"according to smith's notion, it's too big to be black-fellows," said the baker. "but black or white, it's all one! and here goes for death or glory, spears or grub."

and he cooeed very loudly, standing right out in the open, on the edge of the deep-cut bank. as his voice echoed from the dense trees opposite, he saw a figure or two pass in front of the blaze.

"i've roused 'em," said mandy, and he felt his revolver in his belt. "if they're man-eaters, i'll do for one or two."

then his cooey was answered from the other side of the river.

"hallo," said the baker, and he dimly distinguished some tall figures on the opposite bank. but his answer appeared to disturb them curiously. he could hear a quick, low chattering, and saw them disperse. he cooeed again impatiently, and this time he was answered in an unknown tongue.

"blacks," said the baker disconsolately. "i guess we're done."

but he replied.

"don't understand your lingo," he said boldly; "but we're starving, and want some grub."

and, to his horror, for it was now utterly unexpected, he was answered in english, but in english of an accent that he had never heard. it sounded rather guttural, and quite foreign.

"who are you?" said the man who spoke.

"two miners," said mandy; "and for gawd's sake send over some grub. i and my mate have bin five days without food, and we're near dead."

"where do you come from?" asked the voice.

"up the billabong."

he heard them repeat the word "billabong," and then there was silence.

"how many are you?" said the voice again.

"only two, damn it," said mandy, and then he heard a bit of harsh laughter.

"then stay where you are till we come," said the voice. and mandy sat down, with his face to the river.

but in five minutes someone leapt on him from behind, and had him pinned as in a vice. he could not move, and would not have been able to help himself if he had had his full strength.

"hallo, what's this?" he said, as he heard the heavy breathing of the man who held him. then he saw another figure in front holding a spear. "if it's whites the other side, it's blacks this," said mandy; and he called aloud to smith, "good-bye, old man, they've got me."

and smith, who had recovered from his faint, came staggering to his doom like a drunken man. he, too, was made a prisoner in a moment by yet another man whom the baker had not seen.

then their captors spoke in english. "is that all?"

mandy made a struggle.

"why, are you english? holy moses! i thought you was black-fellows."

"no, we are english," said the man who held him.

but the voice was so strange, so wild, so utterly unlike any voice that he had ever heard, that it made his blood run cold. his skin crept, and his hair bristled.

"then why do you hold me?" said he, when he got his own voice back. "i'm half dead, and my mate's worse than i am. lemme go, do now."

and at a word from the man with the spear, mandy's captor let go. the baker went to smith.

"they're english, old man," he said, "and it's all right. they must be miners, too, or something, i don't know what. by the lord, my head's gone wrong i do think."

he looked up, and saw the big man who had ordered his captors to release him. he saw his great beard dimly, and like a flash there came back to him the great bearded white savage whom they had seen that day.

"if they are like that, why, the lord save us," he muttered. "it's a dream."

but smith was lying there dying. the thought of that brought his courage back.

"we can talk to 'em anyway," he said, and tried to get smith upon his feet. one of the others helped him. and they went down to the river bank silently.

a little way further down the river than the place the billabong entrance lay were some rough canoes, and they put smith in one and mandeville in the other.

"cheer up, old man," said the baker, and they shot out on the gloomy water, just there some thirty yards across, and with about ten strokes, they reached the other side.

the baker landed easily, and the other men helped smith, a bit roughly, but not unkindly. they went up the bank, and going about fifty yards, came out on an open space in which was a large camp and some native-looking gunyahs, or leaf and branch huts.

and then mandeville could see his hosts, or his captors, whichever they might turn out to be, and his heart sank within him, for they were nearly all big, and one was gigantic, and their whole appearance was that of the dead man whom they had seen. it was like a nightmare truly to see them clad in skins, rough and hairy, and burnt as black as white men can ever get. but their features were english, if strangely altered, and very few appeared to have traces of black blood in them. those who had were the smaller, and apparently the less considered.

and he saw the women, too. they did not at first lessen his fear of the men. but he had no time just then to speculate ignorantly; smith called for his attention. he seemed absolutely dying; he lay quite unconscious, and only moaned a little every now and again.

"can you give me somethin' for my mate?" he asked, and the chief nodded and spoke to one of the women. she disappeared into the largest gunyah, and brought out a dish with some boiled or stewed meat in it.

