"Ho, aboard the Salt Junk Sarah
We was rollin' homeward bound,
When the bo'sun's bride fell over the side
And very near got drowned.
Rollin' home, rollin' home,
Rollin' home across the foam,
She had to swim to save her glim
And catch us rollin' home."

It was a very long song, so the rest of it is left out here, but
there was a great deal of rolling and roaring in it, and they all
joined in the chorus. They were all singing away at the top of
their pipe, as Bill called it, when round a bend in the road they
came on two low-looking persons hiding behind a tree. One was a
Possum, with one of those sharp, snooting, snouting sort of faces,
and the other was a bulbous, boozy-looking Wombat in an old
long-tailed coat, and a hat that marked him down as a man you
couldn't trust in the fowl-yard. They were busy sharpening up a
carving knife on a portable grindstone, but the moment they caught
sight of the travellers the Possum whipped the knife behind him and
the Wombat put his hat over the grindstone.

Bill Barnacle flew into a passion at these signs of treachery.
"I see you there," he shouted.

"You can't see all of us," shouted the Possum, and the Wombat
added, "Cause why, some of us is behind the tree."

Bill led the others aside, in order to hold a consultation.
"What on earth's to be done?" he said.