“Didn’t I tell you?” he said.  “This is what we call long grass”; and he asked if I could “see any track now.”  “It’s as plain as a pikestaff,” he declared, trying to show what he called a “clear break all the way.”  “Oh I’m a dead homer all right,” he shouted after further going as we came out at the “King” crossing.

“Now for it!  Hang on!” he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he said unconcernedly:  “I wonder how deep this is,” adding, as the buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it:  “By George!  They’re off their feet,” and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.

“That’s the style!” he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and dripping well over the rise from the crossing.  “Close thing, though!  Did you get your feet wet?”

“Did you get your feet wet!” That was all, when I was expecting every form of concern imaginable.  For a moment I felt indignant at Mac’s recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, “You shouldn’t take such risks.”

But Mac was blissfully unconscious of the severity.  “Risks!” he said.  “Why, it wasn’t wide enough for anything to happen, bar a ducking.  If you rush it, the horses are pushed across before they know they’re off their feet.”

“Bar a ducking, indeed!” But Mac was out of the buck-board, shouting back, “Hold hard there!  It’s a swim,” and continued shouting directions until the horses were across with comparatively dry pack-bags.  Then he and the Maluka shook hands and congratulated each other on being the right side of everything.

“No more rivers!” the Maluka said.

“Clear run home, bar a deluge,” Mac added, gathering up the reins.  “We’ll strike the front gate to-night.”

All afternoon we followed the telegraph line, and there the track was really well-defined; then at sundown Mac drew up, and with a flourish of hats he and the Maluka bade the missus “Welcome Home!” All around and about was bush, and only bush, that, and the telegraph line, and Mac, touching on one of the slender galvanized iron poles, explained the welcome.  “This is the front gate.” he said; “another forty-five miles and we’ll be knocking at the front door.”  And they called the Elsey “a nice little place.”  Perhaps it was when compared with runs of six million acres.

The camp was pitched just inside the “front gate,” near a wide-spreading sheet of water, “Easter’s Billabong,” and at supper-time the conversation turned on bush cookery.

“Never tasted Johnny cakes!!” Mac said.  “Your education hasn’t begun yet.  We’ll have some for breakfast; I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes!” and rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour, cream-of-tartar, soda, and a mixing-dish, and set to work at once.

“I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes!  No mistake!” he assured us, as he knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish, kneading enthusiastically at his mixture.  “Look at that!” as air-bubbles appeared all over the light, spongy dough.  “Didn’t I tell you I knew a thing or two about cooking?” and cutting off nuggety-looking chunks, he buried them in the hot ashes.