"As far as I can see," he said, "if we can't find somethin' better than stone-deaf hedgehogs, peevish parrots and funkin' bandicoots we may as well give way to despair."
Bunyip Bluegum was forced to exert his finest oratory to inspire them to another frame of mind. "Let it never be said," he exclaimed, "that the unconquerable hearts of puddin'-owners quailed before a parrot, a hedgehog, or a bandicoot.
"Let hedgehogs deaf go delve and dig,
Immune from loudest howl,
Let bandicoots lump melons big,
Let peevish parrots prowl.
"Shall puddin'-owners bow the head
At such affronts as these?
No, no! March on, by anger led,
Our Puddin' to release.
"Let courage high resolve inflame
Our captive Pud to free;
Our banner wave, our words proclaim
We march to victory!"
"Bravely sung," exclaimed Bill, grasping Bunyip Bluegum by the hand, and they proceeded with expressions of the greatest courage and determination.
As a reward for this renewed activity, they got some useful information from a Rooster who was standing at his front gate looking up and down the road, and wishing to heaven that somebody would come along for him to talk to. They got, in fact, a good deal more information than they asked for, for the Rooster was one of those fine upstanding, bumptious skites who love to talk all day, in the heartiest manner, to total strangers while their wives do the washing.
"Singed possum," he exclaimed, when they had put the usual question to him. "Now, what an extraordinary thing that you should come along and ask me that question. What an astounding and incredible thing that you should actually use the word `singed' in connection with the word `possum.' Though mind you, the word I had in my mind was not 'singed,' but `burning.' And not `possum' but `feathers.' Now, I'll tell you why. Only this morning, as I was standing here, I said to myself "somebody's been burning feathers." I called out at once to the wife—fine woman, the wife, you'll meet her presently—"Have you been burning feathers?" "No" says she. "Well," said I, "If you haven't been burning feathers, somebody else has." At the very moment that I'm repeating the word "feathers" and "burning" you come along and repeat the words "singed" and "possum." Instantly I call to mind that at the identical moment that I smelt something burning, I saw a possum passing this very gate, though whether he happened to be singed or not I didn't inquire."
"Which way did he go?" inquired Bill excitedly.
"Now, let me see," said the Rooster. "He went down the road, turned to the right, gave a jump and a howl, and set off in the direction of Watkin Wombat's summer residence."