Every native's a bush telegraph--every sleepy-seemin' one of 'em! They know tracks in an' out through the scrub that ain't on maps, an' they get past you day or night wi'out you knowin' it, an' word goes on ahead o' you--precedes you as the sayin' is.

You come to a village.

You need milk, food, Porters maybe, an' certainly inf'mation about the trail ahead.

You ask.

Nobody answers.