We of the Never-Never Part 8

"I've been thinking things over, boss," he said, a.s.suming his most philosophical manner "and I reckon any more rooms'll only interfere with getting the missus educated."

Later on he used the servant question to hang his argument on. "Just proves what I was saying" he said. "If the cleaning of one room causes all this trouble and worry, where'll she be when she's got four to look after? What with white ants, and blue mould, and mildew, and wrestling with lubras, there won't be one minute to spare for education."

He also professed disapproval of the Maluka's devices for making the homestead more habitable. "If this goes on we'll never learn her nothing but loafin'", he declared when he found that a couple of yards of canvas and a few sticks had become a comfortable lounge chair. "Too much luxury!" and he sat down on his own heels to show how he scorned luxuries. A tree sawn into short lengths to provide verandah seats for all comers he pa.s.sed over as doubtful. He was slightly rea.s.sured however, when he heard that my revolver practice had not been neglected, and condescended to own that some of the devices were "handy enough." A neat little tray, made from the end of a packing-case and a few laths, interested him in particular. "You'll get him dodged for ideas one of these days," he said, alluding to the Maluka's ingenuity, and when, a day or two later, I broke the spring of my watch and asked helplessly, "However was I going to tell the time till the waggons came with the clock?" Dan felt sure I had set an unsolvable problem.

"That 'ud get anybody dodged," he declared; but it took more than that to "dodge" the Maluka's resourcefulness. He spent a little while in the sun with a compa.s.s and a few wooden pegs, and a sundial lay on the ground just outside the verandah.

Dan declared it just "licked creation," and wondered if "that 'ud settle 'em," when I asked for some strong iron rings for a curtain. But the Dandy took a hobble chain to the forge, and breaking the links asunder, welded them into smooth round rings.

The need for curtain rings was very pressing, for, scanty as it was, the publicity of our wardrobe hanging in one corner of the reception room distressed me, but with the Dandy's rings and a chequered rug for curtain, a corner wardrobe was soon fixed up.

Dan looked at it askance, and harked back to the sundial and education.

"It's 'cute enough," he said. "But it won't do, boss. She should have been taught how to tell the time by the sun. Don't you let 'em spoil your chances of education, missus. You were in luck when you struck this place; never saw luck to equal it. And if it holds good, something'll happen to stop you from ever having a house, so as to get you properly educated."

My luck "held good" for the time being; for when Johnny came along in a few days he announced, in answer to a very warm welcome, that "something had gone wrong at No. 3 Well" and that "he'd promised to see to it at once."

"Oh, Johnny!" I cried reproachfully, but the next moment was "toeing the line" even to the Head Stockman's satisfaction; for with a look of surprise Johnny had added: "I--I thought you'd reckon that travellers'

water for the Dry came before your rooms." Out-bush we deal in hard facts.

"Thought I'd reckon!" I said, appalled to think my comfort should even be spoken of when men's lives were in question. "Of course I do; I didn't understand, that was all."

"We haven't finished her education yet," Dan explained, and the Maluka added, "But she's learning."

Johnny looked perplexed. "Oh, well! That's all right, then," he said, rather ambiguously. "I'll be back as soon as possible, and then we shan't be long."

Two days later he left the homestead bound for the well, and as he disappeared into the Ti-Tree that bordered the south track, most of us agreed that "luck was out." Only Dan professed to think differently.

"It's more wonderful than ever," he declared; "more wonderful than ever, and if it holds good we'll never see Johnny again."

CHAPTER VIII

Considering ourselves homeless, the Maluka decided that we should "go bush" for awhile during Johnny's absence beginning with a short tour of inspection through some of the southern country of the run; intending, if all were well there, to prepare for a general horse-muster along the north of the Roper. Nothing could be done with the cattle until "after the Wet."

Only Dan and the inevitable black "boy" were to be with us on this preliminary walk-about; but all hands were to turn out for the muster, to the Quiet Stockman's dismay.

"Thought they mostly sat about and sewed," he said in the quarters.

Little did the Sanguine Scot guess what he was doing when he "culled"

needlework from the "mob" at Pine Creek.

