142 COLLECTOR'S RAMBLES 



of his early home, where he was brought up with 

 the planter's own children, and treated as one of the 

 family. 



As we came to the wharf at Rockhampton there 

 were a number of Australian blacks on the pier. 

 Some were clad in shirts, showing their black, leathery 

 skins through the gaping rents, while others sported 

 government blankets, well-begrimed with dirt and 

 grease. Their heads were mops; their chins were 

 covered with bushy beards, and their entire appearance 

 was disgusting and repulsive. When they saw the 

 dude darky they exchanged grunts, their ugly faces 

 lighting up with gradually broadening grins, until the 

 whole band was in roars of laughter ; then one of them 

 called out, "Hello, Charlie, where you been? Who 

 give you the clothes ? Goin' to treat your old friends ? " 

 By this time the passengers began to see the joke, and 

 the waiter straightening himself up, his eyes flashing 

 with pride and anger, demanded of the bystanders, 

 " Do you think I am any relation to them ? Do I look 

 as if I were any relation to them ? I never see them 

 before in my life. The dirty black beggars ! They 

 don't wash themselves or comb their hair once a month. 

 No ! Thank God, I was born more than seventeen 

 thousand miles from them. I know more than to sell 

 Australia to the queen for a blanket ! " 



Rockhampton was a place, if possible, more lacking 

 in paint and repairs than Maryborough, and reminded 



