“Yes,” he said, arguing it out. “This one fish alright,” and then he told the priest that they had christened him with water, and called him Charlie, so he had christened his beef with water and called it fish. “You bin chuck ‘em water longa me, you bin call me Charlie. Alright me bin chuck ‘em water longa beef, me bin call fish,” and he quietly went on eating his fish.
Charlie came up to the house a few days after the christening, and very rudely demanded a “big mob of chewbac.”
I felt very angry with him for coming to me like this when he knew I was alone, so I said as quietly as I could—
“Very well, I’ll give you a big mob of something, Charlie,” and before he quite knew what had happened he was looking at my revolver, as I pointed it straight at him.
Poor Charlie, he could hardly be seen for the dust he made, in his hurry to get out of revolver range. That was the first and last time I had to take my revolver to a blackfellow, but Charlie was supposed to be civilized, you see. You cannot change a blackfellow into a white man, if you try; you only make a bad cunning sly old blackfellow. I don’t mean you can’t make a blackfellow into a better blackfellow. I know that can be done, if he is kept a blackfellow, true to his blackfellow instincts.
After this I expected that Charlie would keep out of my way, but he didn’t; he now seemed to consider himself a very special friend of mine.
“My word, Missus! you cheeky fellow alright,” he said next morning, when I went down to the camp, and he sat in front of a little circle of blackfellows, looking up at me in admiration.
“My word!” echoed the old fellows, for Charlie had told his story, and my old friends, being blackfellows, were full of reverence for any one who was a “cheeky fellow.”
As we sat talking, Charlie told us that God made everything a white man has—trains and watches and horses, and that He showed him how to know miles. A blackfellow can see nothing to mark a mile, and wonders how the white man can. “Me plenty savey,” said Charlie, “me savey count all about,” and he began to count his fingers. He kept getting mixed, and that meant beginning at his thumb again, and it was not till after many struggles that he managed to count to five.
“My word!” everybody said, and Charlie swelled with pride. You see a blackfellow only counts up to two. His arithmetic is very simple, just—One, Two, Little Mob, Big Mob, so it was no wonder we were all amazed at Charlie.