The Măluka thought he had prepared me for everything in the way of roughness; but in a flash we knew that I had yet to learn what a bushman means by rough.
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 Măluka 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 Măluka 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.”