y fella white marster look sharp eye belong him. And
plenty fella white marster make 'm big laugh along me, say Binu Charley
allee same pickaninny--my word, they speak along me allee same
pickaninny."

Came the morning when Binu Charley noticed that the women and children
had disappeared. Tudor, at the time, was lying in a stupor with fever in
a late camp five miles away, the main camp having moved on those five
miles in order to prospect an outcrop of likely quartz. Binu Charley was
midway between the two camps when the absence of the women and children
struck him as suspicious.

"My word," he said, "me t'ink like hell. Him black Mary, him pickaninny,
walk about long way big bit. What name? Me savvee too much trouble
close up. Me fright like hell. Me run. My word, me run."

Tudor, quite unconscious, was slung across his shoulder, and carried a
mile down the trail. Here, hiding new trail, Binu Charley had carried
him for a quarter of a mile into the heart of the deepest jungle, and
hidden him in a big banyan tree. Returning to try to save the rifles and
personal outfit, Binu Charley had seen a party of bushmen trotting down
the trail, and had hidden in the bush. Here, and from the direction of
the main camp, he had heard two rifle shots. And that was all. He had
never seen the white men again, nor had he ventured near their old camp.
He had gone back to Tudor, and hidden with him for a week, living on wild
fruits and the few pigeons and cockatoos he had been able to shoot with
bow and arrow. Then he had journeyed down to Berande to bring the news.
Tudor, he said, was very sick, lying unconscious for days at a time, and,
when in his right mind, too weak to help himself.

"What name you no kill 'm that big fella marster?" Joan demanded. "He
have 'm good fella musket, plenty calico, plenty tobacco, plenty knife-
fee, and two fella pickaninny musket shoot quick, bang-bang-bang--just
like that."

The black smiled cunningly.

"Me savvee too much. S'pose me kill 'm big fella marster, bimeby plenty
white fella marster walk about Binu cross like hell. 'What name this
fellow musket?' those plenty fella white marster talk 'm along me. My
word, Binu Charley finish altogether. S'pose me kill 'm him, no good
along me. Plenty white fella marster cross along me. S'pose me no kill
'm him, bimeby he give me plenty tobacco, plenty calico, plenty
everything too much."

"There is only the one thing to do," Shel