A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—
Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.
—V. J. Daley.
THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock belonging to a station Mr. Linton knew well.
“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he said. “It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of good water in the creek over yonder.”
So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and across the long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time of the year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The horses were short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was pitched quickly.
The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near which the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for bathing—a deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over a sunken log at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply planned to stand on while you were drying. Most Australian creeks are unkind in this respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or the few available places are so muddy that the difficulty after a bathe is to keep clean.
“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the hole hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much mistaken.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t leave any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”
“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and there’s really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why don’t you take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”