Shanter nodded his head, and smiled more widely.
“Mumkull all a black fellow—all run away. Budgery nulla-nulla. Plenty mine.”
He whirled his club round and hurled it at the nearest tree, which it struck full in the centre of the trunk. Then as he picked it up—
“Shall we trust to what he said? If he is right, we needn’t go scouting,” said Norman.
“Let’s go back and tell uncle,” suggested Tim. “There’s no need to go on the look-out,” cried Rifle.
“Those people are Tam o’ Shanter’s enemies, and he would not go on like this if they had not gone.—I say, I want to see you use this,” he continued, as he touched one of the flat pieces of wood, the black having two now stuck in his waistband.
“Boomerang,” cried the black, taking out the heavy pieces of wood, one of which was very much curved, rounded over one side, flat on the other, both having sharpened edges, such as would make them useful in times of emergency as wooden swords. “Boomerang,” he said again.
“Oh yes; I know what you call them,” said Rifle; “but I want to see them thrown.”
As he spoke he took hold of the straighter weapon and made believe to hurl it.
“No budgery,” cried the man, taking the weapon.