"It's only common sense; you'll soon get used to it," Mac said in
encouragement, giving us one of his delightful backhanders. Then in all
seriousness Dan suggested teaching her some of the signs of water at
hand, right off, "in case she does get lost any time," and also
seriously, the Maluka and Mac "thought it would be as well, perhaps."
Then the townswoman's self-satisfied arrogance came to the surface. "You
needn't bother about me," I said, confident I had as much common sense as
any bushman. "If ever I do get lost, I'll just catch a cow and milk it."
Knowing nothing of the wild, scared cattle of the fenceless runs of the
Never-Never, I was prepared for anything rather than the roar of delight
that greeted that example of town "common sense."
"Missus! missus!" the Maluka cried, as soon as he could speak, "you'll
need a deal of educating "; and while Mac gasped, "Oh I say! Look here!"
Dan, with tears in his eyes, chuckled: "She'll have a drouth on by the
time she runs one down." Dan always called a thirst a drouth. "Oh Lord!"
he said, picturing the scene in his mind's eye, "'I'll catch a cow and
milk it,' she says."
Then, dancing with fun, the hazel eyes looked round the company, and as
Dan rose, preparatory to turning in, we felt we were about to hear their
verdict. When it came it was characteristic of the man in uniqueness of
wording:
"She's the dead finish!" he said, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve.
"Reckoned she was the minute I heard her talking about slap-up dampers";
and in some indescribable way we knew he had paid the woman who was just
entering his life the highest compliment in his power. Then he added,
"Told the chaps the little 'uns were generally all right." It is the
helplessness of little women that makes them appear "all right" in the
eyes of bushmen, helplessness being foreign to snorters.
At breakfast Dan expressed surprise because there was no milk, and the
pleasantry being well received, he considered the moment ripe for one of
his pet theories.
"She'll do for this place!" he said, wagging his head wisely. "I've been
forty years out-bush, and I've known eight or ten women in that time, so
I ought to know something about it. Anyway, the ones that could see jokes
suited best. There was Mrs. Bob out Victoria way. She'd see a joke a
mile off; sighted 'em as soon as they got within cooee. Never knew her
miss one, and never knew anybody suit the bush like she did." And, as we
packed up and set out for the last lap of our journey he was still
ambling about his theory. "Yes," he said, "you can dodge most things out
bush; but you can't dodge jokes for long. They'll run you down sooner or
later"; adding with a chuckle, "Never heard of one running Mrs. Bob
down, though. She always tripped 'em up before they could get to her."
Then finding the missus had thrown away a "good cup of tea just because a
few flies had got into it," he became grave. "Never heard of Mrs. Bob
getting up to those tricks," he said, and doubted whether "the missus'ld
do after all," until reassured by the Maluka that "she'll be fishing
them out with the indifference of a Stoic in a week or two"; and I was.
When within a few miles of the homestead, the buckboard took a sharp turn
round a patch of scrub, and before any one realised what was happening we
were in the midst of a mob of pack horses, and face to face with the
Quiet Stockman a strong, erect, young Scot, who carried his six foot two
of bone and muscle with the lithe ease of a bushman.
"Hallo" Mac shouted, pulling up. Then, with the air of a showman
introducing some rare exhibit, added: "This is the missus, Jack."
Jack touched his hat and moved uneasily in his saddle, answering Mac's
questions in monosyllables. Then the Maluka came up, and Mac, taking pity
on the embarrassed bushman, suggested "getting along," and we left him
sitting rigidly on his horse, trying to collect his scattered senses.
"That was unrehearsed," Mac chuckled, as we drove on. "He's clearing out!
Reckon he didn't set out exactly hoping to meet us, though. Tam's a
lady's man in comparison," but loyal to his comrade above his amusement,
he added warmly: "You can't beat Jack by much, though, when it comes to
sticking to a pal," unconscious that he was prophesying of the years to
come, when the missus had become one of those pals.
"There's only the Dandy left now," Mac went on, as we spun along an ever
more definite track, "and he'll be all right as soon as he gets used to
it. Never knew such a chap for finding something decent in everybody he
strikes." Naturally I hoped he would "find something decent in me,"
having learned what it meant to the stockmen to have a woman pitchforked
into their daily lives, when those lives were to be lived side by side,
in camp, or in saddle, or at the homestead.
Mac hesitated a moment, and then out flashed one of his happy
inspirations. "Don't you bother about the Dandy," he said; "bushmen have a
sixth sense, and know a pal when they see one."
Just a bushman's pretty speech, aimed straight at the heart of a woman,
where all the pretty speeches of the bushfolk are aimed; for it is by the
heart that they judge us.
