Our appearance was about as
dashing as our pace; and draggled, wet through, and perspiring, and out
of conceit with primitive travelling - having spent the afternoon
combining a minimum rate of travelling with a maximum of discomfort - we
arrived at the Edith an hour after sundown to find her a wide eddying
stream.
"Won't be more than a ducking," Mac said cheerfully. "Couldn't be much
wetter than we are," and the Maluka taking the reins from my hands, we
rode into the stream Mac keeping behind, "to pick her up in case she
floats off," he said, thinking he was putting courage into me.
It wasn't as bad as it looked; and after a little stumbling and plunging
and drifting the horses were clambering out up the opposite bank, and by
next sundown - after scrambling through a few more rivers - we found
ourselves looking down at the flooded Katherine, flowing below in the
valley of a rocky gorge.
Sixty-five miles in three days, against sixty miles an hour of the
express trains of the world. "Speed's the thing," cries the world, and
speeds on, gaining little but speed; and we bush-folk travel our sixty
miles and gain all that is worth gaining - excepting speed.
