The homestead, standing half-way up the slope that rose from the billabong, had, after all, little of that “down-at-heels, anything’ll-do” appearance that Mac had so scathingly described. No one could call it a “commodious station home,” and it was even patched up and shabby; but, for all that, neat and cared for. An orderly little array of one-roomed buildings, mostly built of sawn slabs, and ranged round a broad oblong space with a precision that suggested the idea of a section of a street cut out from some neat compact little village.

The cook’s quarters, kitchens, men’s quarters, store, meat-house, and waggon-house, facing each other on either side of this oblong space, formed a short avenue—the main thoroughfare of the homestead—the centre of which was occupied by an immense wood-heap, the favourite gossiping place of some of the old black fellows, while across the western end of it, and looking down it, but a little aloof from the rest of the buildings, stood the house, or, rather, as much of it as had been rebuilt after the cyclone of 1897. As befitted their social positions the forge and black boys’ “humpy” kept a respectful distance well round the south-eastern corner of this thoroughfare; but, for some unknown reason, the fowl-roosts had been erected over Sam Lee’s sleeping-quarters. That comprised this tiny homestead of a million and a quarter acres, with the Katherine Settlement a hundred miles to the north of it, one neighbour ninety miles to the east, another, a hundred and five to the south, and others about two hundred to the west.

Unfortunately, Mac’s description of the House had been only too correct. With the exception of the one roughly finished room at its eastern end, it was “mostly verandahs and promises.”

After the cyclone had wrecked the building, scattering timber and sheets of iron in all directions, everything had lain exactly where it had fallen for some weeks, at the mercy of the wind and weather. At the end of those weeks a travelling Chinese carpenter arrived at the station with such excellent common-sense ideas of what a bush homestead should be, that he had been engaged to rebuild it.

His plans showed a wide-roofed building, built upon two-foot piles, with two large centre rooms opening into each other and surrounded by a deep verandah on every side; while two small rooms, a bathroom and an office, were to nestle each under one of the eastern corners of this deep twelve-foot verandah. Without a doubt excellent common-sense ideas; but, unfortunately, much larger than the supply of timber. Rough-hewn posts for the two-foot piles and verandah supports could be had for the cutting, and therefore did not give out; but the man used joists and uprights with such reckless extravagance, that by the time the skeleton of the building was up, the completion of the contract was impossible. With philosophical indifference, however, he finished one room completely; left a second a mere outline of uprights and tye-beams; apparently forgot all about the bathroom and office; covered the whole roof, including verandahs, with corrugated iron; surveyed his work with a certain amount of stolid satisfaction; then announcing that “wood bin finissem,” applied for his cheque and departed; and from that day nothing further has been done to the House, which stood before us “mostly verandahs and promises.”

Although Mac’s description of the House had been apt, he had sadly underrated the furniture. There werefourchairs, all “up” to my weight, while two of them were up to the Măluka’s. The cane was all gone, certainly, but had been replaced with green-hide seats (not green in colour, of course, only green in experience, never having seen a tan-pit). In addition to the chairs, the dining-table, the four-poster bed, the wire mattress, and the looking glass, there was a solid deal side table, made from the side of a packing-case, with four solid legs and a solid shelf underneath, also a remarkably steady washstand that had no ware of any description, and a remarkably unsteady chest of four drawers, one of which refused to open, while the other three refused to shut. Further, the dining-table was more than “fairly” steady, three of the legs being perfectly sound, and it therefore only threatened to fall over when leaned upon. And lastly, although most of the plates and all the cups were enamel ware, there was almost a complete dinner service in china. The teapot, however, was tin, and, as Mac said, as “big as a house.”

As for the walls, not only were the “works of art” there, but they themselves were uniquely dotted from ceiling to floor with the muddy imprints of dogs’ feet—not left there by a Pegasus breed of winged dogs, but made by the muddy feet of the station dogs, as they pattered over the timber, when it lay awaiting the carpenter, and no one had seen any necessity to remove them. Outside the verandahs, and all around the house, was what was to be known later as the garden, a grassy stretch of hillocky ground, well scratched and beaten down by dogs, goats, and fowls; fenceless itself, being part of the grassy acres which were themselves fenced round to form the homestead enclosures. Just inside this enclosure, forming, in fact, the south-western barrier of it, stood the “billabong,” then a spreading sheet of water; along its banks flourished the vegetable garden; outside the enclosure, towards the south-east, lay a grassy plain a mile across, and to the north-west were the stock-yards and house paddock—a paddock of five square miles, and the only fenced area on the run; while everywhere to the northwards, and all through the paddock, were dotted “white-ant” hills, all shapes and sizes, forming brick-red turrets among the green scrub and timber.

“Well!” Mac said, after we had completed a survey. “I said it wasn’t a fit place for a woman, didn’t I?”

But the Head-stockman was in one of his argumentative moods. “Any place is a fit place for a woman,” he said, “provided the woman is fitted for the place. The right man in the right place, you know. Square people shouldn’t try to get into round holes.”

“The woman’ssquareenough!” the Măluka interrupted; and Mac added, “And so is thehole,” with a scornful emphasis on the word “hole.”

Dan chuckled, and surveyed the queer-looking building with new interest.

“It reminds me of a banyan tree with corrugated-iron foliage,” he said, adding as he went into details, “In a dim light the finished room would pass for the trunk of the tree and the uprights for the supports of the branches.”

But the Măluka thought it looked more like a section of a mangrove swamp, piles and all.

