of pleasure from a minimum rate of speed: for travelling in the Territory has not yet passed that ideal stage where the travelling itself—the actual going—is all pleasantness.
As we approached Pine Creek I confided to the men-folk that I was feeling a little nervous. “Supposing that telegraphing bush-whacker decides to shoot me off-hand on my arrival,” I said; and the Man-in-Charge said amiably: “It’ll be brought in as justifiable homicide; that’s all.” Then reconnoitring the enemy from the platform, he “feared” we were “about to be boycotted.”
There certainly were very few men on the station, and the Man-in-Charge recognising one of them as the landlord of the Playford, assured us there was nothing to fear from that quarter. “You see, you represent business to him,” he explained.
Every one but the landlord seemed to have urgent business in the office or at the far end of the platform, but it was quickly evident that there was nothing to fear from him; for, finding himself left alone to do the honours of the Creek, he greeted us with an amused: “She doesn’t look up to sample sent by telegram”; and I felt every meeting would be, at least, unconventional. Then we heard that as Mac had “only just arrived from the Katherine, he couldn’t leave his horses until they were fixed up”; but the landlord’s eyes having wandered back to the “Goer,” he winked deliberately at the Măluka before inviting us to “step across to the Pub.”
The Pub seemed utterly deserted, and with another wink the landlord explained the silence by saying that “a cyclone of some sort” had swept most of his “regulars” away; and then he went shouting through the echoing passages for a “boy” to “fetch along tea.”
Before the tea appeared, an angry Scotch voice crept to us through thin partitions, saying: “It’s not a fit place for a woman, and, besides, nobody wants her!” And in a little while we heard the same voice inquiring for “the Boss.”
“The telegraphing bush-whacker,” I said, and invited the Măluka to come and see me defy him. But when I found myself face to face with over six feet of brawny quizzing, wrathful-looking Scotchman, all my courage slipped away, and edging closer to the Măluka, I held out my hand to the bushman, murmuring lamely: “How do you do?”
Instantly a change came over the rugged, bearded face. At the sight of the “Goer” reduced to a meek five feet, all the wrath died out of it, and with twitching lips and twinkling eyes Mac answered mechanically, “Quite well thank you,” and then coughed in embarrassment.
That was all: no fierce blocking, no defying. And with the cough, the absurdity of the whole affair, striking us simultaneously, left us grinning like a trio of Cheshire cats.
It was a most eloquent grinning, making all spoken apology or explanation unnecessary; and by the time it had faded away we thoroughly understood each other, being drawn together by a mutual love of the ridiculous. Only a mutual love of the ridiculous, yet not so slender a basis for a lifelong friendship as appears, and by no means an uncommon one “out bush.”
“Does the station pay for the telegrams, or the loser?” the landlord asked in an aside, as we went in to supper and after supper the preparations began for the morrow’s start.
The Sanguine Scot, anxious to make amends for the telegrams, was full of suggestions for smoothing out the difficulties of the road. Like many men of his type, whatever he did he did it with all his heart and soul—hating, loving, avenging, or forgiving with equal energy; and he now applied himself to helping the Măluka “make things easy for her,” as zealously as he had striven to “block her somehow.”
Sorting out pack-bags, he put one aside, with a “We’ll have to spare that for her duds. It won’t do for her to be short. She’ll have enough to put up with, without that.” But when I thanked him, and said I could manage nicely with only one, as I would not need much on the road, he and the Măluka sat down and stared at each other in dismay. “That’s for everything you’ll need till the waggons come,” they explained; “your road kit goes in your swag.”
The waggons went “inside” once a year—“after the Wet,” and would arrive at the homestead early in June. As it was then only the middle of January, I too sat down, and stared in dismay from the solitary pack-bag to the great, heaped-up pile that had been sorted out as indispensable. “You’ll have to cull your herd a bit, that’s all,” Mac said; and needlework was pointed out as a luxury. Then books were “cut out,” after that the house linen was looked to, and as I hesitated over the number of pillow-cases we could manage with, Mac cried triumphantly: “You won’t need these anyway, for there’s no pillows.”
The Măluka thought he had prepared me for everything in the way of roughness; but in a flash we knew that I had yet to learn what a bushman means by rough.
As the pillow-cases fell to the ground, Mac was at a loss to account for my consternation. “What’s gone wrong?” he exclaimed in concern. Mac was often an unconscious humorist.
But the Măluka came with his ever-ready sympathy. “Poor little coon,” he said gently, “there’s little else but chivalry and a bite of tucker for a woman out bush.”
Then a light broke in on Mac. “Is it only the pillows?” he said. “I thought something had gone wrong.” Then his eyes began to twinkle. “There’s stacks of pillows in Darwin,” he said meaningly.
It was exactly the moral fillip needed, and in another minute we were cheerfully “culling our herd” again.
Exposed to Mac’s scorn, the simplest comforts became foolish luxuries. “A couple of changes of everything is stacks,” he said encouragingly, clearing a space for packing. “There’s heaps of soap and water at the station, and things dry here before you can waltz round twice.”
Hopefulness is always infectious, and before Mac’s cheery optimism the pile of necessities grew rapidly smaller. Indeed, with such visions of soap and water and waltzing washerwomen, a couple of changes of everything appeared absurd luxury. But even optimism can have disadvantages; for in our enthusiasm we forgot that a couple of cambric blouses, a cotton dress or two, and a change of skirts, are hardly equal to the strain of nearly five months constant wear and washing.
The pillow-cases went in, however. Mac settled that difficulty by saying that “all hands could be put on to pluck birds. The place is stiff with ’em,” he explained, showing what a simple matter it would be, after all. The Măluka turning out two cushions, a large and a smaller one, simplified matters even more. “A bird in the hand you know,” he said, finding room for them in the swag.
Before all the arrangements were completed, others of the Creek had begun to thaw, and were “lending a hand,” here and there. The question of horses coming up, I confided in the helpers, that I was relieved to hear that the Telegraph had sent a quiet horse. “I am really afraid of buck-jumpers, you know,” I said, and the Creek looking sideways at Mac, he became incoherent.
“Oh, look here!” he spluttered, “I say! Oh, look here! It really was too bad!” Then, after an awkward pause, he blurted out, “I don’t know what you’ll think, but the brute strayed first camp, and—he’s lost, saddle and all.”
The Măluka shot him a swift, questioning glance; but poor Mac looked so unhappy that we assured him “we’d manage somehow.” Perhaps we could tame one of the flash buck-jumpers, the Măluka suggested. But Mac said it “wouldn’t be as bad as that,” and, making full confession, placed old Roper at our service.
By morning, however, a magnificent chestnut “Flash,” well-broken
