* * * *
A mosquito-curtain is grateful and comforting; but after a hot day's toil one feels little inclined to erect a frame-work about one's couch, fix up the netting, and cut pegs to keep it down all around. For pegging would be necessary; if it were left anyway loose, the average able-bodied, athletic mosquito of these parts would just lift the thing up and get to work. Therefore I contented myself with shoving my head into whatever most bag-like spare wearable I happened to possess—pyjamas, for instance—thus lessening the effectiveness or length of the insects' sting by the thickness of the sheltering material.
It is further South that the story is told of the mosquitoes and the boiler-maker.
A man was engaged re-riveting a faulty boiler-plate. The mosquitoes were very troublesome; but, after showing fight awhile, this rivetter devised a plan of revenge, and resolutely worked on until the job in hand was finished. Then, smiling through his swollen lips and eyelids, he climbed in through the man-hole, clapped on the cover, and laughed in wild derision as those on the outside stamped on the plates, frantic and enraged at thus losing their prey. Then came a silence. Then a strange humming was heard; next a boring noise; and then, to the hidden one's dismay, an intruding sting appeared, and yet another, and still countless more, all feeling around to grip and fasten on to him. But the boiler-maker was a man of resource; and as the stings projected, or injected, with mighty blows he clinched them tight, chuckling the while, until those outside, making discovery of what was being done to them, took fright, and, spreading their wings flew upwards—and nothing whatever has been seen of that man or that boiler since.
* * * *
From the Bonney Well I started, after breakfasting on a pipe-full of tobacco, with the intention of making Tennant Creek (62 miles) that same night. But several unforeseen events altered those plans.
Gilbert Creek is 14 miles ahead. And here (I smile disdainfully now) I made myself uncomfortable. I picked up a pad that led into the creek; then having dined on meat extract and smoke, carelessly led the bicycle across the creek. But no pad in this direction was to be seen, and I heedlessly wandered on until what appeared to be another creek was crossed. Then a bend; this was crossed also—the bicycle having to be led much of the time. Now this was getting monotonous; still no pad leading onwards. There was nothing for it but to go back on my tracks. But my tracks—where were they? We had been passing lately over a hard gum flat, covered with leaves, and no mark showed to my inexperienced eye. I remember at this moment, that I paused, ran my finger through my hair, and felt as lonely as that other unfortunate man who lost his shadow.
I had come from the East; going by compass, I rode on—to a creek. This I followed back, pushing the machine over the uneven surface, and not at all sure, after all, whether this was the right creek. But—a furrow!