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.
