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. "There's heaps of soap and water at the
station, and things dry here before you can waltz round twice."
Hopefulness is always infectious, and before Mac's cheery optimism the
pile of necessities grew rapidly smaller. Indeed, with such visions of
soap and water and waltzing washerwomen, a couple of changes of
everything appeared absurd luxury. But even optimism can have
disadvantages; for in our enthusiasm we forgot that a couple of cambric
blouses, a cotton dress or two, and a change of skirts, are hardly equal
to the strain of nearly five months constant wear and washing.
The pillow-cases went in, however. Mac settled that difficulty by saying
that "all hands could be put on to pluck birds. The place is stiff with
'em," he explained, showing what a simple matter it would be, after all.
The Maluka turning out two cushions, a large and a smaller one,
simplified matters even more. "A bird in the hand you know," he said,
finding room for them in the swag.
Before all the arrangements were completed, others of the Creek had begun
to thaw, and were "lending a hand," here and there. The question of
horses coming up, I confided in the helpers, that I was relieved to hear
that the Telegraph had sent a quiet horse. "I am really afraid of
buck-jumpers, you know," I said, and the Creek looking sideways at Mac,
he became incoherent.
"Oh, look here!" he spluttered, "I say! Oh, look here! It really was
too bad!" Then, after an awkward pause, he blurted out, "I don't know
what you'll think, but the brute strayed first camp, and - he's lost,
saddle and all."
The Maluka shot him a swift, questioning glance; but poor Mac looked so
unhappy that we assured him "we'd manage somehow." Perhaps we could tame
one of the flash buck-jumpers, the Maluka suggested. But Mac said it
"wouldn't be as bad as that," and, making full confession, placed old
Roper at our service.
