But this was too much for the girl. If this strange-looking man didn't know where Wonga Wonga was, and couldn't believe she knew her own language, he was evidently neither more nor less than a fool.
She didn't answer, and turned away. As she went, two of the men came from the river with some fish. They were absolute savages to look at. A Fuegian, or the wildest Tartar on the Siberian steppes was a civilised being to them.
Smith rose, and said, "Good-morning."
The bigger man of the two looked at him with peculiar apprehension, mixed with some ferocity, and passed on, but the younger, who was far more open countenanced, returned his salutation civilly.
"Will you have a fish?" he asked, and without waiting for acceptance, he dropped a Murray cod or big barbel at Smith's feet.
"Thank you," said Smith, and as the man looked quite as friendly as his gift showed, he invited him to sit down and palaver. But it was a continual effort for him to comprehend that the other understood him if he used any but the very easiest words. And, indeed, he soon discovered that many abstract terms were beyond them.
"How long will the other men be away?" he asked, as he and the prehistoric person sat on a log, and the Baker lay on the ground.
"Not long, mate," said his friend. "When they have killed all the Emus they find."
"Emus?" said Smith.
And his new pal explained that he meant a tribe of black-fellows.