“It looks very like a house nearly finished,” I said severely; for, because of the verandah and many promises, I was again hopeful for something approaching that commodious station home. “A few able-bodied men could finish the dining-room in a couple of days, and make a mansion of the rest of the building in a week or so.”

But the able-bodied men had a different tale to tell.

“Steady! Go slow, missus!” they cried. “It may look like a house very nearly finished, but out-bush, we have to catch our hares before we cook them.”

“Webegin at the very beginning of things in the Never-Never,” the Măluka explained. “Timber grows in trees in these parts, and has to be coaxed out with a saw.”

“It’s a bad habit it’s got into,” Dan chuckled; then pointing vaguely towards the thickly wooded long Reach, that lay a mile to the south of the homestead, beyond the grassy plain, he “supposed the dining-room was down there just now, with the rest of the House.”

With fast-ebbing hopes I looked in dismay at the distant forest undulating along the skyline, and the Măluka said sympathetically, “It’s only too true, little un’.”

But Dan disapproved of spoken sympathy under trying circumstances. “It keeps ’em from toeing the line” he believed; and fearing I was on the point of showing the white feather he broke in with: “We’ll have to keep her toeing the line, Boss,” and then pointed out that “things might be worse.” “In some countries there are no trees to cut down,” he said.

“That’s the style,” he added, when I began to laugh in spite of my disappointment, “We’ll soon get you educated up to it.”

But already the Sanguine Scot had found the bright side of the situation, and reminded us that we were in the Land of Plenty of Time. “There’s time enough for everything in the Never-Never,” he said. “She’ll have many a pleasant ride along the Reach choosing trees for timber. Catching the hare’s often the best part of the fun.”

Mac’s cheery optimism always carried all before it. Pleasant rides through shady forest-ways seemed a fair recompense for a little delay; and my spirits went up with a bound, to be dashed down again the next moment by Dan.

“We haven’t got to the beginning of things yet,” he interrupted, following up the line of thought the Măluka had at first suggested. “Before any trees are cut down, we’ll have to dig a saw-pit and find a pit-sawyer.” Dan was not a pessimist; he only liked to dig down to the very root of things, besides objecting to sugar-coated pills as being a hindrance to education.

But the Dandy had joined the group, and being practical, suggested “trying to get hold of little Johnny,” declaring that “he would make things hum in no time.”

Mac happened to know that Johnny was “inside” somewhere on a job, and it was arranged that Dan should go in to the Katherine at once for nails and “things,” and to see if the telegraph people could find out Johnny’s whereabouts down the line, and send him along.

But preparations for a week’s journey take time, outbush, owing to that necessity of beginning at the beginning of things. Fresh horses were mustered, a mob of bullocks rounded up for a killer, swags and pack-bags packed; and just as all was in readiness for the start, the Quiet Stockman came in, bringing a small mob of colts with him.

“I’m leaving,” he announced in the Quarters; then, feeling some explanation was necessary, added, “Iwasthinking of it before this happened.” Strictly speaking, this may be true, although he omitted to say that he had abandoned the idea for some little time.

No one was surprised, and no one thought of asking what had happened, for Jack had always steered clear of women, as he termed it. Not that he feared or disliked them, but because he considered that they had nothing in common with men. “They’re such terrors for asking questions,” he said once, when pressed for an opinion, adding as an afterthought, “They never seem to learn much either,” in his own quiet way, summing up the average woman’s conversation with a shy bushman: a long string of purposeless questions, followed by inane remarks on the answers.

“I’m leaving!” Jack had said, and later met the Măluka unshaken in his resolve. There was that in the Măluka, however, that Jack had not calculated on—a something that drew all men to him, and made Dan speak of him in after-years as the “best boss ever I struck”; and although the interview only lasted a few minutes, and the Măluka spoke only of the work of the station, yet in those few minutes the Quiet Stockman changed his mind, and the notice was never given.

“I’m staying on,” was all he said on returning to the Quarters; and quick decisions being unusual with Jack, every one felt interested.

“Going to give her a chance?” Dan asked with a grin, and Jack looked uncomfortable.

“I’ve only seen the boss,” he said.

Dan nodded with approval. “You’ve got some sense left, then,” he said, “if you know a good boss when you see one.”

Jack agreed in monosyllables; but when Dan settled down to argue out the advantages of having a woman about the place, he looked doubtful; but having nothing to say on the subject, said nothing; and when Dan left for the Katherine next morning he was still unconvinced.

Dan set out for the north track soon after sun-up, assuring us that he’d get hold of Johnny somehow; and before sun-down a traveller crossed the Creek below the billabong at the south track, and turned into the homestead enclosure.

We were vaguely chatting on all and sundry matters, as we sat under the verandah that faced the billabong, when the traveller came into sight.

“Horse traveller!” Mac said, lazily shading his eyes, and then sprang to his feet with a yell. “Talk of luck!” he shouted. “You’ll do, missus! Here’s Johnny himself.”

It was Johnny, sure enough; but Johnny had a cheque in his pocket, and was yearning to see the “chaps at the Katherine”; and, after a good look through the House and store, decided that he really would have to go in to the Settlement for—tools and “things.”

“I’ll be back in a week, missus,” he said next morning, as he gathered his reins together before mounting, “and then we shan’t be long. Three days in and three out, you know, bar accidents, and a day’s spell at the Katherine,” he explained glibly. But the “chaps at the Katherine” proved too entertaining for Johnny, and a fortnight passed before we saw him again.