"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.
