Until sundown we jogged quietly on, meandering through further pleasant places and meetings; drinking tea and chatting with the Man-in-Charge between whiles, extracting a maximum of pleasure from a minimum rate of speed:  for travelling in the Territory has not yet passed that ideal stage where the travelling itself—­the actual going—­is all pleasantness.

As we approached Pine Creek I confided to the men-folk that I was feeling a little nervous.  “Supposing that telegraphing bush-whacker decides to shoot me off-hand on my arrival,” I said; and the Man-in-Charge said amiably:  “It’ll be brought in as justifiable homicide; that’s all.”  Then reconnoitring the enemy from the platform, he “feared” we were “about to be boycotted.”

There certainly were very few men on the station, and the Man-in-Charge recognising one of them as the landlord of the Playford, assured us there was nothing to fear from that quarter.  “You see, you represent business to him,” he explained.

Every one but the landlord seemed to have urgent business in the office or at the far end of the platform, but it was quickly evident that there was nothing to fear from him; for, finding himself left alone to do the honours of the Creek, he greeted us with an amused:  “She doesn’t look up to sample sent by telegram”; and I felt every meeting would be, at least, unconventional.  Then we heard that as Mac had “only just arrived from the Katherine, he couldn’t leave his horses until they were fixed up”; but the landlord’s eyes having wandered back to the “Goer,” he winked deliberately at the Maluka before inviting us to “step across to the Pub.”

The Pub seemed utterly deserted, and with another wink the landlord explained the silence by saying that “a cyclone of some sort” had swept most of his “regulars” away; and then he went shouting through the echoing passages for a “boy” to “fetch along tea.”

Before the tea appeared, an angry Scotch voice crept to us through thin partitions, saying:  “It’s not a fit place for a woman, and, besides, nobody wants her!” And in a little while we heard the same voice inquiring for “the Boss.”

“The telegraphing bush-whacker,” I said, and invited the Maluka to come and see me defy him.  But when I found myself face to face with over six feet of brawny quizzing, wrathful-looking Scotchman, all my courage slipped away, and edging closer to the Maluka, I held out my hand to the bushman, murmuring lamely:  “How do you do?”

Instantly a change came over the rugged, bearded face.  At the sight of the “Goer” reduced to a meek five feet, all the wrath died out of it, and with twitching lips and twinkling eyes Mac answered mechanically, “Quite well thank you,” and then coughed in embarrassment.

That was all:  no fierce blocking, no defying.  And with the cough, the absurdity of the whole affair, striking us simultaneously, left us grinning like a trio of Cheshire cats.