The walk-about was looked upon as a reprieve, and when a traveller, expressing sympathy, suggested that "it might sicken her a bit of camp life," Jack clung to that hope desperately.

Most of the n.i.g.g.e.r world turned up to see the "missus mount," that still being something worth seeing. Apart from the mystery of the side-saddle, and the joke of seeing her in an enormous mushroom hat, there was the interest of the mounting itself; Jackeroo having spread a report that the Maluka held out his hands, while the missus ran up them and sat herself upon the horse's back.

"They reckon you have escaped from a "Wild West Show," Dan said, tickled at the look of wonder on some of the faces as I settled myself in the saddle. We learned later that Jackeroo had tried to run up Jimmy's hands to ill.u.s.trate the performance in camp, and, failing, had naturally blamed Jimmy, causing report to add that the Maluka was a very Samson in strength.

"A dress rehearsal for the cattle-musters later on," Dan called the walk-about, looking with approval on my cartridge belt and revolver; and after a few small mobs of cattle had been rounded up and looked over, he suggested "rehearsing that part of the performance where the missus gets lost, and catches cows and milks 'em."

"Now's your chance, missus," he shouted, as a scared, frightened beast broke from the mob in hand, and went crashing through the undergrowth.

"There's one all by herself to practice on." Dan's system of education, being founded on object-lessons, was mightily convincing; and for that trip, anyway, he had a very humble pupil to instruct in the "ways of telling the signs of water at hand."

All day as we zigzagged through scrub and timber, visiting water-holes and following up cattle-pads, the solitude of the bush seemed only a pleasant seclusion; and the deep forest glades, shady pathways leading to the outside world; but at night, when the camp had been fixed up in the silent depths of a dark Leichhardt-pine forest, the seclusion had become an isolation that made itself felt, and the shady pathways, miles of dark treacherous forest between us and our fellow-men.

There is no isolation so weird in its feeling of cut-offness as that of a night camp in the heart of the bush. The flickering camp-fires draw all that is human and tangible into its charmed circle, and without, all is undefinable darkness and uncertainty. Yet it was in this night camp among the dark pines, with even the stars shut out, that we learnt that out-bush "Houselessness" need not mean "Homelessness"--a discovery that destroyed all hope that "this would sicken her a bit."

As we were only to be out one night, and there was little chance of rain, we had nothing with us but a little tucker, a bluey each, and a couple of mosquito nets. The simplicity of our camp added intensely to the isolation; and as I stood among the dry rustling leaves, looking up at the dark broad-leaved canopy above us, with my "swag" at my feet, the Maluka called me a "poor homeless little c.o.o.n."

A woman with a swag sounds homeless enough to Australian ears, but Dan, with his habit of looking deep into the heart of things, "didn't exactly see where the homelessness came in."

We had finished supper, and the Maluka stretching himself luxuriously in the firelight, made a nest in the warm leaves for me to settle down in.

"You're right, Dan," he said, after a short silence, "when I come to think of it; I don't exactly see myself where the homelessness comes in.

A bite and a sup and a faithful dog, and a guidwife by a glowing hearth, and what more is needed to make a home. Eh, Tiddle'ums?"

Tiddle'ums having for some time given the whole of her heart to the Maluka, nestled closer to him and Dan gave an appreciative chuckle, and pulled Sool'em's ears. The conversation promised to suit him exactly.

"Never got farther than the dog myself," he said. "Did I Sool'em, old girl?" But Sool'em becoming effusive there was a pause until she could be persuaded that "n.o.body wanted none of her licking tricks." As she subsided Dan went on with his thoughts uninterrupted: "I've seen others at the guidwife business, though, and it didn't seem too bad, but I never struck it in a camp before. There was Mrs. Bob now. You've heard me tell of her? I don't know how it was, but while she was out at the "Downs" things seemed different. She never interfered and we went on just the same, but everything seemed different somehow."

