When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just pride.  “Well!” he said.  “Who’s slap-up at Johnny cakes?” and standing them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents—­a deluge being expected—­and carried them into his own for safety.

During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring little rivulets through Mac’s tent, that he was obliged to pass most of the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.

Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast time.  After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at the ruins of his cookery—­a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs.  “Must have been sitting on ’em all night,” he said, “and there’s no other bread for breakfast.”

There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind; but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac’s sense of humour revived.  “Didn’t I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny cakes?” he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous chuckles:  “You mightn’t think it; but I really am.”  Then he pointed to Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Maluka hunted for the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman.  “White fellow big fellow fool all right! eh, Jackeroo?” he asked, and Jackeroo openly agreed with us.

Finding the black soil flats impassable after the deluge, Mac left the track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day; and all that had gone before was smoothness itself in comparison to what was in store.

All day the buck-board rocked and bumped through the timber, and the Maluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out the advantages of travelling across country, as we bounced about the buck-board like rubber balls:  “There’s so little chance of getting stiff with sitting still.”

Every time we tried to answer him we bit our tongues as the buck-board leapt over the tussocks of grass.  Once we managed to call back, “You won’t feel the journey in a buck-board.”  Then an overhanging bough threatening to wipe us out of our seats, Mac shouted, “Duck!” and as we “ducked” the buck-board skimmed between two trees, with barely an inch to spare.

“I’m a bit of a Jehu all right!” Mac shouted triumphantly.  “It takes judgment to do the thing in style”; and the next moment, swinging round a patch of scrub, we flew off at a tangent to avoid a fallen tree, crashing through its branches and grinding over an out-crop of ironstone to miss a big boulder just beyond the tree.  It undoubtedly took judgment this “travelling across country along the ridges”; but the keen, alert bushman never hesitated as he swung in and out and about the timber, only once miscalculating the distance between trees, when he was obliged to back out again.  Of course we barked trees constantly, but Mac called that “blazing a track for the next travellers,” and everywhere the bush creatures scurried out of our way; and when I expressed fears for the springs, Mac reassured me by saying a buck-board had none, excepting those under the seat.