But his chum didn't answer; he rose and stood by the creek bank.
"Do you think there's as much water in it as there was?" he asked, and the Baker rose.
"It may be my bloomin' fancy, but I don't think as there is," he allowed.
"Then this," said Smith, "is a billabong, and we've been fooled."
The Baker, who had not the faintest notion of what a billabong was, or how it differed in its nature from the common creek, looked extremely puzzled.
"What the blue blazes is a billy bong?" he asked. "Water that runs is a creek. At least that's my h'idea. What is a billy bong, or what d'ye call it?"
Smith went back to his tea, and was followed by the Baker.
"A billabong," he said a little didactically, "is a thing I never heard of in any other country but this hot jewel of the beautiful British Empire. It doesn't run into a river at all. What do you think we shall find at the end of this?"
The Baker shook his head.
"A bit of a swamp maybe, or else it will just go on and on till the bed dries out," said Smith. "For a billabong runs out of a river, not into it."