The Maluka suggested that perhaps he had "got farther than the dog"

without knowing it, and the idea appearing to Dan, he "reckoned it must have been that." But his whimsical mood had slipped away, as it usually did when his thoughts strayed to Mrs. Bob; and he went on earnestly, "She was the right sort if ever there was one. I know 'em, and she was one of 'em. When you were all right you told her yarns, and she'd enjoy 'em more'n you would yourself, which is saying something; but when you were off the track a bit you told her other things, and she'd heave you on again. See her with the sick travellers!" And then he stopped unexpectedly as his voice became thick and husky.

Camp-fire conversations have a trick of coming to an abrupt end without embarra.s.sing any one. As Dan sat looking into the fire, with his thoughts far away in the past, the Maluka began to croon contentedly at "Home, Sweet Home," and, curled up in the warm, sweet nest of leaves, I listened to the crooning, and, watching the varying expression of Dan's face, wondered if Mrs. Bob had any idea of the bright memories she had left behind her in the bush. Then as the Maluka crooned on, everything but the crooning became vague and indistinct, and, beginning also to see into the heart of things, I learned that when a woman finds love and comradeship out-bush, little else is needed to make even the glowing circle of a camp fire her home-circle.

Without any warning the Maluka's mood changed, "There is nae luck aboot her house, there is nae luck at a'," he shouted l.u.s.tily, and Dan, waking from his reverie with a start, rose to the tempting bait.

"No LUCK about HER house!" he said. "It was Mrs. Bob that had no luck.

She struck a good, comfortable, well-furnished house first go off, and never got an ounce of educating. She was chained to that house as surely as ever a dog was chained to its kennel. But it'll never come to that with the missus. Something's bound to happen to Johnny, just to keep her from ever having a house. Poor Johnny, though," he added, warming up to the subject. "It's hard luck for him. He's a decent little chap. We'll miss him"; and he shook his head sorrowfully, and looked round for applause.

The Maluka said it seemed a pity that Johnny had been allowed to go to his fate; but Dan was in his best form.

"It wouldn't have made any difference," he said tragically. "He'd have got fever if he'd stayed on, or a tree would have fallen on him. He's doomed if the missus keeps him to his contract."

"Oh, well! He'll die in a good cause," I said cheerfully and Dan's gravity deserted him.

"You're the dead finish!" he chuckled, and without further ceremony, beyond the taking off his boots, rolled into his mosquito net for the night.

We heard nothing further from him until that strange rustling hour of the night that hour half-way between midnight and dawn, when all nature stirs in its sleep, and murmurs drowsily in answer to some mysterious call.

Nearly all bushmen who sleep with the warm earth for a bed will tell of this strange wakening moment, of that faint touch of half-consciousness, that whispering stir, strangely enough, only perceptible to the sleeping children of the bush one of the mysteries of nature that no man can fathom, one of the delicate threads with which the Wizard of Never-Never weaves his spells. "Is all well my children?" comes the cry from the watchman of the night; and with a gentle stirring the answer floats back "All is well."

Softly the pine forest rustled with the call and the answer; and as the camp roused to its dim half-consciousness, Dan murmured sleepily, "Sool'em, old girl" then after a vigorous rustling among the leaves (Sool'em's tail returning thanks for the attention), everything slipped back into unconsciousness until the dawn. As the first grey streak of dawn filtered through the pines, a long-drawn out cry of "Day-li-ght"

Dan's camp reveille rolled out of his net, and Dan rolled out after it, with even less ceremony than he had rolled in.

On our way back to the homestead, Dan suggesting that the "missus might like to have a look at the dining-room," we turned into the towering timber that borders the Reach, and for the next two hours rode on through soft, luxurious shade; and all the while the fathomless spring-fed Reach lay sleeping on our left.

The Reach always slept; for nearly twelve miles it lay, a swaying garland of heliotrope and purple waterlilies, gleaming through a graceful fringe of palms and rushes and scented shrubs, touched here and there with shafts of sunlight, and murmuring and rustling with an attendant host of gorgeous b.u.t.terflies and flitting birds and insects.

Dan looked on the scene with approving eyes. "Not a bad place to ride through, is it?" he said. But gradually as we rode on a vague depression settled down upon us, and when Dan finally decided he "could do with a bit more sunshine," we followed him into the blistering noontide glare with almost a sigh of relief.