At grey dawn all the camp was astir. Hugh looked from under his
mosquito-net, and saw old Considine over the fire, earnestly frying
a large hunk of buffalo meat. He was without a trouble in the world
as he turned the hissing steak in the pan. Two black gins in brief
garments--a loin cloth and a villainously dirty pyjama-jacket
each--were sitting near him, languidly killing the mosquitoes which
settled on their bare legs. These were Maggie and Lucy, but they
had degenerated with their surroundings. Tommy Prince was oiling
a carbine, and one of the shooters was washing his face at a basin
formed by scratching a small hole in the ground and pressing a
square of canvas into the depression.
The Chinese skinner was sitting on a log, rubbing a huge butcher's
knife on a sharpening stone. Away up the plain the horses, about
thirty or forty in number, were slowly trooping into camp, hunted
by a couple of blackfellows, naked except for little grass armlets
worn above the elbow, and sticks stuck through their noses. When
the horses reached the camp they formed a squadron under the shade
of some trees, and pushed and shoved and circled about, trying to
keep the flies off themselves and each other.
Hugh walked over to Tommy Prince at his rifle-oiling, and watched
him for a while. That worthy, who was evidently a true sportsman
at heart, was liberally baptising with Rangoon oil an old and much
rusted Martini carbine, whose ejector refused to work. Every now
and then, when he thought he had got it ship-shape, Tommy would
put in a fresh cartridge, hold the carbine tightly to his shoulder,
shut his eyes, and fire it into space. The rusty old weapon kicked
frightfully, after each discharge the ejector jammed, and Tommy
ruefully poked the exploded cartridge out with a rod and poured on
more oil.
"Blast the carbine!" said Tommy. "It kicks upwards like; it's
kicking my nose all skewwhiff."
"Don't put it to your shoulder, you fool," said one of the shooters;
"it'll kick your head off. Hold it out in one hand."
"Then it'll kick my arm off," said Tommy.
"No, it won't; you won t feel it at all," said the shooter. "Your
arm will give to the recoil. Blaze away!"
"What are you up to with the carbine?" said Hugh.
"I'm going to have a blaze at some of these 'ere buff'loes," said
Tommy gaily. "Bill's lent me a horse. They's got a rifle for you,
and one for the old man. "We'll give them buff'loes hell to-day.
Five rifles--they'll think the French is after them." "Well, but
I want to get back," said Hugh. "We mustn't waste any time. What
about the store-keeper's horses?"