time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at
the ruins of his cookery--a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. "Must
have been sitting on 'em all night," he said, "and there's no other bread
for breakfast."

There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind;
but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac's
sense of humour revived. "Didn't I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny
cakes?" he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous
chuckles: "You mightn't think it; but I really am." Then he pointed to
Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Maluka hunted for
the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman. "White fellow big
fellow fool all right! eh, Jackeroo?" he asked, and Jackeroo openly
agreed with us.

Finding the black soil flats impassable after the deluge, Mac left the
track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day; and all that had
gone before was smoothness itself in comparison to what was in store.

All day the buck-board rocked and bumped through the timber, and the
Maluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out the advantages of
travelling across country, as we bounced about the buck-board like rubber
balls: "There's so little chance of getting stiff with sitting still."

Every time we tried to answer him we bit our tongues as the buck-board
leapt over the tussocks of grass. Once we managed to call back, "You
won't feel the journey in a buck-board." Then an overhanging bough
threatening to wipe us out of our seats, Mac shouted, "Duck!" and as we
"ducked" the buck-board skimmed between two trees, with barely an inch to
spare.