After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which he called “One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-’ll-do sort of places,” he described The House.  “It’s mostly verandahs and promises,” he said; “but one room is finished.  We call it The House, but you’ll probably call it a Hut, even though it has got doors and calico windows framed and on hinges.”

Then followed an inventory of the furniture.  “There’s one fairly steady, good-sized table at least it doesn’t fall over, unless some one leans on it; then there’s a bed with a wire mattress, but nothing else on it; and there’s a chair or two up to your weight (the boss’ll either have to stand up or lie down), and I don’t know that there’s much else excepting plenty of cups and plates—­they’re enamel, fortunately, so you won’t have much trouble with the servants breaking things.  Of course there’s a Christmas card and a few works of art on the walls for you to look at when you’re tired of looking at yourself in the glass.  Yes!  There’s a looking-glass—­goodness knows how it got there!  You ought to be thankful for that and the wire-mattress.  You won’t find many of them out bush .”

I humbly acknowledged thankfulness, and felt deeply grateful to Mine Host, when, with ready thoughtfulness he brought a couple of china cups and stood them among the baggage—­the heart of Mine Host was as warm and sincere as his flashing smiles.  I learned, in time, to be indifferent to china cups, but that flat-iron became one of my most cherished possessions—­how it got to the Katherine is a long, long story, touching on three continents, a man, a woman, and a baby.

The commodious station home destroyed, the Katherine bestirred itself further in the speeding of its guests.  The Telegraph came with the offer of their buggy, and then the Police offered theirs; but Mine Host, harnessing two nuggety little horses into his buck-board, drove round to the store, declaring a buck-board was the “only thing for the road.”  “You won’t feel the journey at all in it,” he said, and drove us round the Settlement to prove how pleasant and easy travelling could be in the Wet.

“No buggy obtainable,” murmured the Maluka, reviewing the three offers.  But the Sanguine Scot was quite unabashed, and answered coolly:  “You forget those telegrams were sent to that other woman—­the Goer, you know—­there was no buggy obtainable for her.  By George!  Wasn’t she a snorter?  I knew I’d block her somehow,” and then he added with a gallant bow and a flourish:  “You can see for yourselves, chaps, that she didn’t come.”

The Wag mimicked the bow and the flourish, and then suggested accepting all three vehicles and having a procession “a triumphal exit that’ll knock spots off Pine Creek.”

“There’d be one apiece,” he said, “and with Jackeroo as outrider, and loose horses to fill in with, we could make a real good thing of it if we tried.  There’s Tam, now; he’s had a fair amount of practice lately, dodging round corners, and if he and I stood on opposite sides of the track, and dodged round bushes directly the procession passed coming out farther along, we could line the track for miles with cheering crowds.”