, and pushed hot, cooked white grubs and eel-like snakes into the big black lips of the aristocrats, who sat by the camp fire and opened their huge mouths in a listless way, their black, protruding bellies heaving in the bloated affluence of their high lineage.
CHAPTER XXI
At Sea in Dreams—In London Town—Off to Bordeaux—Our Chateau—In Biarritz—Old Madrid—I am a Spanish Troubadour—Mercedes—My old Comrade ceases to sing
I am a rolling, rolling stone;
Stern-fashioned in the mould