Everything lacked conventionality, and was accepted as a matter of course; and although at times Sam sorely taxed my gravity by using the bed for a temporary dumb waiter, the bushmen showed no embarrassment, simply because they felt none, and retained their self-possession with unconscious dignity.  They sat among the buzzing swarms of flies, light-hearted and self-reliant, chatting of their daily lives of lonely vigils, of cattle-camps and stampedes, of dangers and privations, and I listened with a dawning consciousness that life “out-bush” is something more than mere existence.

Being within four miles of the Overland Telegraph—­that backbone of the overland rout—­rarely a week was to pass without someone coming in, and at times our travellers came in twos and threes, and as each brought news of that world outside our tiny circle, carrying in perhaps an extra mail to us, or one out for us, they formed a strong link in the chain that bound us to Outside.

In them every rank in bush life was represented, from cattle-drovers and stockmen to the owners of stations, from swag-men and men “down in their luck” to telegraph operators and heads of government departments, men of various nationalities with, foremost among them, the Scots, sons of that fighting race that has everywhere fought with and conquered the Australian bush.  Yet, whatever their rank or race, our travellers were men, not riff-raff, the long, formidable stages that wall in the Never-Never have seen to that, turning back the weaklings and worthless to the flesh-pots of Egypt, and proving the worth and mettle of the brave-hearted:  all men, every one of them, and all in need of a little hospitality, whether of the prosperous and well-doing or “down in their luck,” and each was welcomed according to that need; for out-bush rank counts for little:  we are only men and women there.  And all who came in, and went on, or remained, gave us of their best while with us; for there was that in the Maluka that drew the best out of all men.  In life we generally find in our fellow-men just what we seek, and the Maluka, seeking only the good, found only the good and drew much of it into his own sympathetic, sunny nature.  He demanded the best and was given the best, and while with him, men found they were better men than at other times.

Some of our guests sat with us at table, some with the men, and some “grubbed in their camps.”  All of them rode in strangers and many of them rode out life-long friends, for such is the way of the bushfolk:  a little hospitality, a day or two of mutual understanding, and we have become part of the other’s life.  For bush hospitality is something better than the bare housing and feeding of guests, being just the simple sharing of our daily lives with a fellow-man—­a literal sharing of all that we have; of our plenty or scarcity, our joys or sorrows, our comforts or discomforts, our security or danger; a democratic hospitality, where all men are equally welcome, yet so refined in its simplicity and wholesomeness, that fulsome thanks or vulgar apologies have no part in it, although it was whispered among the bushfolk that those “down in their luck” learned that when the Maluka was filling tucker-bags, a timely word in praise of the missus filled tucker-bags to over-flowing.