Then
he congratulated the Maluka on the size of his missus.
"Gimme the little 'uns," he said, nearly wringing my hand off in his
approval. "You can't beat 'em for pluck. My missus is one of 'em, and she
went bush with me when I'd nothing but a skeeto net and a quart-pot to
share with her." Then, slapping the Maluka vigorously on the back, he
told him he'd got some sense left. "You can't beat the little 'uns," he
declared. "They're just the very thing."
The Maluka agreed with him, and after some comical quizzing, they
decided, to their own complete satisfaction, that although the bushman's
"missus" was the "littlest of all little 'uns, straight up and down," the
Maluka's "knocked spots off her sideways."
But although the Territory train does not need to bend its neck to the
galling yoke of a minute time-table, yet, like all bush-whackers, it
prefers to strike its supper camp before night-fall, and after allowing
us a good ten minutes' chat, it blew a deferential "Ahem" from its
engine, as a hint that it would like to be "getting along." The bushman
took the hint, and after a hearty "Good luck, missus!" and a "chin, chin,
old man," left us, with assurances that "her size 'ud do the trick."
Until sundown we jogged quietly on, meandering through further pleasant
places and meetings; drinking tea and chatting with the Man-in-Charge
between whiles, extracting a maximum of pleasure from a minimum rate of
speed: for travelling in the Territory has not yet passed that ideal
stage where the travelling itself - the actual going - is all
pleasantness.
As we approached Pine Creek I confided to the men-folk that I was feeling
a little nervous. "Supposing that telegraphing bush-whacker decides to
shoot me off-hand on my arrival," I said; and the Man-in-Charge said
amiably: "It'll be brought in as justifiable homicide; that's all." Then
reconnoitring the enemy from the platform, he "feared" we were "about to
be boycotted."
There certainly were very few men on the station, and the Man-in-Charge
recognising one of them as the landlord of the Playford, assured us there
was nothing to fear from that quarter. "You see, you represent business
to him," he explained.
Every one but the landlord seemed to have urgent business in the office
or at the far end of the platform, but it was quickly evident that there
was nothing to fear from him; for, finding himself left alone to do the
honours of the Creek, he greeted us with an amused: "She doesn't look up
to sample sent by telegram"; and I felt every meeting would be, at least,
unconventional. Then we heard that as Mac had "only just arrived from the
Katherine, he couldn't leave his horses until they were fixed up"; but
the landlord's eyes having wandered back to the "Goer," he winked
deliberately at the Maluka before inviting us to "step across to the
Pub."
The Pub seemed utterly deserted, and with another wink the landlord
explained the silence by saying that "a cyclone of some sort" had swept
most of his "regulars" away; and then he went shouting through the
echoing passages for a "boy" to "fetch along tea."
Before the tea appeared, an angry Scotch voice crept to us through thin
partitions, saying:
