Before the mustered horses were drafted out, every one at the homestead, blacks, whites, and Chinese, went up to the stockyard to “have a look at them.”

Dan was in one of his superior moods. “Let’s see if she knows anything about horses,” he said condescendingly, as the Quiet Stockman opened the mob up a little to show the animals to better advantage. “Show us your fancy in this lot, missus.” “Certainly,” I said, affecting particular knowledge of the subject, and Jack wheeled with a quick, questioning look, suddenly aware that, after all, a womanmightbe only a fellow-man; and as I glanced from one beautiful animal to another he watched keenly, half expectant and half incredulous.

It did not take long to choose. In the foreground stood a magnificent brown colt, that caught and held the attention, as it watched every movement with ears shot forward, and nostrils quivering; and as I pointed it out Jack’s boyish face lit up with surprise and pleasure.

“Talk of luck!” Dan cried, as usual withholding the benefit of the doubt. “You’ve picked Jack’s fancy.”

But it was Jack himself who surprised every one, for, forgetting his monosyllables, he said with an indescribable ring of fellowship in his voice, “She’s picked out the best in the whole mob,” and turned back to his world among the horses with his usual self-possession.

Dan’s eyes opened wide. “Whatever’s come to Jack?” he said; but seemed puzzled at the Măluka’s answer that he was “only getting educated.” The truth is, that every man has his vulnerable point, and Jack’s was horses.

When the mob had been put through the yards, all the unbroken horses were given into the Quiet Stockman’s care, and for the next week or two the stockyard became the only place of real interest; for the homestead, waiting for the Wet to lift, had settled down to store lists, fencing, and stud books.

It was not the horses alone that were of interest at the yards; the calm, fearless, self-reliant man who was handling them was infinitely more so. Nothing daunted or disheartened him; and in those hours spent on the stockyard fence, in the shade of a spreading tree, I learnt to know the Quiet Stockman for the man he was.

If any one would know the inner character of a fellow man, let him put him to horse-breaking, and he will soon know the best or the worst of him. Let him watch him handling a wild, unbroken colt, and if he is steadfast of purpose, just, brave, and true-hearted, it will all be revealed; but if he lacks self-restraint, or is cowardly, shifty, or mean-spirited, he will do well to avoid the test, for the horse will betray him.

Jack’s horse-breaking was a battle for supremacy of mind over mind, not mind over matter a long course of careful training and schooling, in which nothing was broken, but all bent to the control of a master. To him no two horses were alike; carefully he studied their temperaments, treating each horse according to its nature—using the whip freely with some, and with others not at all; coercing, coaxing, or humouring, as his judgment directed. Working always for intelligent obedience, not cowed stupidity, he appeared at times to be almost reasoning with the brute mind, as he helped it to solve the problems of its schooling; penetrating dull stupidity with patient reiteration, or wearing down stubborn opposition with steady, unwavering persistence, and always rewarding ultimate obedience with gentle kindness and freedom.

Step by step, the training proceeded. Submission first, then an establishment of perfect trust and confidence between horse and man, without which nothing worth having could be attained.

After that, in orderly succession the rest followed: toleration of handling, reining, mouthing, leading on foot, and on horseback and in due time saddling and mounting. One thing at a time and nothing new until the old was so perfected that when all was ready for the mounting—from a spectacular point of view—the mounting was generally disappointing. Just a little rearing and curvetting, then a quiet, trusting acceptance of this new order of things.

Half a dozen horses were in hand at once, and, as with children at school, some quickly got ahead of the others, and every day the interest grew keener and keener in the individual character of the horses. At the end of a week Jack announced that he was “going to catch the brown colt,” next day. “It’ll be worth seeing,” he said; and from the Quiet Stockman that was looked upon as a very pressing invitation.

From the day of the draughting he had ceased altogether to avoid me, and in the days that followed had gradually realised that a horse could be more to a woman than a means of locomotion; and now no longer drew the line at conversations.

When we went up to the yards in the morning, the brown colt was in a small yard by itself, and Jack was waiting at the gate, ready for its “catching.”

With a laugh at the wild rush with which the colt avoided him, he shut himself into the yard with it, and moved quietly about, sometimes towards it and sometimes from it; at times standing still and looking it over, and at other times throwing a rope or sack carelessly down, waiting until his presence had become familiar, and the colt had learned that there was nothing to fear from it.

There was a curious calmness in the man’s movements, a fearless repose that utterly ignored the wild rushes, and as a natural result they soon ceased; and within just a minute or two the beautiful creature was standing still, watching in quivering wonder.

Gradually a double rope began to play in the air with ever-increasing circles, awakening anew the colt’s fears; and as these in turn subsided, without any apparent effort a long running noose flickered out from the circling rope, and, falling over the strong young head, lay still on the arching neck.

The leap forward was terrific; but the rope brought the colt up with a jerk; and in the instant’s pause that followed the Quiet Stockman braced himself for the mad rearing plunges that were coming. There was literally only an instant’s pause, and then with a clatter of hoofs the plungings began, and were met with muscles of iron, and jaw set like a vice, as the man, with heels dug into the ground dragged back on the rope, yielding as much as his judgment allowed—enough to ease the shocks, but not an inch by compulsion.

Twice the rearing, terrified creature circled round him and then the rope began to shorten to a more workable length. There was no haste, no flurry. Surely and steadily the rope shortened (but the horse went to the man not the man to the horse; that was to come later). With the shortening of the rope the compelling power of the man’s will forced itself into the brute mind, and, bending to that will, the wild leaps and plungings took on a vague suggestion of obedience—a goingwiththe rope, not against it; that was all. An erratic going, perhaps, but enough to tell that the horse had acknowledged a master. That was all Jack asked for at first, and, satisfied, he relaxed his muscles, and as the rope slackened the horse turned and faced him; and the marvel was how quickly it was all over.

But something was to follow, that once seen could never be forgotten the—advance of the man to the horse.

With barely perceptible movement, the man’s hands stole along the rope at a snail’s pace. Never hurrying never stopping, they slid on, the colt watching them as though mesmerised. When within reach of the dilated nostrils, they paused and waited, and slowly the sensitive head came forward snuffing, more in bewilderment than fear at this new wonder, and as the dark twitching muzzle brushed the hands, the head drew sharply back, only to return again in a moment with greater confidence.

Three or four times the quivering nostrils came back to the hands before they stirred, then one lifted slowly and lay on the muzzle, warm and strong and comforting, while the other, creeping up the rope, slipped on to the glossy neck, and the catching was over.

For a little while there was some gentle patting and fondling, to a murmuring accompaniment of words; the horse standing still with twitching ears the while. Then came the test of the victory—the test of the man’s power and the creature’s intelligence. The horse was to go to the man, at the man’s bidding alone, without force or coercion. “The better they are the sooner you learn ’em that,” was one of Jack’s pet theories, while his proudest boast—his only boast—perhaps was that he’d “never been beaten on that yet.”

“They have to come sooner or later if you stick at ’em,” he had said, when I marvelled at first to see the great creatures come obediently to the click of his tongue or fingers. So far in all his wide experience the latest had been the third day. That, however, was rare; more frequently it was a matter of hours, sometimes barely an hour, while now and then—incredulous as it may seem to the layman—only minutes.

Ten minutes before Jack put the brown colt to the test it had been a wild, terrified, plunging creature, and yet, as he stepped back to try its intelligence and submission, his face was confident and expectant.

Moving slowly backwards, he held out one hand—the hand that had proved all kindness and comfort—and, snapping a finger and thumb, clicked his tongue in a murmur of invitation.

The brown ears shot forward to attention at the sound, and as the head reached out to investigate, the snapping fingers repeated the invitation, and without hesitation the magnificent creature went forward obediently until the hand was once more resting on the dark muzzle.

The trusting beauty of the surrender seemed to break some spell that had held us silent since the beginning of the catching. “Oh, Jack! Isn’t he a beauty?” I cried unconsciously putting my admiration into a question.

But Jack no longer objected to questions. He turned towards us with soft, shining eyes. “There’s not many like him,” he said, pulling at one of the flexible ears. “You could learn him anything.” It seemed so, for after trying to solve the problem of the roller and bit with his tongue when it was put into his mouth, he accepted the mystery with quiet, intelligent trust; and as soon as he was freed from it, almost courted further fondling. He would let no one but Jack near him, though. When we entered the yard the ears went back and the whites of the eyes showed. “No one but me for a while,” Jack said, with a strange ring of ownership in his voice, telling that it is a good thing to have a horse that is yours, and yours only.

Within a week “Brownie” was mounted, and ridden down to the House for final inspection, before “going bush” to learn the art of rounding up cattle. “He’ll let you touch him now,” Jack said; and after a snuffing inquiry at my hands the beautiful creature submitted to their caresses.

Dan looked at him with approving eyes. “To think she had the luck to choose him too, out of all that crowd,” he said.

“We always call it instinct, I think,” the Măluka said teasingly, twitting me on one of my pet theories, and the Dandy politely suggested “It might be knowledge.’”

Then the Quiet Stockman gave his opinion, making it very clear that he no longer felt that women had nothing in common with men. “It never is anything but instinct,” he said, with quiet decision in his voice. “No one ever learns horses.”

While the Quiet Stockman had been busy rearranging his ideas of womankind, a good many things had been going wrong at the homestead. Sam began by breaking both china cups, and letting the backbone slip out of everything in his charge.

