My father went back to his office work. A constable went with the doctor and Bungaree. Jacob Painter wasn’t a Namoi River tribesman, he walked on the centre of the road, keeping off the burial-ground site. My brother Ernest, who had been seated with Mr Ashby on a log on the other side of the street amongst a clump of box-trees alongside Roache’s two-rail fence, came running to join us. He and some other boys told me that Mr Ashby carried a pick and shovel to dig a blackfellow out of a grave for Doctor Hayne. At that time my interest was centred on Dr Hayne and Bungaree—and I write now of only those things I saw with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. Coming to the old carved stump, Dr Hayne said to Bungaree, “Why was this stump carved like this?”

Bungaree put his hands on his head and said, “Stump long, long time ago was tall, live tree. Blackfellow come, carve him plenty, make all about bury ground for my tribe. That time long, long ago... Great warrior chief of Namoi River tribe, him die, and him sit down close up this stump—all blackfellows look it, this stump, know great warrior chief sit down close up”—meaning that from the totems carved on the stump any aboriginal would know that a great warrior chief of the Namoi River tribe was buried near by and, according to the customs of this tribe, buried in a sitting position.

At this time those present at the carved stump were Doctor Hayne, Constable Lambert, Bungaree, and we four schoolboys. Mr Ashby was standing near Roache’s fence talking to Mr S. Turner, who had not long arrived. This small group gathered near the old marked stump had aroused the curiosity of half a dozen people who wended their way down from off Conadilly Street towards us.

Dr Hayne said, “Bungaree, this great warrior chief buried here, what name that one?”

Bungaree put his hands over his mouth and shook his head from side to side.

“Come, come,” the doctor urged, “tell him name if you know that one.”

Bungaree answered, “I bin know that name—I no tell name him!”

“Why not, why not?” the doctor said a bit angrily.

Bungaree replied, “Bad talk, blackfeller speakin’ a name of dead alonga burial ground.”

“Oh, all right, Bungaree, I don’t want you any longer, you can go,” said the doctor.

Bungaree started to walk slowly away. The doctor beckoned Mr Ashby to come to him.

“Here, Ashby, dig there.”

There was a slight mound in the ground that looked like an old abandoned red ants’ nest. It stood not far away from the stump. It was the grave of the warrior chief of this Namoi River tribe. “Thud!” The pick struck the ground. Bungaree, just thirty feet away, turned round to see the pick thud down for the second time into the grave. He let out a pitiful, wailing cry and ran, waving his hands about his head. In front of him down past the Wesleyan Church grounds and round the corner into Bloomfield Street also ran Jacob Painter, wailing loudly. They ran on to their camp near the lagoon. There was not an aboriginal in the town or camp that night except Bundaar the police tracker. It was a month before a few resumed to a new camp above the Burrell waterhole. But most of them drifted down river to Narrabri and Wee Waa.