until it became a screech, after several repetitions,
and the "Joe" short and sharp) coming across the flat in a woman's voice,
Joe knew that the missus wanted him at the house, to get wood or water,
or mind the baby, and he kept carefully out of sight; he went at once
when uncle called. And when we heard the cry of "Wh-i-i-te Joe!" which we did
with difficulty and after several tries -- though Black Joe's ears
were of the keenest -- we knew that I was overdue at home,
or absent without leave, and was probably in for a warming,
as the old folk called it. On some occasions I postponed the warming
as long as my stomach held out, which was a good while in five-corner,
native-cherry, or yam season -- but the warming was none the cooler
for being postponed.

Sometimes Joe heard the wrong adjective, or led me to believe he did --
and left me for a whole afternoon under the impression that the race of Ham
was in demand at the homestead, when I myself was wanted there,
and maternal wrath was increasing every moment of my absence.

But Joe knew that my conscience was not so elastic as his, and -- well,
you must expect little things like this in all friendships.

Black Joe was somewhere between nine and twelve when I first met him,
on a visit to my uncle's station; I was somewhere in those years too.
He was very black, the darker for being engaged in the interesting
but uncertain occupation of "burning off" in his spare time --
which wasn't particularly limited. He combined shepherding,
'possum and kangaroo hunting, crawfishing, sleeping,
and various other occupations and engagements with that of burning off.
I was very white, being a sickly town boy; but, as I took great interest
in burning off, and was not particularly fond of cold water