Fowls laid-out and eggs became luxuries. Cream refused to rise on the milk. It seemed impossible to keep meat sweet. Jimmy lost interest in the gathering of firewood and the carrying of water; and as a result, the waterbutts first shrank, then leaked, and finally lay down, a medley of planks and iron hoops. A swarm of grasshoppers passed through the homestead, and to use Sam’s explicit English: “Vegetable bin finissem all about”; and by the time fresh seeds were springing the Wet returned with renewed vigour, and flooded out the garden. Then stores began to fail, including soap and kerosene, and writing-paper and ink threatened to “peter out.” After that the lubras, in a private quarrel during the washing of clothes, tore one of the “couple of changes” of blouses sadly; and the mistress of a cattle-station was obliged to entertain guests at times in a pink cambric blouse patched with a washed calico flour-bag; no provision having been made for patching. Then just as we were wondering what else could happen, one night, without the slightest warning, the very birds migrated from the lagoon, carrying away with them the promise of future pillows, to say nothing of a mattress, and the Măluka was obliged to go far afield in search of non-migrating birds.

Dan wagged his head and talked wise philosophy, with these disasters for the thread of his discourse; but even he was obliged to own that there was a limit to education when Sam announced that “Tea bin finissem all about.”

He had found that the last eighty-pound tea-chest contained tinware when he opened it to replenish his teacaddy. Tea had been ordered, and the chest was labelled tea clearly enough, to show that the fault lay in Darwin; but that was poor consolation to us, the sufferers.

The necessities of the bush are few; but they are necessities; and Billy Muck was sent in to the Katherine post-haste, to beg, borrow, or buy tea from Mine Host. At the least a horseman would take six days for the trip, irrespective of time lost in packing up; but knowing Billy’s untiring, swinging stride, we hoped to see him within four days.

Billy left at midday, and we drank our last cup of tea at supper; the next day learned what slaves we can be to our bodies. Because we lacked tea, the interest went out of everything. Listless and unsatisfied, we sat about and developed headaches, not thirsty—for there was water in plenty—but craving for the uplifting influence of tea. Never drunkards craved more intensely for strong drink! Sam made coffee; but coffee only increased the headaches and cravings, and so we sat peering into the forest, hoping for travellers; and all we learnt by the experience was that tea is a necessary of life out-bush.

On the second evening a traveller came in from the south track. “He wouldn’t refuse a woman, surely,” every one said, and we welcomed him warmly.

He had about three ounces of tea. “Meant to fill up here meself,” he said in apology, as, with the generosity of a bushman, he offered it all unconditionally. Let us hope the man has been rewarded, and has never since known what it is to be tealess out-bush! We never heard his name, and I doubt if any one of us would know the man again if we saw him. All we saw was a dingy tuckerbag, with its one corner bulging heart-shaped with tea!

We accepted one half, for the man had a three-days, journey before him, and Sam doled it out so frugally that we spent two comparatively happy days before fixing our attention on the north track, along which Billy would return.

In four and a half days he appeared, carrying a five-pound tea-tin on his head, and was hailed with a yell of delight. We were all in the stockyard, and Billy, in answer to the hail, came there.

Dan wanted a “sniff of it right off,” so it was then and there opened; but as the lid flew back the yell of delight changed to a howl of disappointment. By some hideous mistake, Billy had broughtraisins.

Like many philosophers, Dan could not apply his philosophy to himself. “It’s the dead finish,” he said dejectedly; “never struck anything like it before. Twice over too,” he added. “First tinware and now this foolery”; and he kicked savagely at the offending tin, sending a shower of raisins dancing out into the dust.

Every one but Dan was speechless, while Billy, not being a slave to tea-drinking, gathered the raisins up, failing to see any cause for disappointment, particularly as most of the raisins fell to his share for his prompt return.

He also failed to see any advantage in setting out again for the Katherine. “Might it catch raisins nuzzer time,” he said, logically enough.

Dan became despondent at the thought. “They’re fools enough for anything,” he said. I tried to cheer him up on the law of averages, as Goggle-Eye was sent off with instructions to travel “quick-fellow, quick-fellow, big mob quick-fellow,” and many promises of reward if he was back in “four fellow sleeps.”

For two more days we peered into the forest for travellers but none appeared, and Dan became retrospective. “We might have guessed this ’ud happen,” he said, declaring it was a “judgment on the missus” for chucking good tea away just because a fly got into it. “Luck’s cleared right out because of it, missus,” he said; “and if things go on like this Johnny’ll be coming along one of these days.” (Dan was the only one of us who could joke on the matter.)

“Luck’s smashed all to pieces,” he insisted later, when he found that the first pillow was finished; but at sundown was inclined to think it might be “on the turn again,” for Goggle-Eye appeared on the north track, stalking majestically in front of a horseman.

