On leaving Macumba, continuing along by the Stevenson, sandy flats and low sandhills were encountered as far as the Government well (The Willow), 14 miles on. So also to the next well, Oolaballana (16 miles). Then very rough stony tablelands again.
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After getting out of the sand at a point where a branch track turns off to Dalhousie, I came upon one of that station's horse-teams. A midday meal was being prepared. There were two strapping blackfellows and a white boy whom I took to be 13 or 14 years of age. A wheat sack had been laid upon the ground, and on it had been placed a damper, corned beef, jam, knife and fork, and a pannikin. Saying "good-day" to the juvenile, I sat myself beside him. The niggers, gaping open-mouthed at the machine, were squatting in the shade of an adjacent tree. Three quart pots were standing pressed in against the burning wood of a newly lighted fire.
"Where's the boss?" I inquired after a few words.
The youth smiled. "I am the boss," he said, reaching an arm out towards a small linen tea bag, then standing up to throw half a handful into each quart pot. Cutting off a few slices from the damper, and sorting out "black's favorite" pieces of meat, he gave a low short whistle—and up marched the two sable attendants. To these he handed each his dole of "tucker"; they received it in sober silence.
"You wantem more, you sing out," he added as, taking with them two of the quart pots, they returned to their proper distance.
This custom of handing the blacks their allowance of food, or laying it on the ground and whistling for them to come and take it, prevails all through the country.
I admired this manly child's way exceedingly. In "bossing" them he spoke very civilly to the niggers, in a quiet, cool, masterful manner. He offered to load me up with bread and meat, but as I had resolved to break myself in to going on short commons I would accept nothing more than a couple of apples. The dray, I believe, had been down to Oodnadatta.
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