Before the tea appeared, an angry Scotch voice crept to us through thin
partitions, saying: "It's not a fit place for a woman, and, besides,
nobody wants her!" And in a little while we heard the same voice
inquiring for "the Boss."

"The telegraphing bush-whacker," I said, and invited the Maluka to come
and see me defy him. But when I found myself face to face with over six
feet of brawny quizzing, wrathful-looking Scotchman, all my courage
slipped away, and edging closer to the Maluka, I held out my hand to the
bushman, murmuring lamely: "How do you do?"

Instantly a change came over the rugged, bearded face. At the sight of
the "Goer" reduced to a meek five feet, all the wrath died out of it, and
with twitching lips and twinkling eyes Mac answered mechanically, "Quite
well thank you," and then coughed in embarrassment.

That was all: no fierce blocking, no defying. And with the cough, the
absurdity of the whole affair, striking us simultaneously, left us
grinning like a trio of Cheshire cats.

It was a most eloquent grinning, making all spoken apology or explanation
unnecessary; and by the time it had faded away we thoroughly understood
each other, being drawn together by a mutual love of the ridiculous. Only
a mutual love of the ridiculous, yet not so slender a basis for a
lifelong friendship as appears, and by no means an uncommon one "out
bush."

"Does the station pay for the telegrams, or the loser?" the landlord
asked in an aside, as we went in to supper and after supper the
preparations began for the morrow's start.