Roast scrub turkey was the first lesson cooked in the most correct style:  a forked stick, with the fork uppermost, was driven into the ground near the glowing heap of wood ashes; then a long sapling was leant through the fork, with one end well over the coals; a doubled string, with the turkey hanging from it, looped over this end; the turkey turned round and round until the string was twisted to its utmost, and finally string and turkey were left to themselves, to wind and unwind slowly, an occasional winding-up being all that was necessary.

The turkey was served at supper, and with it an enormous boiled cabbage—­one of Cheon’s successes.  Dan was in clover, boiled cabbage being considered nectar fit for the gods, and after supper he put the remnants of the feast away for his breakfast.  “Cold cabbage goes all right,” he said, as he stowed it carefully away—­“particularly for breakfast.”

Then the daily damper was to be made, and I took the dish without a misgiving.  I felt at home there, for bushmen have long since discarded the old-fashioned damper, and use soda and cream-of-tartar in the mixture.  But ours was an immense camp, and I had reckoned without any thought.  An immense camp requires an immense damper; and, the dish containing pounds and pounds of flour, when the mixture was ready for kneading the kneading was beyond a woman’s hands—­a fact that provided much amusement to the bushmen.

“Hit him again, little ’un,” the Maluka cried encouragingly, as I punched and pummelled at the unwieldy mass.

“Give it to him, missus,” Dan chuckled.  “That’s the style!  Now you’ve got him down.”

Kneeling in front of the dish, I pounded obediently at the mixture; and as they alternately cheered and advised and I wrestled with circumstances, digging my fists vigorously into the spongy, doughy depths of the damper, a traveller rode right into the camp.

“Good evening, mates,” he said, dismounting.  “Saw your fires, and thought I’d camp near for company.”  Then discovering that one of the “mates” was a woman, backed a few steps, dazed and open-mouthed—­a woman, dough to the elbows, pounding blithely at a huge damper, being an unusual sight in a night camp in the heart of one of the cattle runs in the Never-Never.

“We’re conducting a cooking class,” the Maluka explained, amused at the man’s consternation.

The traveller grinned a sickly grin, and “begging pardon, ma’am, for intruding,” said something about seeing to his camp, and backed to a more comfortable distance; and the damper-making proceeded.

“There’s a billy just thinking of boiling here you can have, mate, seeing it’s late,” Dan called, when he heard the man rattling tinware, as he prepared to go for water; and once more “begging pardon, ma’am, for intruding,” the traveller came into our camp circle, and busied himself with the making of tea.

The tea made to his satisfaction, he asked diffidently if there was a “bit of meat to spare,” as his was a “bit off”; and Dan went to the larder with a hospitable “stacks!”