First quarter of a mile, and
talked volubly of the prospects of the Wet and the resources of the
Territory; but when Flash was released, and after a short tussle settled
down into a free, swinging amble, he offered congratulations in his own
whimsical way.
"He's like the rest of us," he said, with a sly, sidelong look at the
Maluka, "perfectly reconciled to his fate."
Although it was only sixty-five miles to the Katherine it took us exactly
three days to travel the distance. Mac called it a "tip-top record for
the Wet," and the Maluka agreed with him; for in the Territory it is not
the number of miles that counts, but what is met with in those miles.
During the first afternoon we met so many amiable-looking watercourses,
that the Sanguine Scot grew more and hopeful about crossing the Fergusson
that night. "We'll just do it if we push on," he said, after a critical
look at the Cullen, then little more than a sweet, shady stream. "Our
luck's dead in. She's only just moving. Yesterday's rain hasn't come down
the valleys yet."
We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two
hours later, we found our luck was "dead out," for "she" was up and
running a banker.
Mac's hopes sank below zero. "Now we've done it," he said ruefully,
looking down at the swirling torrent, "It's a case of 'wait-a-while'
after all."
But the Maluka's hopes always died hard. "There's still the Government
yacht," he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water
mark. Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply
sunk in the muddy bank.
It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a
thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers "stuck up" by the
river when in flood. An army of roughriders might have launched it, but
as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to
the wisdom of Governments.
Some jester had chalked on its sides "H.M.S. Immovable"; and after
tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Maluka and Mac and
Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman's irony.
There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after
"dratting things" in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to
the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and
saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.
By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but
without much success. "Oh, well," he said, as we settled down round the
fire, "this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that's one comfort. Another
whole week starts next Sunday"; then relapsing altogether he added
gloomily; "We'll be spending it here, too, by the look of things."
"Unless the missus feels equal to the horse's-tail trick" the Maluka
suggested.