"i 'opes to god it ain't man," said the baker. but when he took the dish from the savage woman, whose matted hair hung to her bare knees, he nearly let it drop. it was heavy truly, but it was of pure gold!

"i'm done," said mandy, going on his knees by smith. "i'm fair beat. this cooks my goose. when did i die?"

and he fed smith with his fingers until the same woman who had given him the dish snatched it away from him, and taking smith's head on her lap, she fed him with a rudely-fashioned spoon of the same metal as the dish.

then another woman, who was younger and fairer to look on, brought mandy some food, which he ate too ravenously. but when he nearly choked, he put the brake on, and forcing himself to stay, he took out his pipe, and lighted it with a hot coal.

this proceeding was curiously, not to say anxiously, watched by every one of the twenty or thirty people, young and old, who composed the camp. but when he took a deep inspiration, and then blew out the smoke, there was a stampede among the little boys and girls. but the men were intensely interested.

"is that 'bacca'?" asked the big man.

"yes," said the baker.

"i've heard of it," said the chief; "my father's father told me. is it good? my father said it was good."

"would you like to try it?" asked the baker, holding his precious pipe out. "but not too much, or it will make you sick."

and the chief very solemnly took a draw, which he managed fairly well. it did not seem to commend itself to him, however, and he handed it back to mandy, who, alternately eating and smoking, was soon in a state of repletion, which prevented him caring what happened. and now smith began to get really conscious.

"where am i?" he asked the baker, whom he found sitting by him.

"we're in a camp with white men," said the baker loudly, and then he added rapidly, and in a lower tone, "and i'm beat, smith. they are all like the man wot we saw dead this afternoon."

smith sat up as if he had been pricked by a spear, and looked at their captors standing in the glare of the fire.

"pre-historic men," he said. "i knew i was crazy. i want to go to sleep."

and the baker took off his coat to roll it up for a pillow. he still had the golden ball in his pocket, and he took it out. it was snatched from his hand the next moment by the chief, who seemed greatly disturbed.

"you, where did you get this?" he demanded.

and the baker related as simply as possible what they had found by the billabong. his recital was listened to with groans, and one woman shrieked, and was taken away by the others. she was his wife, and apparently the dead man was the chief's brother. when the baker finished, he placed his coat under smith's head, and his chum fell fast asleep.

but now the camp was in agitation, and every one got out his arms, which were all of a kind resembling black-fellows' weapons. but most of the clubs were of gold, with wooden handles, and some were globular, some pear-shaped, and some the shape of a jagged nugget. when they were ready, the chief called to the baker:

"you will stay, and i will leave five men here. to-morrow night we shall be back. you are friends. but if you are not, we will burn you alive."

and he departed with fifteen others towards the river, while the baker lay down under a kangaroo skin, given him by the girl who had offered him food.

"she'd be good-looking if she'd comb her hair, and take her first bath," said the baker. "but who they are, and what they are, and 'ow they came here, just licks me."

he fell asleep, and every time he woke during the night he heard the melancholy wail of the bereaved woman. it struck him as if she ought not to feel it so much, being so savage to look at.

when he woke in the morning, he found smith sitting up with his hands to his head.

"am i crazy, baker?"

"if you are, i am," said the baker.

"then, we are alive, and not so hungry, and in a camp of pre-historic men?" asked smith.

"i dunno about prestoric, but we're in a camp of jumped-up white savages that talk english," said the baker.

smith rose.

"look, here, baker, draw it mild!"

"i tell you they talks english just as good as you or me, though sometimes they shoves in a word i don't savvy," said the baker. "and what's more, everything they 'ave is solid gold—jugs and pots and clubs and h'everything. and they thinks no more of it than you or i would of a bally old iron camp oven."

and to convince smith of that, he went to the outside of a hut and brought back a hammered-out basin, which must have weighed eight pounds at least.

"is this my luck?" said smith. but he could believe nothing till a girl came out into the dawn. "do you mean she talks english?" asked smith.

"that's what i mean," said the baker stubbornly.

and smith called to the girl, who came nearer, somewhat in the manner of a shy and curious filly.

"are you english?" said smith.

"yes," said the girl.

"and you can talk it?"

"of course," said the girl; "what the devil do you mean?"

but she used the word in an odd, wild, natural way, which showed mere curiosity, not anger. it struck smith as being so utterly incongruous that he was absolutely thunder-struck, and for a moment could say nothing. presently he recovered.

