We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two hours later, we found our luck was “dead out,” for “she” was up and running a banker.

Mac’s hopes sank below zero.  “Now we’ve done it,” he said ruefully, looking down at the swirling torrent, “It’s a case of ‘wait-a-while’ after all.”

But the Maluka’s hopes always died hard.  “There’s still the Government yacht,” he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water mark.  Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply sunk in the muddy bank.

It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers “stuck up” by the river when in flood.  An army of roughriders might have launched it, but as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to the wisdom of Governments.

Some jester had chalked on its sides “H.M.S.  Immovable”; and after tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Maluka and Mac and Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman’s irony.

There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after “dratting things” in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.

By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but without much success.  “Oh, well,” he said, as we settled down round the fire, “this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that’s one comfort.  Another whole week starts next Sunday”; then relapsing altogether he added gloomily; “We’ll be spending it here, too, by the look of things.”

“Unless the missus feels equal to the horse’s-tail trick” the Maluka suggested.

The missus felt equal to anything but the tail trick and said so; and conversation flagged for a while as each tried to hit upon some way out of the difficulty.

Suddenly Mac gave his thigh a prodigious slap.  “I’ve struck it!” he shouted, and pointing to a thick wire rope just visible in the moonlight as it stretched across the river from flood bank to flood bank, added hesitatingly:  “We send mail-bags—­and—­valuables over on that when the river’s up.”

It was impossible to mistake his meaning, or the Maluka’s exclamation of relief, or that neither man doubted for moment that the woman was willing to be flung across deep, swirling river on a swaying wire; and as many a man has appeared brave because he has lacked the courage to own to his cowardice, so I said airily that “anything better than going back,” and found the men exchanging glances.

“No one’s going back,” the Maluka said quietly:  and then I learned that the Wet does not “do things by half.”  Once they began to move the flood waters must have come down the valleys in tidal waves, the Maluka explained.  “The Cullen we’ve just left will probably be a roaring torrent by now.”