“Better crawl in under the buggy,” he said. “I’ll put the cushions for you to sit on. They’re wet outside, but they’re leather, and the water won’t go through them.”
He put the cushions down, and they crawled under and squatted there, Ess insisting on him squeezing up on to a corner of the cushion. The rabbits and paddy-melons crawled in beside them, and scuffled out in alarm at Dolly’s “Shoo” or kick. He felt Ess shudder as the wet things brushed against her or scampered over her feet, and he crawled out and got the whip, and swiped at any that came in near them again.
“It’s stopped raining again,” he announced.
“Now if I only had some dry matches I’d make an attempt at a fire. There’s any amount of dead wood lying round, where branches have fallen.”
Ess laughed faintly at him, thinking he was joking, but Dolly suddenly jumped, and crawled out, and leaped on the buggy, and she heard him yell joyfully. Ess heard a rummaging over her head and Dolly’s flopping jump down.
“Saved, saved,” he cried dramatically. “Come forth, bewchius maiden, and behold thy deliverer-r-r.”
“What is it—what have you found?” demanded Ess, eagerly, scrambling out.
“Look,” he said, capering before her. “Thank your cautious and long-thoughted uncle, Scottie. I remembered he always had something stowed away in the buggy for emergencies. See—a bag of flour—it’s pudding now, but never mind it; a tin of tea, sopping wet as pudding, but still good enough; a billy, and a little bottle of matches. Cheers, wild cheers! We’ll have a fire. Now isn’t that like Scottie to go carting round matches so they won’t get wet even when there hasn’t been a spot or sign of rain for a year? But, look here, this is the cream of the joke—a huge bottle full of water,” and he went off into shouts of laughter.
“But what’s the good of all these things, and even of the dry matches,” said Ess, in bewilderment, “when there isn’t a dry stick or splinter within miles?”
“Wait and see,” said Dolly. “See the skill of Dolly Grey, the bushwhacker. They’ll tell you on the station that I’m a no-good ignorant Englishman, but after this you can tell ’em how my bush-craft charmed a fire and hot tea out of the desert and the soppin’ wet wilderness. Go’n gather sticks now. Every bit you can find, and the bigger the better. Come on, I’ll help you.”