long-grass country", miles of grass, waving level with and above our
heads--grass ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but grass.

The Maluka was riding a little behind, at the head of the pack-team, but
we could see neither him nor the team, and Mac looked triumphantly round
as the staunch little horses pushed on through the forest of grass that
swirled and bent and swished and reeled all about the buck-board.

"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "This is what we call long grass"; and he
asked if I could "see any track now." "It's as plain as a pikestaff," he
declared, trying to show what he called a "clear break all the way." "Oh
I'm a dead homer all right," he shouted after further going as we came
out at the "King" crossing.

"Now for it! Hang on!" he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a
hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he
said unconcernedly: "I wonder how deep this is," adding, as the
buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it: "By George!
They're off their feet," and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the
undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.

"That's the style!" he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and
dripping well over the rise from the crossing. "Close thing, though!
Did you get your feet wet?"

"Did you get your feet wet!" That was all, when I was expecting every
form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant at Mac's
recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, "You shouldn't take
such risks."