e tail was ready,
enough cold damper being found for that evening's meal.

But though all was satisfactory so far, Shanter did not join in. He
would eat no damper, drink no tea, and he turned from the roast tail
with disgust, squatting down over the fire with his arms round his
knees, and soon after going off to a spot among the bushes, where he
curled up under a blanket and was seen no more that night.

"Poor old Shanter doesn't seem well," said Norman.

"No wonder," replied Tim.

"And he thinks he killed the old man. Why didn't you speak, Tim?"

"Wasn't worth it," was the reply. "I didn't want to kill the great
thing."

An hour later the boys were under their canvas shelter, forgetting all
the excitement of the evening, and dreaming--of being home in Norman's
case, while Rifle dreamed that a huge black came hopping like a kangaroo
and carried off Aunt Georgie.

As for Tim, he dreamed of the encounter again, but with this
difference--the boomer had still hold of Shanter, and when he took up
the gun to fire it would not go off.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"CAN'T FIND WAY BACK."

It was long before sunrise when the boys rose to see after Shanter,
expecting to find him still lying down, but he was up and over by the
water-hole examining the huge kangaroo.

"Mine mumkull kangaroo," he said, as the boys came up, and then, "Baal."

"Didn't you kill it, Shanter?" said Norman, smiling. "Baal. Who kill
boomer? Big hole all along." He pointed to the terrible wound in the
animal's head caused by the shots Tim had fired. And as the black spoke
he examined the knob at the end of his nulla-nulla, comparing it with
the wound, and shook his head.

"Baal make plenty sore place like dat. Go all along other side make
hole. Baal."

He stood shaking his head in a profound state of puzzledom as to how the
wound came, while the boys enjoyed his confusion. Then all at once his
face lit up.

"Bunyip mumkull boomer. All go bong."

"You should say all go bong Tam. Why, can't you see? Tim shot him
while he was holding your head under water."

"Eh? Marmi Tim shoot? What a pity!"

"Pity?" cried Rifle, staring at the black's solemn face. "Pity that Tim
saved your life."

"Mine want mumkull big boomer."

"Never mind: he's dead," cried Norman. "Now come along and let's boil
the billy, and make some damper and tea."

"Mine don't want big damper," said Shanter, rubbing himself gently about
the chest and ribs.