"What's your name, mate?" asked Smith.
"Billy."
"Billy; and what else?"
But this the man didn't comprehend. He was Billy, and was the son of Bill who was out Emu-hunting, and the man who didn't understand that must be a fool. That was his opinion.
And now it began to dawn on Smith that the accent, which had sounded so strange even to the Baker, was nothing else than a variation, or descendant, of the purest Cockney. The aspirates were invariably omitted, and most, if not all, the a's had come i's, and the open o of English was undeniably the u with the umlaut of German. What other changes had taken place were due, probably, to the influence of climate, and some black-fellow lingo, which they could all talk fluently, and mixed with their English, especially when talking together.
But now Bill wanted to satisfy his curiosity.
"Give me the smoke thing you gave Big Jack yesterday," he said to the Baker.
And as the Baker filled it, some of the others came round. When it was filled, Mandeville struck a match on the seat of his trousers, and this caused a monstrous and absurd commotion. One of the men at last grabbed hold of Mandeville, and insisted on examining his breeches, and the Baker only obtained release by striking another match. They stood a little further off then, and were terribly suspicious. But Bill tried the pipe very courageously.
"That's enough," said Smith, when he had had a few puffs, "or else you will be very sick."
But Bill was loth to relinquish the extraordinary object he held.