“Have whom?” cried Nic; but he repented directly, for Brookes turned and gave him another curious look.
“Why, that there dingo, sir,” said Sam.
“Cooey—cooey!” came from a distance, as the faint barking of the dogs ceased; and Nic pressed forward, to arrive, in a quarter of a mile or so, at a dense thicket, within which he could see the blacks and hear the dogs whining and snuffling about.
“Got him?” cried Nic, with an intense feeling of relief.
“Mine help dog follow find him,” cried Bungarolo with a broad grin; and the boy urged his horse in through the bushes, to find a skin tossed down, and plenty of evidence of a sheep having been lately killed there.
He was staring down at the remains, while the dogs stood whining and snuffling round, eager to make a feast of the offal, but kept back by the blacks, who each held a nulla-nulla with its melon-shaped knob in front of their noses.
“He! he!” laughed Brookes. “That’s a clever sort o’ dingo, Sam. I never see one skin his sheep before and dress him.”
Old Sam rubbed one side of his nose and looked at Nic, who turned sharply to the blacks.
“Here, you!” he cried angrily—“you killed this sheep!”
“Baal! Baal!” they cried in angry chorus. “No kill—no mumkull sheep fellow. Plenty mutton—plenty. White Mary gib plenty mutton. You pidney (know).”