"but what are you all doing here?" he asked.

"i don't savvy," said the girl a bit sulkily.

"have you always lived here?"

the young savage shook her head, and looked at him contemptuously.

"no fear," she replied; "we came here from wonga wonga."

"and where's wonga wonga?"

but this was too much for the girl. if this strange-looking man didn't know where wonga wonga was, and couldn't believe she knew her own language, he was evidently neither more nor less than a fool.

she didn't answer, and turned away. as she went, two of the men came from the river with some fish. they were absolute savages to look at. a fuegian, or the wildest tartar on the siberian steppes was a civilised being to them.

smith rose, and said, "good-morning."

the bigger man of the two looked at him with peculiar apprehension, mixed with some ferocity, and passed on, but the younger, who was far more open countenanced, returned his salutation civilly.

"will you have a fish?" he asked, and without waiting for acceptance, he dropped a murray cod or big barbel at smith's feet.

"thank you," said smith, and as the man looked quite as friendly as his gift showed, he invited him to sit down and palaver. but it was a continual effort for him to comprehend that the other understood him if he used any but the very easiest words. and, indeed, he soon discovered that many abstract terms were beyond them.

"how long will the other men be away?" he asked, as he and the prehistoric person sat on a log, and the baker lay on the ground.

"not long, mate," said his friend. "when they have killed all the emus they find."

"emus?" said smith.

and his new pal explained that he meant a tribe of black-fellows.

"what's your name, mate?" asked smith.

"billy."

"billy; and what else?"

but this the man didn't comprehend. he was billy, and was the son of bill who was out emu-hunting, and the man who didn't understand that must be a fool. that was his opinion.

and now it began to dawn on smith that the accent, which had sounded so strange even to the baker, was nothing else than a variation, or descendant, of the purest cockney. the aspirates were invariably omitted, and most, if not all, the a's had come i's, and the open o of english was undeniably the u with the umlaut of german. what other changes had taken place were due, probably, to the influence of climate, and some black-fellow lingo, which they could all talk fluently, and mixed with their english, especially when talking together.

but now bill wanted to satisfy his curiosity.

"give me the smoke thing you gave big jack yesterday," he said to the baker.

and as the baker filled it, some of the others came round. when it was filled, mandeville struck a match on the seat of his trousers, and this caused a monstrous and absurd commotion. one of the men at last grabbed hold of mandeville, and insisted on examining his breeches, and the baker only obtained release by striking another match. they stood a little further off then, and were terribly suspicious. but bill tried the pipe very courageously.

"that's enough," said smith, when he had had a few puffs, "or else you will be very sick."

but bill was loth to relinquish the extraordinary object he held.

"i like it," he said, as if that settled it. however, after a few more puffs, he gave it up, and resumed the conversation, this time taking the lead.

"where do you come from, and what tribe are you?" he asked.

"we come from new find; many days' journey," said smith, pointing to the south-west. "but we are not a tribe. we are english."

"so are we," said the big, suspicious-looking man, "and you are not like us."

"then, how did you come to be in australia at all?" asked smith. he was rapidly reaching the conclusion that they must be the descendants of people shipwrecked generations ago upon the australian coast. but his question was greeted with laughter. the real question to them was where these white men came from.

"we shall 'ave to ask big jack," said the baker; "he seemed to 'ave more savvy than all this lot put together. blow me, if i hever saw sich a bloomin' crew."

"dry up," said smith; "you'll get your head caved in, and mine too, if you shoot off your mouth here and they catch on to your guff."

and as the community proceeded to make a morning meal in the most savage and primitive way, they joined in, and, roughly cleaning the fish bill had given them, they cooked it in the hot coals in the approved manner.

"where does all this gold come from?" asked smith, when he was satisfied.

and bill pointed east.

"over there," he said

"how far?"

"not far," said bill

"show it to us, bill," said the baker greedily.

but bill shook his head.

"not now; wait till big jack comes back. and what is your name?"

he spoke to smith, who told him.

"smith, smith," said bill; "and you?"

"mandeville," said the baker.

bill tried it, but seemed to decide it was too long.

"he called you baker," he said, looking doubtfully at the little man.

"baker will do," answered mandy.

and the idle throng returned to them, and asked questions about their journey and their people, which made smith despair. he prayed for night and the big man's return.