But when I found myself face to face with over six
feet of brawny quizzing, wrathful-looking Scotchman, all my courage
slipped away, and edging closer to the Maluka, I held out my hand to the
bushman, murmuring lamely: "How do you do?"
Instantly a change came over the rugged, bearded face. At the sight of
the "Goer" reduced to a meek five feet, all the wrath died out of it, and
with twitching lips and twinkling eyes Mac answered mechanically, "Quite
well thank you," and then coughed in embarrassment.
That was all: no fierce blocking, no defying. And with the cough, the
absurdity of the whole affair, striking us simultaneously, left us
grinning like a trio of Cheshire cats.
It was a most eloquent grinning, making all spoken apology or explanation
unnecessary; and by the time it had faded away we thoroughly understood
each other, being drawn together by a mutual love of the ridiculous. Only
a mutual love of the ridiculous, yet not so slender a basis for a
lifelong friendship as appears, and by no means an uncommon one "out
bush."
"Does the station pay for the telegrams, or the loser?" the landlord
asked in an aside, as we went in to supper and after supper the
preparations began for the morrow's start.
The Sanguine Scot, anxious to make amends for the telegrams, was full of
suggestions for smoothing out the difficulties of the road. Like many
men of his type, whatever he did he did it with all his heart and
soul - hating, loving, avenging, or forgiving with equal energy; and he
now applied himself to helping the Maluka "make things easy for her," as
zealously as he had striven to "block her somehow."
Sorting out pack-bags, he put one aside, with a "We'll have to spare that
for her duds. It won't do for her to be short. She'll have enough to
put up with, without that." But when I thanked him, and said I could
manage nicely with only one, as I would not need much on the road, he and
the Maluka sat down and stared at each other in dismay. "That's for
everything you'll need till the waggons come," they explained; "your road
kit goes in your swag."
The waggons went "inside" once a year - "after the Wet," and would arrive
at the homestead early in June. As it was then only the middle of
January, I too sat down, and stared in dismay from the solitary pack-bag
to the great, heaped-up pile that had been sorted out as indispensable.
"You'll have to cull your herd a bit, that's all," Mac said; and
needlework was pointed out as a luxury. Then books were "cut out," after
that the house linen was looked to, and as I hesitated over the number of
pillow-cases we could manage with, Mac cried triumphantly:
