All beholders were
filled with wonder and gratification. It was Yellowby's night out. The
spirit of Terpsichore was upon him. His enthusiasm amounted to
exultation. He was astonishing not only the silent and subdued natives
of Dunk Island, but even his own familiar friends. Never had any seen
such a classic interpretation of the theme, such brilliant leg movement,
nor heard such realistic growling and snapping and intermittent yelps,
such muffled, sob-like inspirations. Yellowby danced as dances the
artist, so graphically interpreting the subject that the bewildered
orchestra forgot itself. All were borne away in spirit to the scene of
some far-off, familiar camp, where the scents of decayed fish and
turtle-bones, and of a multitude of uncleanly dogs commingled with the
bitter smoke of mangrove wood fires, where amid the yells of gins and
the screeches of piccaninnies and the walloping of men, two mangy curs
noisily wrestled. It brought home sweet home to each of the exiles, so
vividly that all sat still and transfixed, and as the last chord of the
orchestra "I trembled away into silence," Yellowby, panting and
sweating, gasped as he fell flat on the sand--"No good you fella
corrobboree like that fella, belonga me fella.
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