As the pillow-cases fell to the ground, Mac was at a loss to account for
my consternation. "What's gone wrong?" he exclaimed in concern. Mac was
often an unconscious humorist.

But the Maluka came with his ever-ready sympathy. "Poor little coon," he
said gently, "there's little else but chivalry and a bite of tucker for a
woman out bush."

Then a light broke in on Mac. "Is it only the pillows?" he said. "I
thought something had gone wrong." Then his eyes began to twinkle.
"There's stacks of pillows in Darwin," he said meaningly.

It was exactly the moral fillip needed, and in another minute we were
cheerfully "culling our herd" again.

Exposed to Mac's scorn, the simplest comforts became foolish luxuries. "A
couple of changes of everything is stacks," he said encouragingly,
clearing a space for packing. "There's heaps of soap and water at the
station, and things dry here before you can waltz round twice."

Hopefulness is always infectious, and before Mac's cheery optimism the
pile of necessities grew rapidly smaller. Indeed, with such visions of
soap and water and waltzing washerwomen, a couple of changes of
everything appeared absurd luxury. But even optimism can have
disadvantages; for in our enthusiasm we forgot that a couple of cambric
blouses, a cotton dress or two, and a change of skirts, are hardly equal
to the strain of nearly five months constant wear and washing.

The pillow-cases went in, however. Mac settled that difficulty by saying
that "all hands could be put on to pluck birds. The place is stiff with