"Yes. When you get a good boy with stock he's a treasure. It's the work they like best, and they are born riders—but apt to be cruel with horses. We have to keep a sharp eye on them in that respect." He turned to the old chief, and spoke to him in his own language. "Can any of your young men show us how they throw their weapons, Tarwan?"
Tarwan hesitated.
"Nearly all my young men are away," he answered. "But there's one who can throw the boomerang."
"All right; let's see him."
There was a little delay before a tall young fellow appeared from one of the wurleys, with three or four boomerangs in his hand. He walked to the edge of the camp, where the green of the creek bank gave place to tussocky plain, and then, poising himself suddenly, flung one of his weapons, apparently with little effort. The boomerang seemed to move slowly at first—then it appeared to gather way in mid air, whirling round and round until it turned and came back with a low, dropping flight, falling almost at its thrower's feet. Before it had returned he flung the remaining weapons, one after another, so that they seemed to be leaping and pursuing each other in the air, making amazing circles and dives. Two came back to the black fellow so truly that he caught them in his hand. A crow flew slowly across to a tree; he watched it for a moment, and then flung a boomerang that caught it just as it alighted, and brought it like a stone to the ground. A chorus of delight arose from the camp, and half a dozen small boys dashed to pick up the bird. The visitors applauded energetically, and complimented Tarwan.
"Well, I've seen a lot of boomerang throwing, but it always beats me," said Mr. Warner. "Some of these fellows seem to be able to make the blessed thing do anything they like after it leaves the hand. Kind of wireless, I believe! Well, Mrs. Lester, have you seen enough of the gentle aborigine for to-day?"
They bade good-bye to old Tarwan, whose extremely hideous face relaxed into a toothless smile as they shook hands with him. An escort of small boys accompanied them half-way up the hill, until sent back by Mr. Warner, who evidently was a great and terrible being in their eyes, for they scuttled like rabbits when he spoke to them.
Tea awaited them on the wide verandah, with Mrs. Macleay anxiously watching for their arrival, lest her hot cakes should be toughened by waiting. Presently three jackeroos drifted in, tall and brown and silent—two of them young Englishmen gaining colonial experience, and the third a Perth boy, not long emancipated from school. They had been camping at an out station, helping to muster some young stock.
"The black boys out there are keeping pretty close to camp," drawled one of the English lads. "They won't talk, but old Bill Summers says he believes some of the Northern blacks aren't far off."
"Is he taking any extra precautions?" Mr. Warner asked. Summers was an old hand, and could be trusted to deal with any emergency.