“Mumkull black fellow.” Then, taking the other very much curved piece of wood, he gave it a flourish. “Mumkull boomer.”
“Who’s boomer?” said Norman. “Black fellow?”
Shanter gesticulated and flourished his curved weapon, shook his head, stamped, and cried, “No black fellow. Boomer-boomer.”
“Well, who’s boomer?” cried Rifle. “A black fellow?”
“No, no. Mumkull plenty boomer.”
He dropped spear, nulla, and boomerangs, stooped a little, drooped his hands before him, and bent his head down, pretending to nibble at the grass, after which he made a little bound, then another; then a few jumps, raised himself up and looked round over his shoulder, as if in search of danger, and then went off in a series of wonderful leaps, returning directly grinning.
“Boomer,” he cried; “boomer.”
“He means kangaroo,” cried Tim, excitedly.
“Of course he does,” said Rifle. “Boomer-kangaroo.”
“Kangaroo boomer,” replied the black eagerly. “Boomer.” Then taking the straighter weapon, he hurled it forcibly, and sent it skimming over the ground with such unerring aim that it struck a tree fifty yards away and fell. “Mumkull black fellow,” he cried laughing.