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.
