By some hideous mistake, Billy had brought RAISINS.
Like many philosophers, Dan could not apply his philosophy to himself.
"It's the dead finish," he said dejectedly; "never struck anything like
it before. Twice over too," he added. "First tinware and now this foolery
"; and he kicked savagely at the offending tin, sending a shower of
raisins dancing out into the dust.
Every one but Dan was speechless, while Billy, not being a slave to
tea-drinking, gathered the raisins up, failing to see any cause for
disappointment, particularly as most of the raisins fell to his share
for his prompt return.
He also failed to see any advantage in setting out again for the
Katherine. "Might it catch raisins nuzzer time," he said, logically
enough.
Dan became despondent at the thought. "They're fools enough for
anything," he said. I tried to cheer him up on the law of averages, as
Goggle-Eye was sent off with instructions to travel "quick-fellow,
quick-fellow, big mob quick-fellow," and many promises of reward if he
was back in "four fellow sleeps."
For two more days we peered into the forest for travellers but none
appeared, and Dan became retrospective. "We might have guessed this 'ud
happen," he said, declaring it was a "judgment on the missus" for
chucking good tea away just because a fly got into it. "Luck's cleared
right out because of it, missus," he said; "and if things go on like this
Johnny'll be coming along one of these days." (Dan was the only one of
us who could joke on the matter.)
"Luck's smashed all to pieces," he insisted later, when he found that the
first pillow was finished; but at sundown was inclined to think it might
be "on the turn again," for Goggle-Eye appeared on the north track,
stalking majestically in front of a horseman.
"Me bin catch traveller," he said triumphantly, claiming his rewards, "Me
bin come back two fellow sleep"; and before we could explain that was
hardly what we had meant, the man had ridden up.
"Heard you were doing a famish here, sitting with your tongues hanging
out," he laughed, "so I've brought you a few more raisins." And
dismounting, he drew out from a pack-bag a long calico bag containing
quite ten pounds of tea.
"You struck the Wag's tin," he said, explaining the mistake, as every one
shouted for Sam to boil a kettle instantly, and with the tea came a
message from the Wag himself:
"I'll trouble you for my raisins "; and we could almost hear the Wag's
slow, dry chuckle underlying the words.
Mine Host also sent a message, saying he would "send further supplies
every opportunity, to keep things going until the waggons came through,"
and underlying his message we felt his kindly consideration. As a further
proof of his thoughtfulness we found two china cups imbedded in the tea.
He had heard of Sam's accident. Tea in china cups! and as much and as
strong as we desired. But in spite of Mine Host's efforts to keep us
going, twice again, before the waggons came, we found ourselves begging
tea from travellers.
Our energies revived with the very first cup of tea, and we went for our
usual evening stroll through the paddocks, with all our old appreciation;
and on our return found the men stretched out on the grass beyond the
Quarters, optimistic and happy, sipping at further cups of tea. (Sam's
kettle was kept busy that night.)
The men's optimism was infectious, and presently the Maluka "supposed the
waggons would be starting before long."
It was only March, and the waggons had to wait till the Wet lifted; but
just then every one felt sure that "the Wet would lift early this year."
"Generally does with the change of moon before Easter," the traveller
said, and, flying off at a tangent, I asked when Easter was, unwittingly
setting the homestead a tough problem.
Nobody "could say for certain." But Dan "knew a chap once who could
reckon it by the moon" and the Maluka felt inspired to work it out.
"It's simple enough," he said. "The first Friday - or is it
Sunday? - after the first full moon, AFTER the twenty-first of March."
"Twenty-fifth, isn't it?" the Dandy asked, complicating matters from the
beginning.
The traveller reckoned it'd be new moon about Monday or Tuesday, which
seemed near enough at the time; and full moon was fixed for the Tuesday
or Wednesday fortnight from that.
"That ought to settle it," Dan said; and so it might have if any one had
been sure of Monday's date; but we all had different convictions about
that, varying from the ninth to the thirteenth.
After much ticking off of days upon fingers, with an old newspaper as
"something to work from," the date of the full moon was fixed for the
twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth of March, unless the moon came in so late
on Tuesday that it brought the full to the morning of the twenty-sixth.
"Seems getting a bit mixed," Dan said, and matters were certainly
complicated.
If we were to reckon from the twenty-first, Easter was in March, but if
from the twenty-fifth, in April - if the moon came in on Monday, but March
in either case if the full was on the twenty-sixth.
Dan suggested "giving it best." "It 'ud get anybody dodged," he said,
hopelessly at sea; but the Maluka wanted to "see it through." "The new
moon should clear most of it up," he said; "but you've given us a teaser
this time, little 'un."
The new moon should have cleared everything up if we could have seen it,
but the Wet coming on in force again, we saw nothing till Thursday
evening, when it was too late to calculate with precision.
