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"Buff'lo Jim, sar, bad white fellow, sar he try kill Maori, but Maori too much not kill, sar. Jacky Fishook stupid fellow, sar not know Maori but Maori throw spear yes." And there and then the muscular lithe figure was drawn up like a statue; the beady eye glaring straight forward, the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin.
He was a burly, powerful fellow, and, as Jacky was unarmed and only half clad, the cut of a thong like that was bad punishment. As soon as I appeared the Maori gave a yell of satisfaction. "You know Fishook, black-fellow, sar?" he screamed. Jacky pointed to a huge bale of hides, or something of the kind, that had been pitched on the ground.
On my return to Sydney we had parted company, and Fishook had passed some of his time among his own people, and had also come into town now and then to work as a light porter, or do other odd jobs. The wants of the natives are few; and Jacky, unlike some of his people, did not drink rum or other spirits, so if he earned sixpence he was able to keep it.
Out I went, and there, looking at me with a smile or rather a grin, was Jacky Fishook. "How do, sar?" said he. "Just come from Sydney, sar, to look for job. Massa take me for man, sar? yes? Jacky, sar, good black fellow, no stink-water, sar, ride sar, fish, shoot, fetch bullocks, sar? yes." "And then the spear, eh?" said I, frowning, "Who was it killed Buffalo Jim, you villain?"
He was called Jacky Fishook, and was a very useful fellow out there, for he could follow a trail like a hound, could climb trees, kill game, and in fact had a good many of the savage accomplishments, and few, if any, of the vices of civilization rather a rare thing among the natives.
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