The wizard of the Never-Never weaves his spells, until
hardships, and dangers, and privations, seem all that make life worth
living; and then holds us "tethered goats"; and every time the town calls
us with promises of gaiety, and comfort, and security, "something pulls
us back with a jerk" to our beloved bush.
There was no sign of rain; and as bushmen only pitch tent when a deluge
is expected, our camp was very simple: just camp sleeping mosquito-nets,
with calico tops and cheese net for curtains - hanging by cords between
stout stakes driven into the ground. "Mosquito pegs," the bushmen call
these stakes.
Jackeroo, the unpoetical, was even then sound asleep in his net; and in
ten minutes everything was "fixed up." In another ten minutes we had
also "turned in," and soon after I was sound asleep, rolled up in a
"bluey," and had to be wakened at dawn.
"The river's still rising," Mac announced by way of good-morning. "We'll
have to bustle up and get across, or the water'll be over the wire, and
then we'll be done for."
Bustle as we would, however "getting across" was a tedious business. It
took nearly an hour's hustling and urging and galloping before the horses
could be persuaded to attempt the swim, and then only after old Roper had
been partly dragged and partly hauled through the back-wash by the
amphibious Jackeroo.
Another half-hour slipped by in sending the horses' hobbles across on the
pulley that ran on the wire, and in the hobbling out of the horses.
Then, with Jackeroo on one side of the river, and the Maluka and Mac on
the other, swags, saddles, packbags, and camp baggage went over one by
one; and it was well past mid-day before all was finished.
Then my turn came. A surcingle - one of the long thick straps that keep
all firm on a pack-horse - was buckled through the pulley, and the Maluka
crossed first, just to test its safety. It was safe enough; but as he
was dragged through the water most of the way, the pleasantness of
"getting across" on the wire proved a myth.
Mac shortened the strap, and then sat me in it, like a child in a swing.
"Your lighter weight will run clear of the water," he said, with his
usual optimism. "It's only a matter of holding on and keeping cool"; and
as the Maluka began to haul he added final instructions. "Hang on like
grim death, and keep cool, whatever happens," he said.
I promised to obey, and all went well until I reached mid-stream. Then,
the wire beginning to sag threateningly towards the water, Mac flung his
whole weight on to his end of it, and, to his horror, I shot up into the
air like a sky-rocket.
