“T’anks, t’anks. I vill go for hubble—vat you call—hobble me horse,” he said, taking the animal’s bridle and leading it a short distance from the fire.
“I don’t like the look of him,” whispered Fred to Paul when he was out of earshot.
“Sure, an’ I howld the same opinion,” said Flinders.
“Pooh! Never judge men by their looks,” returned Bevan—“specially in the diggin’s. They’re all blackguards or fools, more or less. This one seems to be one o’ the fools. I’ve seed sitch critters before. They keep fillin’ their little boxes wi’ grass an’ stuff; an’ never makes any use of it that I could see. But every man to his taste. I’ll be bound he’s a good enough feller when ye come to know him, an’ git over yer contempt for his idle ways. Very likely he draws, too—an’ plays the flute; most o’ these furriners do. Come now, Flinders, look alive wi’ the grub.”
When the stranger returned to the fire he spread his huge hands over it and rubbed them with apparent satisfaction.
“Fat a goot t’ing is supper!” he remarked, with a benignant look all round; “the very smell of him be deliciowse!”
“An’ no mistake!” added Flinders. “Sure, the half the good o’ victuals would be lost av they had no smell.”
“Where have you come from, stranger?” asked Bevan, as they were about to begin supper.
“From de Sawbuk Hills,” answered the botanist, filling his mouth with an enormous mass of dried meat.
“Ay, indeed! That’s just where we are goin’ to,” returned Bevan.