and struck firmly and bravely out.
Staunchly he and Mac dealt with the current: taking time and approaching it quietly, meeting it with taut rope and unflinching nerve, drifting for a few breaths to judge its force; then, nothing daunted, they battled forward, stroke after stroke, and won across without once pulling the boat out of its course.
Only Roper could have done it; and when the splendid neck and shoulders appeared above water as he touched bottom, on the submerged track, he was greeted with a cheer and a hearty, unanimous “Bravo! old chap!” Then Mac returned thanks with a grateful look, and, leaping ashore, looked over the beautiful, wet, shining limbs, declaring he could have “done it on his own,” if required.
Once assured that we were anxious for a start, the Katherine set about speeding the parting guests with gifts of farewell. The Wag brought fresh tomatoes and a cucumber; the Telegraph sent eggs; the Police a freshly baked cake; the Chinese cook baked bread, and Mine Host came with a few potatoes and a flat-iron. To the surprise of the Katherine, I received the potatoes without enthusiasm, not having been long enough in the Territory to know their rare value, and, besides, I was puzzling over the flat iron.
“What’s it for?” I asked, and the Wag shouted in mock amazement: “For! To iron duds with, of course,” as Mine Host assured us it was of no use to him beyond keeping a door open.
Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need to iron duds until we reached the homestead, and the Măluka said quietly: “It’s for the homestead. There will be nothing like that there.”
Mac exploded with an impetuous “Good Heavens! What does she expect? First pillows and now irons!”
Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what “rough” means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying my ideas of a station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden cottage, plainly but comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed this idea, but Mac soon settled the question beyond all doubt.
“Look here!” he said emphatically. “Before she leaves this place she’ll just have to grasp things a bit better,” and sitting down on a swag he talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer delight in making everything sound as bad as possible, “knocking the stiffening out of the missus,” as he phrased it, and certainly bringing the “commodious station home” about her ears, which was just as well, perhaps.
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 glass. Yes! There’s a looking-glass—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 flashing 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 Măluka, 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 passed 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 Măluka 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 Măluka laughed, with one of his quick changes of humour. “But, then, I’m only a man.”
Chapter 5
When we arrived at the five-mile in the morning we found Mac “packed up” and ready for the start, and, passing the reins to him, the Măluka 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 bumping over the ant-hills, boulders, and broken boughs that lay half-hidden in the long grass.
After being nearly bumped 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! 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
