Mac roared with delight, and the passage of the Fergusson having swept
away the last lingering torch of restraint he called to the Maluka;
"Jackeroo reckons he's tamed the shrew for us." Mac had been a reader of
Shakespeare in his time.

All afternoon we were supposed to be "making a dash" for the Edith, a
river twelve miles farther on; but there was nothing very dashing about
our pace. The air was stiflingly, swelteringly hot, and the flies
maddening in their persistence. The horses developed puffs, and when we
were not being half-drowned in torrents of rain we were being parboiled
in steamy atmosphere. The track was as tracks usually are "during the
Wet," and for four hours we laboured on, slipping and slithering over the
greasy track, varying the monotony now and then with a floundering
scramble through a boggy creek crossing. Our appearance was about as
dashing as our pace; and draggled, wet through, and perspiring, and out
of conceit with primitive travelling--having spent the afternoon
combining a minimum rate of travelling with a maximum of discomfort--we
arrived at the Edith an hour after sundown to find her a wide eddying
stream.

"Won't be more than a ducking," Mac said cheerfully. "Couldn't be much
wetter than we are," and the Maluka taking the reins from my hands, we
rode into the stream Mac keeping behind, "to pick her up in case she
floats off," he said, thinking he was putting courage into me.

It wasn't as bad as it looked; and after a little stumbling and plunging
and drifting the horses were clambering out up the opposite bank, and by
next sundown--after scrambling through a few more rivers--we found
ourselves looking down at the flooded Katherine, flowing below in the
valley of a rocky gorge.