We of the Never-Never Part 4

After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which he called "One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-'ll-do sort of places," he described The House. "It's mostly verandahs and promises," he said; "but one room is finished. We call it The House, but you'll probably call it a Hut, even though it has got doors and calico windows framed and on hinges."

Then followed an inventory of the furniture. "There's one fairly steady, good-sized table at least it doesn't fall over, unless some one leans on it; then there's a bed with a wire mattress, but nothing else on it; and there's a chair or two up to your weight (the boss'll either have to stand up or lie down), and I don't know that there's much else excepting plenty of cups and plates--they're enamel, fortunately, so you won't have much trouble with the servants breaking things. Of course there's a Christmas card and a few works of art on the walls for you to look at when you're tired of looking at yourself in the gla.s.s. Yes! There's a looking-gla.s.s--goodness knows how it got there! You ought to be thankful for that and the wire-mattress. You won't find many of them out bush ."

I humbly acknowledged thankfulness, and felt deeply grateful to Mine Host, when, with ready thoughtfulness he brought a couple of china cups and stood them among the baggage--the heart of Mine Host was as warm and sincere as his flas.h.i.+ng smiles. I learned, in time, to be indifferent to china cups, but that flat-iron became one of my most cherished possessions--how it got to the Katherine is a long, long story, touching on three continents, a man, a woman, and a baby.

The commodious station home destroyed, the Katherine bestirred itself further in the speeding of its guests. The Telegraph came with the offer of their buggy, and then the Police offered theirs; but Mine Host, harnessing two nuggety little horses into his buck-board, drove round to the store, declaring a buck-board was the "only thing for the road."

"You won't feel the journey at all in it," he said, and drove us round the Settlement to prove how pleasant and easy travelling could be in the Wet.

"No buggy obtainable," murmured the Maluka, reviewing the three offers.

But the Sanguine Scot was quite unabashed, and answered coolly: "You forget those telegrams were sent to that other woman--the Goer, you know--there WAS no buggy obtainable for HER. By George! Wasn't she a snorter? I knew I'd block her somehow," and then he added with a gallant bow and a flourish: "You can see for yourselves, chaps, that she didn't come."

The Wag mimicked the bow and the flourish, and then suggested accepting all three vehicles and having a procession "a triumphal exit that'll knock spots off Pine Creek."

"There'd be one apiece," he said, "and with Jackeroo as outrider, and loose horses to fill in with, we could make a real good thing of it if we tried. There's Tam, now; he's had a fair amount of practice lately, dodging round corners, and if he and I stood on opposite sides of the track, and dodged round bushes directly the procession pa.s.sed coming out farther along, we could line the track for miles with cheering crowds."

The buck-board only being decided on, he expressed himself bitterly disappointed, but promised to do his best with that and the horses; until hearing that Mac was to go out to the "five-mile" overnight with the pack-team and loose horses, leaving us to follow at sun-up, he became disconsolate and refused even to witness the departure.

"I'd 'av willingly bust meself cheering a procession and lining the track with frantic crowds," he said, "but I'm too fat to work up any enthusiasm over two people in a buck-board."

A little before sundown Mac set out, after instructing the Katherine to "get the buck-board off early," and just before the Katherine "turned in"

for the night, the Maluka went to the office to settle accounts with Mine Host.

In five minutes he was back, standing among the ponchianas, and then after a little while of silence he said gently: "Mac was right. A woman does not represent business here." Mine Host had indignantly refused payment for a woman's board and lodging.

"I had to pay, though," the Maluka laughed, with one of his quick changes of humour. "But, then, I'm only a man."

CHAPTER V

When we arrived at the five-mile in the morning we found Mac "packed up"

and ready for the start, and, pa.s.sing the reins to him, the Maluka said, "You know the road best "; and Mac, being what he called a "bit of a Jehu," we set off in great style across country, apparently missing trees by a hair's breadth, and b.u.mping over the ant-hills, boulders, and broken boughs that lay half-hidden in the long gra.s.s.

After being nearly b.u.mped out of the buck-board several times, I asked if there wasn't any track anywhere; and Mac once again exploded with astonishment.

"We're on the track," he shouted. "Good Heavens I do you mean to say you can't see it on ahead there?" and he pointed towards what looked like thickly timbered country, plentifully strewn with further boulders and boughs and ant-hills; and as I shook my head, he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "And we're on the main transcontinental route from Adelaide to Port Darwin," he said.

