“Why, it’s old Shanter,” cried Rifle, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which the black joined, showing his white teeth with childish delight as he came close up, holding out something hung on the end of his spear, and carrying what appeared to be a bag made of bark in his left hand, in company with his boomerang, his war-club being stuck in the skin loin-cloth which was the only garment he wore.
“White Mary—big white Mary,” he cried, while every eye scanned the trees behind him, but only for a moment or two, as all felt now that it was another false alarm.
“What do you want?” said the captain rather angrily, for he was vexed at the black’s arrival.
“Shanter want big white Mary,” cried the black; and he shook the objects on his spear, which proved to be a couple of opossum-like animals evidently freshly killed, and then held out his bark basket or bag.
“What for?” cried Norman.
“Good eat. Good, nice;” and then as, seeing there was no danger, the ladies came forward, the black went to Aunt Georgie, and held the bag to her. “Good, cook, fire,” he said. “Big white Mary. Little white Marys—” Then he stopped short looking at Mrs Bedford, as if puzzled what to call her. But a gleam of intelligence shot across his face, and he cried, “Other white Mary.”
“He’s brought these for us to eat,” said Rifle.
“Good eat,” said the black. “Big white Mary gib soff damper.”
He nodded and smiled triumphantly from one to the other.
“Put away the guns,” said the captain angrily. “Here, I cannot have this black crow haunting our camp. He’ll be bringing his tribe to pester us. What would you do, Jack?”