SUICIDE BY CROCODILE

It has been said that Australian blacks never commit suicide.  An instance which goes in proof of the contrary occurred not many months ago.  All the creeks and rivers flowing from the coastal range to the sea are more or less infested with crocodiles.  In crossing creeks, blacks take every precaution against surprise, rafts of buoyant logs strapped together with lawyer vine being used.  These rafts are continually drifting across to the island, proving how general is their use.  Maria Creek (about a dozen miles or so up the coast) is well known to be a popular resort of the crocodile, and at the mouth, where the blacks wade at low-water, an unusually big fellow had his headquarters.  A member of the Clump Point tribe, painfully afflicted with a vexatious skin disease, was fishing at the mouth of the creek when his hook fouled.  To a companion he said he would dive to get it clear.  His friend endeavoured to dissuade him, reminding him of the crocodile which they had, seen but a short time before.  But the boy, worn with pain and weary with never-ending irritation, said if he was taken—­“No matter.  Good job.  Me finished then.”  He dived, and there was a commotion in the water.  The boy appeared on the surface, making frantic appeals for help, while the crocodile worried him.  He escaped for a moment, and his friend clutched his hand and drew him to the bank, only to have him torn from his grasp.  The blacks believe the crocodile took the fish bait in the first instance and lured the boy to dive.  The boy certainly knew the risk he ran when he did so.

A new, if not altogether agreeable, sensation is added to the gentle art if it is realised that a cruel and stealthy beast is engaged in a similar pastime, with the fisherman as the object of its sport.

DISAPPEARANCE OF BLACKS

The rapid disappearance of blacks from localities which held a considerable population causes wonder.  In the early days—­less than a couple of decades past—­they swarmed on the mainland opposite Dunk Island.  Now the numbers are few.  Within sight of Brammo Bay is the scene of an official “dispersal” of those alleged to have been responsible for the murder of some of the crew of a wrecked vessel, who had drifted ashore on a raft.  One boy bears to this day the mark of a bullet on his cheek, received when his mother fled for her life, and vainly, with him an infant perched on her shoulders.

In those days “troublesome” blacks were disposed of with scant ceremony.  An incident has been repeated to me several times.  A mob of “myalls” (wild blacks)—­they were all myalls then—­was employed by a selector to clear the jungle from his land.  They worked, but did not get the anticipated recompense, and thereupon helped themselves, spearing and eating a bullock, and disappeared.  After a time the selector professed