"All right, Mr. Senex," he said at last. "There's nobody in for that block, so you won't have to ballot. I'll wire to Brisbane to-day. Come in again first thing to-morrow."
I paid my £5 deposit, thanked him, and withdrew. Next morning, bright and early, I was back, and shortly afterwards the return wire arrived from Brisbane that 48 was allotted to me. With a mind at ease, I spent the day wandering round town, got a skiff and pulled up the Inlet, and otherwise enjoyed myself in my own way. A night spent in slapping myself and swearing at the mosquitoes, then breakfast, the Atherton train again, and so back to what I was beginning to regard as home.
I stopped overnight at the pub and made arrangements for my multitudinous baggage to go out by six-horse buckboard next day. What a load of useless gear I had, to be sure! It cost me about £8 first and last to bring the stuff up from Newcastle, and not half of it was any good. Next day it took us half an hour to load it all up, including a dozen ten-foot sheets of iron for a house sometime by and bye.
I enjoyed the trip in the forest country, but when we hit the scrub—oh, Lord! The panting prads dragged us up innumerable hills, and slid on their haunches down the succeeding pinch, with the buckboard skidding from side to side of the road after them. On the infrequent levels we went at a slow walk, half-way to the axles in sticky mud, numberless roots and half-submerged stumps, jarring and bumping, occasionally tilting our vehicle at an uncomfortable angle. Heavy going, all right!
We reached Braun's just before dark—it seemed to be at the end of the world after our journey—and found O'Gorman and a mate there, who were to commence falling scrub on the former's place next day. The stranger was introduced to me as Len Vincent, a fine young fellow about twenty years of age, tall, slimly built, active; all wire and whipcord; curly black hair, thoughtful, dark brown eyes, and a full direct glance. An attractive young fellow and an excellent specimen of young Australia. The two of them had cleaned out the old shack, and, with a roaring fire going, billies boiling, whips of tucker, and a fine bright young moon silvering the clearing outside, the place looked cheerful—even comfortable; and I felt the old romantic feeling return in full force as we sat yarning and smoking round the comfortable blaze after tea. The night was just chilly enough to make the fire acceptable. The dense walls of heavy timber close at hand, the light breeze rustling through the treetops; the sound of the brawling creek, with its legions of croaking frogs; the call of a pair of mopokes, which sounded anything but dismal to me, and the wailing note of some other unknown night-bird in the depths of the scrub—all combined to make up a picture very strange and enchanting to me, who had been used to nothing but sea and sky for thirteen years. I had actually had only about four months ashore, in spells of a few days at a time, in all that period.
We were just thinking of turning in, when I nearly jumped out of my skin at a sudden grating, ear-splitting screech right overhead—to be repeated a moment later at the end of the clearing.
"What the devil's that?" I asked.
"Oh," said Len, "it's only an ol' fig-'awk. Bird, you know."
Which reassured me. But it sounded like a mad woman being tortured. I lay some time looking at the flickering firelight, and finally drifted off to sleep. About five minutes later I was roused by a clattering of plates, and, looking drowsily round, saw the fire blazing up, my two friends dressed and busy cooking. The buckboard driver was still snoring over in his corner.
"Hullo, chaps," said I, with some hazy idea that supper was on. "Aren't you turning-in to-night?"