Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need to iron duds
until we reached the homestead, and the Maluka said quietly: "It's FOR
the homestead. There will be nothing like that there."
Mac exploded with an impetuous "Good Heavens! What does she expect? First
pillows and now irons!"
Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what "rough"
means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying my ideas of a
station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden cottage, plainly but
comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed this idea, but Mac soon
settled the question beyond all doubt.
"Look here!" he said emphatically. "Before she leaves this place she'll
just have to grasp things a bit better," and sitting down on a swag he
talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer delight in making
everything sound as bad as possible, "knocking the stiffening out of the
missus," as he phrased it, and certainly bringing the "commodious station
home" about her ears, which was just as well, perhaps.
After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which he called
"One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-'ll-do sort of places," he
described The House.
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