OUR PIPES
The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a sort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were camped―Jack Mitchell and I. The 'timber' proper was just behind us, very thick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on edge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and a lot of old rags and straw burning inside.
We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day―swagmen know what that means. We reached the water about two hours 'after dark'―swagmen know what that means. We didn't sit down at once and rest―we hadn't rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat down we wouldn't want to get up again in a hurry―that, if we did, our leg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would 'draw' like red-hot wires. You see, we hadn't been long on the track this time―it was only our third day out. Swagmen will understand.
We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our beds and the swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cooked meat and a few johnny-cakes left, for we didn't feel equal to
