AN ANGLER AT THE ANTIPODES. 111 
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. 
