The Quiet Stockman coming in, was pressed into the service, and grew quite enthusiastic, suggesting substitutes for necessities, until I suggested cutting off the tail of every horse on the run, to get enough horsehair for a mattress.

“Believe the boss’ud do it himself if she asked him,” he said in the Quarters; and in his consternation suggested bangtailing the cattle during the musters.

“Just the thing,” Dan decided; and we soon saw, with his assistance, a vision of our future mattress walkin’ about the run on the ends of cows’ tails.

“Looks like it’s going to be a dead-heat,” Johnny said, still hammering, when the Dandy brought in word that the Macs were within twelve miles of the homestead.  And when I announced next day that the dining-net was finished and ready for hanging, he also became wildly enthusiastic.

“Told you from the beginning we shouldn’t be long,” he said, flourishing a hammer and brimming over with suggestions for the hanging of the net.  “Rope’ll never hold it,” he declared; “fencing wire’s the thing,” so fencing wire was used, and after a hard morning’s work pulling and straining the wire and securing it to uprights, the net was in its place, the calico roof smooth and flat against the ceiling, and its curtains hanging to the floor, with strong, straight saplings run through the folded hem to weigh it down.  Cheon was brimming over with admiration for it

“My word, boss!  Missus plenty savey,” he said. (Cheon invariably discussed the missus in her presence.) “Chinaman woman no more savey likee that,” and bustling away, dinner was soon served inside the net.

Myriads of flies, balked in their desire, settled down on the outside, and while we enjoyed our dinner in peace and comfort, Cheon hovered about, like a huge bloated buzz fly himself, chuckling around the outside among the swarms of balked flies, or coming inside to see if “any fly sit down inside.”

“My word, boss!  Hear him sing-out sing-out.  Missus plenty savey,” he reiterated, and then calling a Chinese friend from the kitchen, stood over him, until he also declared that “missus BLENTY savey,” with good emphasis on the BLENTY.

The net was up by midday, and at ten o’clock at night the slow, dull clang of a bullock-bell crept out of the forest.  Cheon was the first to hear it.  “Bullocky come on,” he called, waddling to the house and waking us from our first sleep; and as the deep-throated bell boomed out again the Maluka said drowsily:  “The homestead’s only won by a head.  Mac’s at the Warlochs.”

At “fowl-sing-out” we were up, and found Bertie’s Nellie behind the black boys’ humpy shyly peeping round a corner.  With childlike impetuosity she had scampered along the four miles from the Warlochs, only to be overcome with unaccountable shyness.

“Allo, missus!” was all she could find to say, and the remainder of the interview she filled in with wriggling and giggles.