My word, Missus, he laughed merrily, you close up blow him all away, and he showed me the proper way to blow, and chuckled to himself at my clumsy attempts; for a blackfellow can make a fire better than any one else.
It sounds very grand being a Lady-in-waiting to a King, but it really was very smelly and disagreeable. His humpy was in fact only a sheet of bark leaning against a fallen tree, and I had to crawl about on my hands and knees, and everything was dreadfully close and stuffy. But I had plenty of Eue de Cologne, and used it freely. One day when Bett-Bett smelt it, as I was sprinkling it over my dress, she screwed up her little black nose, and after half-a-dozen very audible sniffs, said
My word, Missus! That one goodfellow stink all right!
I said I was glad she liked it, and as Goggle Eye also remarked on it, I always used plenty of this good-fellow stink before I visited him.
At last Tommy Dod came back, and I had not so much to do. One evening, when I went up with some arrowroot, all the blacks in the camp were sitting round in a circle, looking at Goggle Eye. They had taken away the sheet of bark, so as to see him better, and were talking about him, and wondering when he would die, and if Debbil-debbils would take him away.
I think him die to-night, Missus, said Billy Muck cheerfully as I came up. I think him die fowl sing out.
Goggle Eye gave a little glad cry when he saw me. Missus, he called weakly, and I went to him and gave him a little brandy and arrowroot.
Be quiet! I said angrily, as the old men began talking about him again. They looked surprised, but obeyed, wondering, I think, why I objected to such an interesting topic of conversation.
Soon the poor old fellow asked me if I would tell my Big-Fellow God to chase away the Debbil-debbils. I was very touched, and did exactly as he wished, in queer pidgin English. Then Goggle Eye was happy and contented, and the strange prayer was answered, for he was no longer afraid of his fearsome Debbil-debbils.
Soon after supper he fell asleep, and I left him, and never saw my strange old friend again. Billy Muck was right, and at fowl sing out or cock-crow, Ebimel Wooloomool, King of Dullinarrinarr, died, and with him died many strange, weird old legends, and a good big slice of the history of the Blacks of the Never-Never.