In the meantime Tom took his way to the blacks' camp, where he found a large number of the tribe collected; and all in apparent agitation. He at once perceived that some event was about to take place, and he conjectured that what was intended was a sortie on his brother's station. The men were mostly standing before the entrances to their "gunyahs," facing one another in the circular enclosure; and carrying on a united disputation at the highest pitch of their voices, all at one and the same time. They were supported occasionally by the opinions of the gins, which, though volunteered by those soft, if not fair creatures, were, as is usually the case even with their civilized contemporaries, totally unheeded by their lords; who continued their ratiocination with unabated ardour. Whatever was the nature of the discussion in progress, it ceased as Tom rode into the midst of the disputants; and to the sound of the human hubbub succeeded that of the canine, which, but for the reverence the blacks had for their dogs, Tom would have silenced by knocking the brains out of a score of the brutes. He, however, resisted the temptation, and made his way straight up to the abode of the chief, dismounted, fastened his horse to a tree, and advanced to the sable scoundrel with a smile; which was returned by a malignant scowl. This was not lost upon Tom, though he pretended not to have seen it; and, as he sat down upon a log in front of Dugingi, and lit his pipe from a fire-stick, he said:
"Well, Dugingi, what are you up to now? I see you have got something in the wind."
A grunt was the only answer he got to this query; but he pushed his enquiries and demanded: "Are you going to pay us another visit at Strawberry Hill, Dugingi?" Still he elicited no information, and began to be rather disgusted.
"Do you mean to answer me at all, you black thief?" he exclaimed; "see here! if you won't be civil and open your mouth beyond those grunts, I'll break your head." And he raised the heavy riding-whip he carried, as he spoke, in an attitude of menace that made the black shrink to the entrance of his gunyah.
"What's the matter, Mister Tom?" said Jemmy Davies, who came up at this juncture, "why are you 'riled?' Has Dugingi been saying anything to you?"
"No, Jemmy, it is because the wretch won't speak that I am put out. I have asked him what is the cause of this uproar; and what he is up to with the tribe; and the brute won't utter a word, but only answers me with grunts. I am of a good mind to treat him to a sound thrashing for his insolence; but you tell me, Jemmy, what you are after here?"
"Nothing particular, sir," replied the black; "some of our fellows are kicking up a row, and they won't be quiet."
"Well, what are they kicking up the row about, Jemmy?"
"One feller said, that another feller hit the other feller's gin, because the gin beat the other feller's gin's piccanini."
"Well," said Tom, "that is a very lucid explanation of the subject of discussion in your conclave, Jemmy; but I strongly suspect it is not strictly true. Now, tell me, were you not hatching some mischief against us?"