“This is what you might call style!” Mac and Brown of the Bulls declared, as Cheon waved them to seats with the air of an Emperor, and for two courses the dinner went forward according to its menu, but at the third course tinned peaches had usurped the place of the “bakee custard.”

Every one looked surprised, but, being of the bush-folk, accepted peaches and cream without comment, until Cheon, seeing the surprise, and feeling an explanation was due—­anyway to the missus—­bent over her and whispered in a hoarse aside.  “Pussy cat been tuck-out custard.”

For a moment the bushmen bent over their plates, intent on peaches and cream; but there is a limit to even a bushman’s dignity, and with a choking gulp Mac exploded, and Brown of the Bulls joining in with a roar dragged down the Maluka’s self-control; and as Cheon reiterated:  “What name all about laugh, missus,” chuckled in sympathy himself.  Brown of the Bulls pulled himself together for a moment, once more to assure us that he was “Satisfied so far.”

But the day’s entertainment was only just beginning for after comparing weights and heights, Mac, Jack, Dan and Brown of the Bulls, entered into a trial of strength, and a heavy rail having been brought down from the stackyard, the “caber” was tossed before an enthusiastic company.  The homestead thoroughfare was the arena and around it stood or sat the onlookers:  the Quarters travellers, Happy Dick, some of the Line Party, the Maluka, the missus, and others, and as the caber pitched and tossed, Cheon came and went, cheering every throw lustily with charming impartiality, beating up a frothy cake mixture the while, until, finally, the cakes being in the oven, he was drawn, with others, into the competition.

A very jaunty, confident Cheon entered the lists, but a very surprised, chagrined Cheon retired in high dudgeon.  “What’s ’er matter!” he said indignantly.  “Him too muchee heavy fellow.  S’pose him little fellow me chuck him all right,” explaining a comical failure with even more comical explanations.  Soon after the retirement of our crestfallen Cheon, hot cakes were served by a Cheon all rotundity and chuckles once more, but immediately afterwards, a snort of indignation riveted our attention on an exceedingly bristling, dignified Cheon, who was glaring across the enclosure at two of our neighbour’s black-boys, one of whom was the bearer of a letter, and the other, of a long yellow vegetable-marrow.

Right up to the house verandah they came, and the letter was presented to the Maluka, and the marrow to the missus in the presence of Cheon’s glare and an intense silence; for most of the bush-folk had heard of the cabbage insult.  Cheon had seen to that.

“Hope you will wish me luck while enjoying my little gift,” said the letter, and mistaking its double meaning, I felt really vexed with our neighbour, and passing the marrow to Cheon, reflected a little of his bristling dignity as I said:  “This is of no use to any one here, Cheon; you had better take it away “; and as Cheon accepted it with a grateful look, those about the verandah, and those without the garden, waited expectantly.