He, who had passed the degrees into the Kubara, he who was an initiated warrior!

There were two things lacking before he could demand his voice be heard in the councils of the tribe. Age—or else he must kill his man in defence of the tribe. In the meantime he must be thankful that some, at least, of the older warriors were his friends. His frown lifted as he looked across at Bungadoon.

Old Bungadoon was a favourite with the tribe. An old warrior, yet he was not old, for he could stand up against the best with spear, shield, and nulla. Could hunt with the best, could last out with the best in any long raid where speed and endurance were demanded—could do it, too, with good cheer as if it were a great joke, while much younger warriors were pushing doggedly on near to the limit of their endurance. And yet Bungadoon was seventy years old—with the heart of a lion; the laughter of a boy.

And that body of his—the great big head, the bushy black beard that the youngsters swore the crows nested in! A charcoal-black beard—not a single grey hair could the pawing youngsters find in it as they searched it for “goanna eggs”. Big, laughing eyes set in sockets deep as a dried-up waterhole, and a nose so broad and flat that an emu could scratch gravel on it—so the children swore. Massive jaws from which gleamed perfect teeth as he chuckled at the least little thing—the youngsters proudly claimed that when he really laughed his mouth was as big as a pelican’s, and his teeth like a deep-river cod’s. His barrel of a chest made him look a monster when swimming. His paunch—tremendous! When he was squatting down “his children” would take in turn a kick at it to make it sound like a drum. They loved to see that paunch quiver and shake as rollicking laughter came from deep down there. And all was firmly set upon unusually thick legs that, despite his age, had never yet failed to carry him as far and fast as the toughest warrior could go. And yet with all his bulk he could hear the faintest sigh in the breeze; the faint gurglings and squawkings and guzzlings of greedy baby birds being fed by their mother high up in the nest of a tall tree would bring from him hearty bellows of sympathy as he patted his ever-hungry stomach.

Yes, old Bungadoon and Pumbul were loved not only by their “own children” but by sick people, too, for, despite the hungry mouths to be fed at Keringle, Bungadoon would pick up his spears and fish-traps and Pumbul her digging stick and coolamon and fishing-lines and away they’d stride into the bush and hunt from dawn to dark to bring home delicacies for the sick people.

The warrior lad Red Kangaroo was fast becoming the hero of the tribe, but old Bungadoon would always be its mascot—with Pumbul his kindly old wife. Like him she was of: ample proportions, yet with never a complaint of bone or body, and seemingly tireless, too. She was as quiet as Bungadoon was noisy, and a great worker, with all that “family” to look after, yet so easy going about it all that you would think she never did a thing. It was she who really ran the show, without seeming to take a hand in anything, and it was her quiet diplomacy that saved the situation when Bungadoon’s ready tongue and “I-don’t-give-a-hang-for-any-of-them” attitude would have got him into difficulties. Yes, old Bungadoon would have been greatly surprised had he known who really managed Keringle.