Once assured that we were anxious for a start, the Katherine set about
speeding the parting guests with gifts of farewell. The Wag brought fresh
tomatoes and a cucumber; the Telegraph sent eggs; the Police a freshly
baked cake; the Chinese cook baked bread, and Mine Host came with a few
potatoes and a flat-iron. To the surprise of the Katherine, I received
the potatoes without enthusiasm, not having been long enough in the
Territory to know their rare value, and, besides, I was puzzling over the
flat iron.

"What's it for?" I asked, and the Wag shouted in mock amazement: "For!
To iron duds with, of course," as Mine Host assured us it was of no use
to him beyond keeping a door open.

Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need to iron duds
until we reached the homestead, and the Maluka said quietly: "It's FOR
the homestead. There will be nothing like that there."

Mac exploded with an impetuous "Good Heavens! What does she expect? First
pillows and now irons!"

Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what "rough"
means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying my ideas of a
station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden cottage, plainly but
comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed this idea, but Mac soon
settled the question beyond all doubt.

"Look here!" he said emphatically. "Before she leaves this place she'll
just have to grasp things a bit better," and sitting down on a swag he
talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer delight in making
everything sound as bad as possible, "knocking the stiffening out of the