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, passing 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 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 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 bumped along. "What'll she say when we get into the long-grass
country?"
"Long here!" he ejaculated, when I thought the grass 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-grass country", miles of grass, waving level with and above our
heads - grass ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but grass.
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 grass 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 grass"; 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 assured 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.
