found all the creeks and smaller rivers in flood owing to the heat. The usual crossings were unfordable, and long detours had had to be made—climbing through the bush, fording rivers up to their armpits—and they were just getting into a change of clothes when we arrived. Hearing all this, when the surveyor announced his intention of sleeping in the bush, we protested strongly. Here were we quite fresh, so were the horses: we would go on to the second hut seven or eight miles further, and leave them to dry their clothes and smoke their pipes in peace.
But the surveyor only laughed. “I‘m a bushman,” said he; “I haven’t seen my home for four years. I’m as happy sleeping in the bush as in a bed; and I’ll get the best of it anyway, for you’ll get all the mosquitoes inside!”
It was useless talking, so we invited them to share our food; we had plenty of roast goose and hard-boiled eggs, which the surveyor said were quite a treat to him. The accommodation inside was extremely simple. There was just a platform about a foot off the floor filling more than half the space. This was covered with fern, and along the edge of it we sat most amicably, eating our goose in our fingers (but Ted cut slices of bread and butter for me). In front of us was the wide cavern of the chimney, where logs blazed cheerfully. It was getting so cold I was glad to sit within, for we were now among high mountains, where the snow lies all the year round. Mount Alexander, opposite
