‘You cannot make these black fellows understand what civilization means,’ said Brody.
‘Rum,’ grunted a quiet-looking man, who had scarcely spoken during the evening.
‘When Jim Lee offers a remark, which you may have observed is seldom,’ said Brody, ‘it is generally to the point. Undoubtedly rum and civilization go hand in hand where the blacks are concerned. Apart from rum, however, the beggars are too infernally stupid to learn anything.’
‘Yacka seems fairly intelligent,’ said Edgar.
‘I make an exception of Yacka,’ said Ben. ‘He’s sharp enough, and the way he carves emu eggs and boomerangs is a caution. The ideas that chap can put on an emu egg beat creation. But he’s a thorough wild man, although he does talk English well, and has ideas above his fellows. You could no more get Yacka to conform to our idea of civilized behaviour than you could train a monkey to keep out of mischief. Yacka is full of mischief, but it’s a humorous sort of mischief, and does not do much harm.’
‘Yacka’s the only useful black we have around here,’ said Will Henton. ‘He’s a splendid fag in the cricket field, and when he’s extra good we let him handle a bat. He shapes well, too, and I’m inclined to think Yacka might be developed into a decent cricketer. He rides well, and that’s more than the other fellows do; and when he’s handled my gun I’ve seen him make some fair shots. The rummy part of the business is that Yacka won’t be civilized, as Ben says, and you can’t get him to leave the camp.’
Edgar Foster thought a good deal about Yacka that night, and resolved to try and make friends with him, and learn something of his past life, which he felt sure would be interesting.
CHAPTER XI.
YACKA THE BLACK.
Edgar Foster, after six months’ experience on Yanda Station, liked the life very much. He was popular with the hands, and Ben Brody had taken to him in a manner that caused men to marvel. It was seldom Brody made a chum of anyone, but he had done so of Edgar, who was young enough to be his son.
It was an intense relief to Edgar when he received letters from his father and sister. They were letters such as might have been expected from them, and the way in which they referred to the terrible loss of the Distant Shore brought tears into Edgar’s eyes. His father enclosed him a draft, and said he was proud of his son, and knew he had risked his life to save Captain Manton’s child. Inquiries had been made in every direction, but no relations had been found to claim little Eva. Captain Manton had not saved much money, and what he had was in the hands of the shipping company to which the Distant Shore belonged.