And in another minute he was squatted in front of a very old man, with snowy white hair and beard, who was seated inside a gunyah about big enough for a large dog.
"This is the white man who came from the billabong," said Big Jack, without saluting his parent in any way, "and he wants to speak with you. And, Smith, give me your pipe and bacca."
For a moment Smith resented the tone in which the man said this, but knowing how absurd the impulse was, to say nothing of its uselessness, he handed his smoking implements over, together with his knife.
"What is this?" asked Jack. And Smith had to explain what it was. He saw Jack go back to the fire, where he was presently surrounded by a crowd, to whom he expatiated on the wonders of the new weapon, which, as a cutting instrument, far surpassed anything they possessed. Then Smith turned to the old man, who, if unable to fight, showed no particular sign of great senility.
"Where did your tribe come from, father?" said Smith.
"From the east, Smith. Is your name Smith? I remember my father speaking of a man called Smith," said the old man. "But that is a long time ago. I was young then, quite young, and we was fur from this 'ere place."
He mumbled a little as his mind went back. But his talk was easier to Smith than that of the younger generations. It was more like ordinary vulgar English, and not so mixed with aboriginal terms.
"But who was your father, old man?" asked Smith.
"Let me think a bit. It was a long time ago," said he, "and I have almost forgotten. But now I remember—yes, I remember. He was a very big man, and he and Smith were together when they took to the bush. Yes, it was Smith, but I never knew him. He was killed over yonder, before I was born."
And he returned upon the strange memories of the long plains which they had overpast.