that evening smith asked big jack if he might see his father, and have a talk with him.

"he can do nothing but talk," said big jack gloomily, returning to what he evidently considered a grievance. "if, when you go back to your tribe, you will take him away, i will give him to you."

this completely took the wind out of smith, and helped him better than anything he had yet seen or heard to understand how these poor devils had reverted to absolute savagery. he recalled stories of african savages putting their elderly relatives to death, sometimes with a view to the needs of the commissariat. that the old man who talked was still alive showed that pressure had not at any rate been yet so severe as to suggest resort to such extreme measures.

and in another minute he was squatted in front of a very old man, with snowy white hair and beard, who was seated inside a gunyah about big enough for a large dog.

"this is the white man who came from the billabong," said big jack, without saluting his parent in any way, "and he wants to speak with you. and, smith, give me your pipe and bacca."

for a moment smith resented the tone in which the man said this, but knowing how absurd the impulse was, to say nothing of its uselessness, he handed his smoking implements over, together with his knife.

"what is this?" asked jack. and smith had to explain what it was. he saw jack go back to the fire, where he was presently surrounded by a crowd, to whom he expatiated on the wonders of the new weapon, which, as a cutting instrument, far surpassed anything they possessed. then smith turned to the old man, who, if unable to fight, showed no particular sign of great senility.

"where did your tribe come from, father?" said smith.

"from the east, smith. is your name smith? i remember my father speaking of a man called smith," said the old man. "but that is a long time ago. i was young then, quite young, and we was fur from this 'ere place."

he mumbled a little as his mind went back. but his talk was easier to smith than that of the younger generations. it was more like ordinary vulgar english, and not so mixed with aboriginal terms.

"but who was your father, old man?" asked smith.

"let me think a bit. it was a long time ago," said he, "and i have almost forgotten. but now i remember—yes, i remember. he was a very big man, and he and smith were together when they took to the bush. yes, it was smith, but i never knew him. he was killed over yonder, before i was born."

and he returned upon the strange memories of the long plains which they had overpast.

"but who was your father?" insisted smith gently.

"he said he was a lag," said the old man, "but i don't understand what that is. if jack's mother was alive she could tell you."

"he must have been a prisoner," said smith.

"yes, a prisoner," said the old man; "he was, perhaps, taken in war, and escaped."

smith shook his head.

"i mean he had committed a crime," said he.

"what is that?" asked the old man. "i don't know what that is."

and smith could not tell him either.

"he did wrong," he suggested.

"yes," cried the old man, brightening; "i heard him say he did that. i remember."

"what was it he did?"

"he said he could have killed all of his enemies, and he only killed two. it made him feel bad even when he died. i always killed mine, and so does jack—my big son jack—"

and grasping at smith's arm, he nodded, and his eyes brightened.

"they brought in thirty heads just now," he cried; "i never brought in so many, no, not even i. and i was a big man once."

his voice ran out low into a whisper, and he bowed his head, thinking of his brave youth and manhood.

"but where did the white women come from?" said smith. "i mean your mother."

the old man laughed.

"i remember that, yes, because my mother told me after my father died. she helped him to escape from his enemies. but smith took his wife by force as they went. i remember that."

"and was the place they came from sydney?" asked smith.

the old man shook his head, but looked up, and smiled.

"yes, he was a sydney sider," he cried. "but i do not remember any more, smith. when i was a man, and led the tribe, we came towards the setting sun always. and the weak ones died, or we ate them, and the strong ones were saved. and our tribe is small, but it is strong, and the black-fellows fear us as they do the devils. and when they see our mark they fly."

"what is the mark?" asked smith.

"the brodarro," cried the old man, as if it was a war-cry, and the word was so like the sound of a native word, that for a moment smith did not understand. then he saw it.

"ah, the broad arrow," he said.

"i said the brodarro," cried the old man again. "and where we come the others go. they call us the white devils of the brodarro. but they are snakes, snakes and scorpions, and we tread on them, we tread on them! my boy jack eats their tribes up. he is a man, and can fight."

and the old man fell upon his knees, and pushed smith away.

"let me come out to the fire," he crawled till he came to the entrance, and then rose.

"i was a man, smith. take me to the fire."

smith took him by the arm, and led the feeble father of that fierce race into the light. he saw then that the man who talked was the wreck of a giant. though he stooped, he must have once been taller even than his son, who over-topped smith by inches. the old man trembled as he walked, and his knotty joints creaked; but there was a gleam in his eyes still.

"let me come to the fire," he said, and those near it gave him and smith scant room, with scanter courtesy. old age had no claims on them; it was but a burden. he who could no longer fight, who could not hunt, who was no longer able to fish, of what use was he? let him die, and free them of a useless member of a band who could give no hostages in a merciless fight with nature.

but the old man would not trouble them long.

"where is jack?" he asked, looking round the camp.

"here," said his son, who was seated on a stump, smoking smith's pipe in a business-like way that made the owner wonder if he would ever get it back again.

"i wish to speak to the tribe of the brodarro," cried his father. "for the man of another white tribe has brought back the past to me, and i remember my father, and the time when i was young, when i could fight and run as fast as a flying doe, when i was as strong as an old man kangaroo. and now, men of the brodarro, i am old and feeble, and nearly blind, and there is no pleasure for me in the fight. i can bring no more heads to the camp, i can neither hurl the spear, nor throw the boomerang, neither can i lie in wait for our enemies."

his voice became a melancholy wail, like the night cry of a curlew. but as he spoke again, strength came back to him, and his form straightened, and his voice grew resonant.

"but, men of the brodarro, all of you my children, this is what i say to you as darkness opens to me, and i go out among the spirits of the bush. my father came out from a white tribe who were his enemies, and with him came another man and two women, and their life and the life of their children was free. we could fight and live as we wished, and there wasn't no man over us. and i remember how my father said that among the other white tribes were many damn cruel customs, and that no man was the equal of another, and that some starved though there was food in the camp, and, if one, who starved, took from any of his mates, he was tortured, and kept alive to be tortured, and given no meat, nor fish, nor was he allowed to look upon the sun. and he told me, as he died, to live as a free man with my children, and to have nought to do with the other white tribes, who were too cunning. so now i say this to you," and his voice was like a trumpet, and he rose to his full height, "even as my father said it. have nought to do with the white men of any other tribe, for they are blacker in their hearts than an emu, and more powerful and more cunning than the little devils in the caves of the northern country."

and he called to his son jack, who came to him as obediently as though he feared the old man. for his father was as one possessed.

"come, my son, give me a spear in my right hand, and let me shout our war-cry once more, as i shouted it when i led you against the jinwarries, and when we brought in the heads of the red kangaroos."

and they brought him a spear, placing it in his hand.

"farewell, men of the brodarro, and the big plains, and the rivers, and the ranges. come, my children, shout with me before i go."

and the tribe rose to their feet, shaking with excitement, as the old man lifted his spear and brandished it like a youth.

"brodarro," they shouted, but above all was the clarion cry of the old man, who cried it thrice, and at the third time pitched headlong, and rolled over upon his back, by the red edge of the blazing fire. smith dropped on his knees by the old warrior, but he knew that the father of the brodarros was dead.