VI 
A DISMAL NIGHT 
77 
sniffed and snapped unpleasantly close to our heels, but 
at a shout from the natives, the wretched -looking 
creatures slunk back into the warmth of the Gunyas, 
which master and animal share alike. 
Some of the fires at the entrance to the huts were 
still smouldering. The blacks never let them go 
wholly out, as they keep away the “debil debil,” so 
they say. I looked into one of them, but the close- 
ness was overpowering. The natives, who seemed 
half afraid of us, were sulky and sleepy. The ex- 
pression of their faces was far from satisfactory, and 
they sniffed at us with much misgiving, though one old 
woman did give Mrs. S. some sort of roasted root out 
of her dilly bag, and a portion of flesh that suggested 
opossum, which Mrs. S. said was not “ tasty.” I did 
not like to suggest that it might have been a portion 
of the remains of a cannibal feast, for many who die 
here find a resting-place inside the bodies of their 
sorrowing friends. It had ceased raining and the night 
turned out fine with a bright moon. 
Mrs. S. slept, making a pillow of me. To me the 
hours seemed endless from the strange, weird, unaccount- 
able night sounds ; the stumps of trees took human 
form in the dim light, and the changing shadows of the 
clouds seemed to give them life. Then, across the night, 
came the dismal howl of a dingo, and he knows how to 
howl to perfection ; the hoot of the night owl, and, 
towards early dawn, the sad cry of a curlew came familiar, 
the voice of a friend that I knew. I don’t know where 
poor Joe had been, he was most uncomplaining as he 
came up with the horses. It was not the first time by 
a good many, he told me, that he had spent a night in 
the bush without food or shelter. The river had gone 
down so much that we could see the crossing ; but now 
another difficulty arose, nothing would induce Mrs. S. 
