“Mine wear baal clothes,” he said pityingly, as he, with his skin dry directly, looked at their efforts to dry themselves. Then the big tin billy was boiled and tea made, its hot aromatic draughts being very comforting after the soaking, and by that time the tail was ready, enough cold damper being found for that evening’s meal.
But though all was satisfactory so far, Shanter did not join in. He would eat no damper, drink no tea, and he turned from the roast tail with disgust, squatting down over the fire with his arms round his knees, and soon after going off to a spot among the bushes, where he curled up under a blanket and was seen no more that night.
“Poor old Shanter doesn’t seem well,” said Norman.
“No wonder,” replied Tim.
“And he thinks he killed the old man. Why didn’t you speak, Tim?”
“Wasn’t worth it,” was the reply. “I didn’t want to kill the great thing.”
An hour later the boys were under their canvas shelter, forgetting all the excitement of the evening, and dreaming—of being home in Norman’s case, while Rifle dreamed that a huge black came hopping like a kangaroo and carried off Aunt Georgie.
As for Tim, he dreamed of the encounter again, but with this difference—the boomer had still hold of Shanter, and when he took up the gun to fire it would not go off.