Then he glanced sharply over the shallows at the thick foliage, fully expecting to see a spear come flying at him.
"That's the way my fish went," he muttered as he turned and fled, feeling a sudden check the next minute, as if some one had seized the rod which hung over his shoulder, and a thrill of fear ran through him as he turned sharply round, when snap went the line, and he saw that the hook and locust were sticking in an overhanging bough, and about a yard of the line was hanging down.
That was enough to drive away some of his fear, but not all.
"One can't fight blacks with fishing-rods," muttered the boy as he again began to run, and he made his way homeward more quickly than he had come, and did not pause once to look back, though if he had it was doubtful whether he would have seen the cunning black face peering from out of the wattle scrub, watching him as he ran in and out through the trees, and then disappearing as soon as Nic was out of sight.
The fugitive did not pause till he reached home bathed in perspiration, just as his father rode slowly in side by side with the laden men, they having taken a shorter cut while he had followed the wanderings of the stream.
"Ah, Nic," cried his father, "you shouldn't run and overheat yourself like that, boy.

Now, men, carry the poor beast into the stable and rest the pole on the rails; its hoofs will then be about five inches from the ground .-- What ?" "Blackfellows, father," said Nic, as soon as he could get his breath; "I saw their footmarks, and they have carried off my fish.".