"Won't be more than a ducking," Mac said cheerfully. "Couldn't be much
wetter than we are," and the Maluka taking the reins from my hands, we
rode into the stream Mac keeping behind, "to pick her up in case she
floats off," he said, thinking he was putting courage into me.
It wasn't as bad as it looked; and after a little stumbling and plunging
and drifting the horses were clambering out up the opposite bank, and by
next sundown--after scrambling through a few more rivers--we found
ourselves looking down at the flooded Katherine, flowing below in the
valley of a rocky gorge.
Sixty-five miles in three days, against sixty miles an hour of the
express trains of the world. "Speed's the thing," cries the world, and
speeds on, gaining little but speed; and we bush-folk travel our sixty
miles and gain all that is worth gaining--excepting speed.
"Hand-over-hand this time!" Mac said, looking up at the telegraph wire
that stretched far overhead. "There's no pulley here. Hand-over-hand, or
the horse's-tail trick."
But Mine Host of the "Pub" had seen us, and running down the opposite
side of the gorge, launched a boat at the river's brink; then pulling
up-stream for a hundred yards or so in the backwash, faced about, and
raced down and across the swift-flowing current with long, sweeping
strokes; and as we rode down the steep winding track to meet him, Mac
became jocular, and reminding us that the gauntlet of the Katherine had
yet to be run, also reminded us that the sympathies of the Katherine were
with the stockmen; adding with a chuckle, as Mine Host bore down upon us.
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