"See them trees, Jack my boy? Jarrah! Hills run one into the other way to the Blackwood River. Hundreds of miles of beautiful jarrah timber. The trees like this barren iron-stone formation. It's well they do, for nothing else does."
"There's one o' the mud-brick buildings the convicts lived in, while they were building the road," said the driver, not to be done out of his say. "One of the convicts broke and got away. Mostly when they went off they was driven in by the bush. But this one never. They say he's wanderin' yet. I say, dead."
Mr. George was explaining the landscape.
"Down there, Darlington. Governor Darling went down and never came back. Went home the quick way.—Boya, native word for rock. Mahogany Creek just above there. They'll see us coming. Kids watch from the rise, run back and holloa. Pa catches rooster, black girl blows fire, Ma mixes paste, yardman peels spuds,—dinner when we get there."
"And, sir, Sam has a good brew, none better. Also, sir, though it looks lonesome, he's mostly got company."
"How's that?"
"Well, sir, everyone comes for miles round to hear his missus play the harmonium. Got it out from England, and if it doesn't break your heart to hear it! The voice of the past! You'd love to hear it, Mr. Grant, being new from home."
"I'm sure I should," said Jack, thinking of the concert.
The dinner at Mahogany Creek was as Mr. George had said. Afterwards, on again through the bush.
Towards the end of the afternoon the coach pulled up at a little by-road, where stood a basket-work shay, and a tall young fellow in very old clothes lounging with loose legs.