Darwin looked interested.  “Mac hasn’t wasted much time in making inquiries,” it said.

“Or in apologies or explanations,” the Maluka added shortly, and sent in reply:  “Wife can ride, secure suitable mount.”

But the Sanguine Scot’s fighting blood was up, and almost immediately the wire rapped out:  “No side-saddle obtainable.  Stock horses all flash”; and the onlookers stared in astonishment.

“Mac’s in deadly earnest this time,” they said, and the Maluka, with a quiet “So am I,” went back to the telegraph.

Now, in the Territory everybody knows everybody else, but particularly the telegraph people; and it often happens that when telegrams of general interest are passing through, they are accompanied by confidential asides—­little scraps of harmless gossip not intended for the departmental books; therefore it was whispered in the tail of the last message that the Katherine was watching the fight with interest was inclined to “reckon the missus a goer,” and that public sympathy was with the stockman—­the Katherine had its women-folk and was thankful; but the Katherine knew that although a woman in a settlement only rules her husband’s home, the wife of a station-manager holds the peace and comfort of the stockmen in the hollow of her hand.

“Stock horses all flash,” the Sanguine Scot said, and then went out and apologised to an old bay horse.  “We had to settle her hash somehow, Roper, old chap,” he said, stroking the beautiful neck, adding tenderly as the grand old head nosed into him:  “You silly old fool!  You’d carry her like a lamb if I let you.”

Then the Maluka’s reply came, and Mac whistled in amazement.  “By George!” he said to those near him, “she is a goer, a regular goer”; and after much careful thought wired an inane suggestion about waiting until after the Wet.

Darwin laughed outright, and an emphatic:  “Wife determined, coming Tuesday’s train,” from the Maluka was followed by a complete breakdown at the Katherine.

Then Darwin came in twos and threes to discuss the situation, and while the men offered every form of service and encouragement, the women-folk spoke of a woman “going bush” as “sheer madness.”  “Besides, no woman travels during the Wet,” they said, and the Maluka “hoped she would prove the exception.”

“But she’ll be bored to death if she does reach the homestead alive,” they prophesied; and I told them they were not very complimentary to the Maluka.

“You don’t understand,” they hastened to explain.  “He’ll be camping out most of his time, miles away from the homestead,” and I said, “So will I.”

“So you think,” they corrected.  “But you’ll find that a woman alone in a camp of men is decidedly out of place”; and I felt severely snubbed.

The Maluka suggested that he might yet succeed in persuading some suitable woman to come out with us, as maid or companion; but the opposition, wagging wise heads, pursed incredulous lips, as it declared that “no one but a fool would go out there for either love or money.”  A prophecy that came true, for eventually we went “bush” womanless.