There are some wonderful trees on the Elsey, but not one of them will compare with the majesty and grandeur of that old banyan. Away from the world it stands beyond those rocky ways and boulders, with its soft shade sweeping curves, and feathery undergrowth, making a beautiful world of its own. For years upon years it has stood there—may be for centuries—sending down from its branches those props for its old age, bountiful with its shade, and indifferent whether its path-ways be trodden by white feet or black.
After the heat and “drouth” we could have loitered in that pleasant shade; but we were due at the Red Lilies “second night out”; and it being one of the unwritten laws of a “nigger-hunt” to keep appointments—“the other chaps worrying a bit if you don’t turn up”—soon after four o’clock we were out in the blazing heat again, following the river now along its higher flood-bank through grassy plains and open forest land.
By five o’clock Dan was prophesying that “it ’ud take us all we knew to do the trick in daylight,” but at six o’clock, when we were still eight miles from the Red Lilies, the Măluka settled the question by calling for a camp there and then. “The missus had had enough,” the Măluka decided, and Dan became anxious. “It’s that drouth that’s done it,” he lamented; and although agreeing with the Măluka that Jack would survive a few hours’ anxiety, regretted we had “no way of letting him know.” (We were not aware of the efficiency of smoke signalling).
We turned back a short distance for better watering for horses, settling down for the night at the second “duck-under”—McMinn’s bar—within sound of the rushing of many waters; for here the river comes back to the surface with a mighty roar and swirling currents. “Knockup camp,” Dan christened it in his pleasant way, and Sambo became unexpectedly curious. “Missus knock up?” he asked, and the Măluka nodding, Sambo’s question was forgotten until the next mid-day.
By then we had passed the Red Lily lagoons, and ridden across the salt-bush plain, and through a deep belt of tall, newly sprung green grass, that hugged the river there just then, and having been greeted by smug, smiling old black fellows, were saluting Jack across two or three hundred feet of water, as we stood among our horses.
“Slewed!” Jack called in answer, through hollowed hands. “Didn’t worry. Heard—the—missus—had—knocked—up,” and Dan leaned against his horse, limp with amazement.
“Heard the missus had knocked up?” he gasped. “Well, I’m blowed! Talk of surprise parties!” and the old black fellows looked on enjoying the effect.
“Black fellow plenty savey,” they said loftily, and Dan was almost persuaded to a belief in debbel-debbels, until our return to the homestead, when Jimmy’s Nellie divulged the Court secret; then Dan ejaculated another “Well, I’m blowed!” with the theory of second-sight and thought-reading falling about his ears.
After a consultation across the river in long-drawn-out syllables, Jack decided on a horse muster for the return trip—genuine this time—and went on his way, after appointing to meet us at Knock-up camp next evening. But our horses refusing to leave the deep green feed, we settled down just where we were, beside the river, and formed a curious camping-ground for ourselves, a small space hacked out and trampled down, out of the dense rank grass that towered above and around us.
But this was to be a record trip for discomfort. Dan, on opening out the tucker-bags, announced ruefully that our supply of meat had “turned on us”; and as our jam-tin had “blown,” we feared we were reduced to damper only, until the Măluka unearthed a bottle of anchovy paste, falsely labelled “Chicken and Ham.” “Lot’s wife,” Dan called it, after “tackling some as a relish.”