“Me bin catch traveller,” he said triumphantly, claiming his rewards, “Me bin come back two fellow sleep”; and before we could explain that was hardly what we had meant, the man had ridden up.

“Heard you were doing a famish here, sitting with your tongues hanging out,” he laughed, “so I’ve brought you a few more raisins.” And dismounting, he drew out from a pack-bag a long calico bag containing quite ten pounds of tea.

“You struck the Wag’s tin,” he said, explaining the mistake, as every one shouted for Sam to boil a kettle instantly, and with the tea came a message from the Wag himself:

“I’ll trouble you for my raisins”; and we could almost hear the Wag’s slow, dry chuckle underlying the words.

Mine Host also sent a message, saying he would “send further supplies every opportunity, to keep things going until the waggons came through,” and underlying his message we felt his kindly consideration. As a further proof of his thoughtfulness we found two china cups imbedded in the tea. He had heard of Sam’s accident. Tea in china cups! and as much and as strong as we desired. But in spite of Mine Host’s efforts to keep us going, twice again, before the waggons came, we found ourselves begging tea from travellers.

Our energies revived with the very first cup of tea, and we went for our usual evening stroll through the paddocks, with all our old appreciation; and on our return found the men stretched out on the grass beyond the Quarters, optimistic and happy, sipping at further cups of tea. (Sam’s kettle was kept busy that night.)

The men’s optimism was infectious, and presently the Măluka “supposed the waggons would be starting before long.”

It was only March, and the waggons had to wait till the Wet lifted; but just then every one felt sure that “the Wet would lift early this year.”

“Generally does with the change of moon before Easter,” the traveller said, and, flying off at a tangent, I asked when Easter was, unwittingly setting the homestead a tough problem.

Nobody “could say for certain.” But Dan “knew a chap once who could reckon it by the moon” and the Măluka felt inspired to work it out. “It’s simple enough,” he said. “The first Friday—or is it Sunday?—after the first full moon,afterthe twenty-first of March.”

“Twenty-fifth, isn’t it?” the Dandy asked, complicating matters from the beginning.

The traveller reckoned it’d be new moon about Monday or Tuesday, which seemed near enough at the time; and full moon was fixed for the Tuesday or Wednesday fortnight from that.

“That ought to settle it,” Dan said; and so it might have if any one had been sure of Monday’s date; but we all had different convictions about that, varying from the ninth to the thirteenth.

After much ticking off of days upon fingers, with an old newspaper as “something to work from,” the date of the full moon was fixed for the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth of March, unless the moon came in so late on Tuesday that it brought the full to the morning of the twenty-sixth.

“Seems getting a bit mixed,” Dan said, and matters were certainly complicated.

If we were to reckon from the twenty-first, Easter was in March, but if from the twenty-fifth, in April—if the moon came in on Monday, but March in either case if the full was on the twenty-sixth.

Dan suggested “giving it best.” “It ’ud get anybody dodged,” he said, hopelessly at sea; but the Măluka wanted to “see it through.” “The new moon should clear most of it up,” he said; “but you’ve given us a teaser this time, little ’un.”

The new moon should have cleared everything up if we could have seen it, but the Wet coming on in force again, we saw nothing till Thursday evening, when it was too late to calculate with precision.

Dan was for having two Easters, and “getting even with it that way”; but Sam unexpectedly solved the problem for us.

“What was the difficulty?” he asked, and listened to the explanation attentively. “Bunday!” he exclaimed at the finish, showing he had fully grasped the situation. Of course he knew all about Bunday! Wasn’t it so many weeks after the Chinaman’s New Year festival? And in a jargon of pidgin-English he swept aside all moon discussions, and fixed the date of “Bunday” for the twenty-eighth of March, “which,” as Dan wisely remarked, “proved that somebody was right,” but whether the Măluka or the Dandy, or the moon, he forgot to specify. “The old heathen to beat us all too,” he added, “just when it had got us all dodged.” Dan took all the credit of the suggestion to himself. Then he looked philosophically on the toughness of the problem: “Anyway,” he said, “the missus must have learnt a bit about beginning at the beginning of things. Just think what she’d have missed if any one had known when Easter was right off!”

“What she’d have missed indeed. Exactly what the townsman misses, as long as he remains in a land where everything can be known right off.”

But a new idea had come to Dan. “Of course,” he said, “as far as that goes, if Johnny does turn up she ought to learn a thing or two, while he’s moving the dining-room up the house”; and he decided to welcome Johnny on his return.

He had not long to wait, for in a day or two Johnny rode into the homestead, followed by a black boy carrying a cross-cut saw. This time he hailed us with a cheery:

“Nowwe shan’t be long.”