"Yes, to a great extent. We can nearly always depend on them for certain things—fish, wild geese, and duck and teal and quail. Of course there are a good many of their delicacies that we don't touch—and we had some difficulty in persuading them that we really prefer game fresh! Payment is in goods or baccy, and they soon become pretty shrewd at driving a bargain. We've had to adopt a regular tariff for ordinary things."
"They are good-looking fellows, as aborigines go," remarked Mr. Lester.
"Yes, far before the eastern tribes. They're taller and stronger, and their standard of intelligence is higher. Many of the piccaninnies are quite pretty little chaps—you saw them yesterday. Of course they all become abominably ugly as they grow old. Their features spread and thicken until they are positively repulsive. I don't believe there's any human being less attractive than an ancient Australian black gin!"
Ahead, Dick and young Downes were galloping, picking out a natural steeplechase course over fallen tree trunks, while Bobby followed as best he could on his pony, delighted when he could make him hop over smaller obstacles. Merle looked at them enviously. She knew her pony, Olaf, could jump anything in the paddock, and yet she was out of it, condemned by her own ill-temper to ride sedately with the elders. Her father glanced down at her curiously.
"What's up, Merle? Why don't you join in?"
"Don't want to, thanks," Merle muttered.
"Well, you are turning into an old woman," he said contemptuously.
Merle flushed and said nothing.
"I believe I'm not too old to jump," said Mrs. Lester. "Those logs are very tempting. Can Delight manage them, Mr. Warner?"
"She'll jump whatever you ask her to," he said. "If you'd really like a few jumps, Mrs. Lester, we'll give you a lead."