A scarcely audible, inhuman wail—pathetically staccato—told of unceasing pain. Whomsoever the bag contained was enduring martyrdom.
“That fella, him no good. Close up finis. B'mbi me plant'm along scrub.”
Thus spoke the pleasant-faced gin who passed with the dilly-bag along a narrow aisle of the jungle, intent upon ridding herself of a vexatious encumbrance, and at the same time performing the rite of unrighteous burial.
Squirming in dirt was a naked infant-black, foul, and but a few days old.
“Mother belonga that fella him dead—finis. That fella, him no good. Him sing out all a time. More better tchuck'm away.”
Frail outcast—the very scum of a blacks' camp, its repulsiveness was tragic. Dirt and odour sickened, yet its appeal was irresistible. That universal language, a human cry, which everywhere and always quickened the pulse, stirred pity to its depths. I seized the stained bag (it was a desperate deed) and, breaking down its worn sides, displayed its contents—a girl in all the infamy of neglect, starvation, and dirt—a panting mummy reeking with offence.
Spreading out a handkerchief, I put the awful atom on it gingerly, while the foster-mother reiterated her counsel to “tchuck'm alonga scrub.”
In the guise of a frail bundle at arm's-length was Soosie conducted to a civilised home.
Dismay tempered with pity greeted her.
“How horrible! How dirty!”