Hopefulness is always infectious, and before Mac’s cheery optimism the pile of necessities grew rapidly smaller.  Indeed, with such visions of soap and water and waltzing washerwomen, a couple of changes of everything appeared absurd luxury.  But even optimism can have disadvantages; for in our enthusiasm we forgot that a couple of cambric blouses, a cotton dress or two, and a change of skirts, are hardly equal to the strain of nearly five months constant wear and washing.

The pillow-cases went in, however.  Mac settled that difficulty by saying that “all hands could be put on to pluck birds.  The place is stiff with ’em,” he explained, showing what a simple matter it would be, after all.  The Maluka turning out two cushions, a large and a smaller one, simplified matters even more.  “A bird in the hand you know,” he said, finding room for them in the swag.

Before all the arrangements were completed, others of the Creek had begun to thaw, and were “lending a hand,” here and there.  The question of horses coming up, I confided in the helpers, that I was relieved to hear that the Telegraph had sent a quiet horse.  “I am really afraid of buck-jumpers, you know,” I said, and the Creek looking sideways at Mac, he became incoherent.

“Oh, look here!” he spluttered, “I say!  Oh, look here!  It really was too bad!” Then, after an awkward pause, he blurted out, “I don’t know what you’ll think, but the brute strayed first camp, and—­he’s lost, saddle and all.”

The Maluka shot him a swift, questioning glance; but poor Mac looked so unhappy that we assured him “we’d manage somehow.”  Perhaps we could tame one of the flash buck-jumpers, the Maluka suggested.  But Mac said it “wouldn’t be as bad as that,” and, making full confession, placed old Roper at our service.

By morning, however, a magnificent chestnut “Flash,” well-broken into the side-saddle, had been conjured up from somewhere by the Creek.  But two of the pack-horses had strayed, and by the time they were found the morning had slipped away, and it was too late to start until after dinner.  Then after dinner a terrific thunderstorm broke over the settlement, and as the rain fell in torrents, Mac thought it looked “like a case of to-morrow all right.”

Naturally I felt impatient at the delay, but was told by the Creek that “there was no hurry!” “To-morrow’s still untouched,” Mac explained.  “This is the Land of Plenty of Time; Plenty of Time and Wait a While.  You’ll be doing a bit of waiting before you’ve done with it.”

“If this rain goes on, she’ll be doing a bit of waiting at the Fergusson; unless she learns the horse’s-tail trick,” the Creek put in.  On inquiry, it proved that the “horse’s-tail trick” meant swimming a horse through the flood, and hanging on to its tail until it fought a way across; and I felt I would prefer “waiting a bit.”

The rain did go on, and, roaring over the roof, made conversation difficult.  The bushmen called it a “bit of a storm”; but every square inch of the heavens seemed occupied by lightning and thunder-bolts.