‘Take another tumbler, old man, after all that running,’ suggested Parklands. ‘I have had two sleeps and gone over all my stock bargains for the next three months since you commenced the life and times of that nigger. As a fictionist—historian, I mean—you can’t be licked.’
‘Mr. a—Sparks,’ exclaimed Ernest, who had become confused between Parklands’ real name and sobriquet, ‘pray permit Mr. Brandon to conclude his deeply interesting tale. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
Sparks murmured something about the Tract Society, and affected to compose himself to sleep. Brandon having compounded a restorative, then proceeded.
‘When Will Lorton arrived at the camp day was just breaking. There were a dozen “goondies” to be visited, and the inmates started to their work. Each black fellow, at the reveille, caught up a few waddies, and made tracks for the wash-pen, with his hands full of blazing mulga bark, waving about his body. Hutkeeper had been called, but to his surprise Will found, on passing his goondi a second time, that he had not gone with the others. Having a light switch in his hand, he thoughtlessly gave him an admonitory tap across his tattooed shoulders. Hutkeeper at once seized his nulla in one hand, stuck his tomahawk in his belt, his sole article of clothing, and made towards the washpool with his firebark in his left hand.
‘Now Lorton, having finished his work at the camp, turned to walk back to breakfast. He had not gone a dozen paces when a crushing blow fell on the back of his head. He staggered forward, and turning received another, which laid open his head, and dropped him in his tracks. As he fell he saw Hutkeeper leap at him with upraised tomahawk.
‘What saved his life was this. Two or three blacks still in camp, having a wholesome fear of tribal expiation at the hands of the native troopers, seized the infuriated savage, and diverted the blows of his tomahawk. In the meanwhile Will Lorton, only temporarily “kilt,” rose dizzily to his feet, and catching the foe a straight blow behind the ear, laid out that gentleman as neatly as if he had been dropped with his own weapon. He then threw himself upon the prostrate chieftain and wrested his arms from him. Before he could seize him, however, the slippery savage, eluding his grasp, was bounding through the trees, and soon after passed out of sight. Poor Will reached the home station covered with blood, and looking particularly faint.
‘An angry man, ye may opine,
Was he, the proud Count Palatine,
which means that I, Aymer Brandon, was wroth exceedingly at this deed of blood (literally, indeed, the bright Norman blood of which Master Will was depleted on the occasion made a very pretty pool, artistically considered, on the earthen floor of his room). So “boot and saddle” was the order of the day.’
‘Now we’re coming to it,’ exclaimed Mr. Parklands, in a tone of deep satisfaction. ‘This is the sort of literature I go in for—incident, old man—lots of incident—eh, Mr. Neuchamp, isn’t that your style? Now, why couldn’t you have given us that first, old man, like this: “One fine morning, on the Paroo, Will Lorton went to the blacks’ camp, didn’t look behind him, and fell against a nulla, which happened to be up at the time.”’