"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: "It's not a fit place for a woman, and, besides,
nobody wants her!" And in a little while we heard the same voice
inquiring for "the Boss."
"The telegraphing bush-whacker," I said, and invited the Maluka to come
and see me defy him. 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: "You won't
need these anyway, for there's no pillows."
The Maluka thought he had prepared me for everything in the way of
roughness; but in a flash we knew that I had yet to learn what a bushman
means by rough.
As the pillow-cases fell to the ground, Mac was at a loss to account for
my consternation. "What's gone wrong?" he exclaimed in concern. Mac was
often an unconscious humorist.
But the Maluka came with his ever-ready sympathy. "Poor little coon," he
said gently, "there's little else but chivalry and a bite of tucker for a
woman out bush."
Then a light broke in on Mac. "Is it only the pillows?" he said. "I
thought something had gone wrong." Then his eyes began to twinkle.
"There's stacks of pillows in Darwin," he said meaningly.
It was exactly the moral fillip needed, and in another minute we were
cheerfully "culling our herd" again.
Exposed to Mac's scorn, the simplest comforts became foolish luxuries. "A
couple of changes of everything is stacks," he said encouragingly,
clearing a space for packing.
