We, of course, had ridden out, but Goggle-Eye had preferred to
walk. "Me all day knock up longa horse," he explained striding
comfortably along beside us.
Several exciting hours were spent with boxes of wax matches, burning the
rank grass back from the yard at the springs (at Goggle-Eye's suggestion
the missus had been pressed into the service); and then we rode through
the rank grass along the river, scattering matches as we went like sparks
from an engine. As soon as the rank grass seeds it must be burnt off,
before the soil loses its moisture, to ensure a second shorter spring,
and everywhere we went now clouds of dense smoke rose behind us.
That walk about with the Maluka and "Gadgerrie" lived like a red-letter
day in old Goggle-Eye's memory; for did he not himself strike a dozen
full boxes of matches?
Dan was away beyond the northern boundary, going through the cattle,
judging the probable duration of "outside waters" for that year, burning
off too as he rode. The Quiet Stockman was away beyond the southern
boundary, rounding up wanderers and stragglers among the horses, and the
station was face to face with the year's work, making preparations for
the year's mustering and branding - for with the lifting of the Wet
everything in the Never-Never begins to move.
