AN ANGLER AT THE ANTIPODES. Ill 



Billy (after peering into a cutty pipe, and fumb- 

 ling in sundry queer folds of his raiment}. You got 

 any 'bacco for smoke, governor ? 



New Chum. Here's a cheroot for you, Billy. 



Billy. Ugh s'gar gentlemans smoke not much 

 good that fellow.* Never fear that do this time. 



Veteran. Clear out, Billy give me elbow-room ; 

 this chap's in earnest. Ah he's fast now, and not 

 a bad fish either, to judge by the pull. 



New Chum. What a jerk you gave him ! I wonder 

 it did not break the line, or tear out the hold. 



Veteran. I can trust my tackle ; and, let me tell 

 you, unless the bait be actually pouched it takes a 

 pretty smart tug to fix one of these coarse hooks in 

 the bone and gristle of kabble-jaws' upper works. 

 Even when a fish is running heavily the line is never 

 so taut as it seems. Now, my friend this way if 

 you please past that rock up the sand-bank. So 

 throw him up, Billy. 



New Chum. What a fine fellow ! Six pounds, I 

 suppose. 



* The Australian blacks, like many other savage tribes, have no 

 idea of thanks, and of course no expression for them of their own 

 nor do they readily adopt ours. They usually content themselves 

 with expressing satisfaction and that carefully measured and often 

 qualified on the receipt of a present. Their nearest approach to 

 the language of gratitude is by speaking of a benefactor as " their 

 brother" or "their father." The writer has the honour of being 

 one of King Billy's white brothers. 



