"Never tasted Johnny cakes!!" Mac said. "Your education hasn't begun yet.
We'll have some for breakfast; I'm real slap-up at Johnny cakes!" and
rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour, cream-of-tartar, soda, and a
mixing-dish, and set to work at once.



"I'm real slap-up at Johnny cakes! No mistake!" he assured us, as he
knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish, kneading
enthusiastically at his mixture. "Look at that!" as air-bubbles appeared
all over the light, spongy dough. "Didn't I tell you I knew a thing or
two about cooking?" and cutting off nuggety-looking chunks, he buried
them in the hot ashes.

When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just
pride. "Well!" he said. "Who's slap-up at Johnny cakes?" and standing
them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents--a deluge being
expected--and carried them into his own for safety.

During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood
banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring
little rivulets through Mac's tent, that he was obliged to pass most of
the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.



Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes
became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast