“But the girl, Jimmy, the girl!”
“Poor gin tumble down.”
“I—Jimmy,” Stanesby caught him by the shoulder, and shook him violently, and Turner knew by the change in his voice that his fears were roused at last, “how did you know this? When did you hear it?”
“Sit down along a bush,” said Jimmy again. His vocabulary was limited.
“But when—when? It must have been all right when you left?”
“Blackfellow pull along a humpy to-night,” said Jimmy, nodding his head solemnly, feeling that at last he had got a serious hearing, and hoping to hear no more about the mare.
“But the girl—the girl! Where’s the girl?”
“That one myall hit him gin along a cobra big fellow nulla-nulla? Gin tumble down.” {1}
“But—my God! what ‘d you leave her there for?”
“Myall got ‘em nulla-nulla for this fellow.”