"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.
During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood
banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring
little rivulets through Mac's tent, that he was obliged to pass most of
the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.
Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes
became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast
time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at
the ruins of his cookery - a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. "Must
have been sitting on 'em all night," he said, "and there's no other bread
for breakfast."
There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind;
but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac's
sense of humour revived. "Didn't I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny
cakes?" he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous
chuckles: "You mightn't think it; but I really am." Then he pointed to
Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Maluka hunted for
the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman. "White fellow big
fellow fool all right!
