The well-worn footpath they took led them away from the homestead, on the far side from the lake. It snaked through the grass of the home paddock—no black fellow ever makes a straight track—and then turned down a hill towards a bend of the creek, where, half a mile below the house, the camp was situated. The place looked sleepy enough as the visitors came down to it in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the men were away hunting, and a good many of the lubras were in the scrub looking for yams and berries, or gathering lily pods in the lagoon, a wide swamp with stretches of deeper water, that gleamed a mile down the creek. The miserable-looking dogs that always hang about a blacks' camp woke the echoes with sharp barking as the visitors approached; and from the tumble-down wurleys of bark and interlaced boughs came the blacks, men and women, while children of every age suddenly swarmed into view.
"There's old Tarwan—he's the Chief," remarked Mr. Warner.
A tall old fellow came to meet them, giving them a courteous enough greeting in his own language, which the Warners spoke as well as they did their own. They shook hands with him, and the Lesters followed suit.
"He says you are welcome," translated Mr. Warner.
Mr. Lester smiled and said, "Thank you," and produced a large parcel of coarse tobacco which he had brought from the store. It made a great impression upon the tribe, who uttered guttural ejaculations of pleasure, and expressed the opinion that he was a great chief. From his pockets came a few handfuls of sweets for a scramble for the children—but it was a scramble in which the entire camp joined, even old Tarwan finding it impossible to refrain from diving for a brandy-ball that rolled to his very feet; while the other men pursued the sweets as whole-heartedly as any picaninny. When the hunt was over the camp was on very good terms with the new-comers.
The wurleys were pitched here and there, with no attempt at order, Tarwan's standing a little apart from the others. There was no attempt at architecture either—most of them were lean-tos, affording scarcely any protection and looking as though a gust of wind would blow them away. Here and there smouldered the embers of a fire, over which crouched a few very old men and women. Mr. Warner had brought a little tobacco for them, and their bleared old eyes lit with something like delight as they grasped at the gifts. Some concealed the tobacco hurriedly in their bags. A few brought out short black pipes and prepared happily to smoke.
"You can't do much for an old black fellow," Mr. Warner said. "They have only three wants—warmth, food and baccy. The Government grant of blankets supplies most of the warmth, and this tribe lives well enough not to let its old folk be hungry. Baccy is the one real luxury, and there's no doubt it eases old age enormously. I generally carry a few bits for the old folk."
"Money is no good to them, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Lester.
"No, thank goodness, so you don't get the perpetual whine of 'Gib it tickpen,' that is always on the lips of more civilised blacks. If they get an occasional coin it's only valued as an ornament," and he pointed to a young lubra who proudly wore a penny as a locket.
"And do they stay here always?"