Sometimes a string of the vermin would hop past close to the fire, and another time a curlew would come near and screech its ghostly wail, but he never noticed them.

Yet he seemed to be listening.
We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we wearied of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and cursed the wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately.

It was a lonely, wretched occupation.
Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a noise.

We could n't, except that of wallabies and mopokes.

Then he would go back and listen again.