‘I had noticed one or two marked traits of savagery about Hutkeeper, and had warned Will not to trust the old ruffian. His mortal enemy at the home station was the cook, Nerangi Dick, whose prototype was Corney Delaney. Like him, he carried cynicism to its extreme limit. The likeness was so exact that it was currently reported that the devil, on one occasion, being short of a cook, had at sudden notice packed the original Corney back to earth from his comfortable corner near the furnace. The only billet he could retain was at the head station. He respected the master, and reserved his growls for the kitchen. ‘The “boogil-colli” gins, water-carriers, had a rough time of it when Nerangi Dick reigned. He might be seen driving them to their duties, with many crisp oaths and a large stick. Of the male aboriginal he was even more intolerant. Ordered to feed the station blacks, he gave them their meat and damper as if throwing a bait to a dog. Hutkeeper rarely received his ration without being subsequently chased by Dick, armed with his broomstick. It reminded a Waverley student of Peter Peebles pursued by Nanty Ewart, or, more familiarly, of a sour-tempered Skye terrier pursuing a collie. Hutkeeper, on these occasions, keeping well out of reach, but looking back over his shoulder from time to time, with a scowl which had in it a deeper meaning than the acerbity of the other. Should these two meet on the war-path, the devil would full surely recover his own. ‘I told Lorten, after witnessing one of these periodical coursing matches, that Hutkeeper would make a bad enemy.’ ‘Take another tumbler, old man, after all that running,’ suggested Parklands. ‘I have had two sleeps and gone over all my stock bargains for the next three months since you commenced the life and times of that nigger. As a fictionist―historian, I mean―you can’t be licked.’ ‘Mr. a―Sparks,’ exclaimed Ernest, who had become confused between Parklands’ real name and sobriquet, ‘pray permit Mr. Brandon to conclude his deeply interesting tale. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’ Sparks murmured something about the Tract Society, and affected to compose himself to sleep. Brandon having compounded a restorative, then proceeded. ‘When Will Lorton arrived at the camp day was just breaking. There were a dozen “goondies” to be visited, and the inmates started to their work. Each black fellow, at the reveille, caught up a few waddies, and made tracks for the wash-pen, with his hands full of blazing mulga bark, waving about his body. Hutkeeper had been called, but to his surprise Will found, on passing his goondi a second time, that he had not gone with the others. Having a light switch in his hand, he thoughtlessly gave him an admonitory tap across his tattooed shoulders. Hutkeeper at once seized his nulla in one hand, stuck his tomahawk in his belt, his sole article of clothing, and made towards the washpool with his firebark in his left hand.