“Great Scott!” the Măluka groaned, “that makes four of them at it!” But Rosy had appealed to me and I pointed out that it was a chance not to be missed and that she was worth the other three all put together. “Life will be a perennial picnic,” I said, “with Rosy and Cheon at the head of affairs”; and for once I prophesied correctly.
Rosy, having been brought up among white folk, proved an adept little housemaid and Cheon looked with extreme favour upon her, and held her up as a bright and shining example to Jimmy’s Nellie. But the person Cheon most approved of at the homestead was Johnny; for not only had Johnny helped him in many of his wild efforts at carpentry, but was he not working in the good cause?
“What’s ’er matter, missus only got one room?” Cheon had said, angry with circumstances, and daily and hourly he urged Johnny to work quicker.
“What’s the matter indeed!” Johnny echoed, mimicking his furious gutturals, and sawing, planing, and hammering, with untiring energy, pointed out that he was doing his best to give her more.
Finding the progress slow with only one man at work, Cheon suggested the Măluka might lend a hand in his spare time (station books being considered recreation); and when Dan came in with a mob of cattle from the Reach country, he hinted that cattle could wait, and that Dan could employ his time better.
But Dan also was out of patience with circumstances, and growled out that “they’d waited quite long enough as it was,” for the work of the station was at a deadlock for want of stores. They had been sadly taxed by the needs of travellers, and we were down to our last half-bag of flour and sugar, and a terrifyingly small quantity of tea; soap, jams, fruits, kerosene, and all such had long been things of the past. The only food we had in quantities was meat, vegetables, and milk. Where we would have been without Cheon no one can tell.
To crown all, we had just heard that the Dandy was delayed in a bog with a broken shaft, but he eventually arrived in time to save the situation, but not before we were quite out of tea. He had little to complain of in the way of welcome when his great piled-up waggon lumbered into the homestead avenue and drew up in front of the store.
The horse teams were close behind, the Dandy said, but Mac was “having a gay time” in the sandy country, and sent in a message to remind the missus that she was still in the Land of Wait-awhile. The reminder was quite unnecessary.
There was also a message from Mine Host. “I’m sending a few cuttings for the missus,” it read. Cuttings he called them, but the back of the waggon looked like a nurseryman’s van; for all a-growing and a-blowing and waiting to be planted out, stood a row of flowering, well-grown plants in tins: crimson hibiscus, creepers, oleanders, and all sorts. A man is best known by his actions, and Mine Host best understood by his kindly thoughtfulness.
The store was soon full to overflowing, and so was our one room, for everything ordered for the house had arrived—rolls of calico heavy and unbleached, mosquito netting, blue matting for the floors, washstand ware, cups and saucers, and dozens of smaller necessities piled in every corner of the room.