"Any track anywhere!" he mimicked presently, as we lurched, and heaved, and b.u.mped along. "What'll she say when we get into the long-gra.s.s country?"

"Long here!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, when I thought the gra.s.s we were driving through was fairly long (it was about three feet). "Just you wait!"

I waited submissively, if bouncing about a buck-board over thirty miles of obstacles can be called waiting, and next day we "got into the long-gra.s.s country", miles of gra.s.s, waving level with and above our heads--gra.s.s ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but gra.s.s.

The Maluka was riding a little behind, at the head of the pack-team, but we could see neither him nor the team, and Mac looked triumphantly round as the staunch little horses pushed on through the forest of gra.s.s that swirled and bent and swished and reeled all about the buck-board.

"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "This is what we call long gra.s.s"; and he asked if I could "see any track now." "It's as plain as a pikestaff," he declared, trying to show what he called a "clear break all the way." "Oh I'm a dead homer all right," he shouted after further going as we came out at the "King" crossing.

"Now for it! Hang on!" he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he said unconcernedly: "I wonder how deep this is," adding, as the buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it: "By George!

They're off their feet," and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.

"That's the style!" he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and dripping well over the rise from the crossing. "Close thing, though!

Did you get your feet wet?"

"Did you get your feet wet!" That was all, when I was expecting every form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant at Mac's recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, "You shouldn't take such risks."

But Mac was blissfully unconscious of the severity. "Risks!" he said.

"Why, it wasn't wide enough for anything to happen, bar a ducking. If you rush it, the horses are pushed across before they know they're off their feet."

"Bar a ducking, indeed!" But Mac was out of the buck-board, shouting back, "Hold hard there! It's a swim," and continued shouting directions until the horses were across with comparatively dry pack-bags. Then he and the Maluka shook hands and congratulated each other on being the right side of everything.

"No more rivers!" the Maluka said.

"Clear run home, bar a deluge," Mac added, gathering up the reins. "We'll strike the front gate to-night."

All afternoon we followed the telegraph line, and there the track was really well-defined; then at sundown Mac drew up, and with a flourish of hats he and the Maluka bade the missus "Welcome Home!" All around and about was bush, and only bush, that, and the telegraph line, and Mac, touching on one of the slender galvanized iron poles, explained the welcome. "This is the front gate." he said; "another forty-five miles and we'll be knocking at the front door." And they called the Elsey "a nice little place." Perhaps it was when compared with runs of six million acres.

The camp was pitched just inside the "front gate," near a wide-spreading sheet of water, "Easter's Billabong," and at supper-time the conversation turned on bush cookery.

"Never tasted Johnny cakes!!" Mac said. "Your education hasn't begun yet.

We'll have some for breakfast; I'm real slap-up at Johnny cakes!" and rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour, cream-of-tartar, soda, and a mixing-dish, and set to work at once.

"I'm real slap-up at Johnny cakes! No mistake!" he a.s.sured us, as he knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish, kneading enthusiastically at his mixture. "Look at that!" as air-bubbles appeared all over the light, spongy dough. "Didn't I tell you I knew a thing or two about cooking?" and cutting off nuggety-looking chunks, he buried them in the hot ashes.

When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just pride. "Well!" he said. "Who's slap-up at Johnny cakes?" and standing them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents--a deluge being expected--and carried them into his own for safety.

During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring little rivulets through Mac's tent, that he was obliged to pa.s.s most of the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.

Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at the ruins of his cookery--a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. "Must have been sitting on 'em all night," he said, "and there's no other bread for breakfast."

There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind; but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac's sense of humour revived. "Didn't I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny cakes?" he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous chuckles: "You mightn't think it; but I really am." Then he pointed to Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Maluka hunted for the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman. "White fellow big fellow fool all right! eh, Jackeroo?" he asked, and Jackeroo openly agreed with us.

Finding the black soil flats impa.s.sable after the deluge, Mac left the track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day; and all that had gone before was smoothness itself in comparison to what was in store.

All day the buck-board rocked and b.u.mped through the timber, and the Maluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out the advantages of travelling across country, as we bounced about the buck-board like rubber b.a.l.l.s: "There's so little chance of getting stiff with sitting still."