A Far Cry From Home, Minus Handkerchief
By L. W. LOWER
JINDABYNE, Wednesday.
Damn all Test matches. I strolled down to the Jindabyne pub last night to listen to the test match.
All was bright and gay within. Without, bleakness had set in in large frozen chunks.
The time came when I had to return to the caravan.
Bright, brittle moonlight was pasted all over the road, and the road went for miles and miles in the wrong direction.
After some hours of steady trudging I had an idea that I should be somewhere about the Gulf of Carpentaria.
I yelled “Coo-ee” in a forlorn, hope-less way, and the echo from the hills nearby made me burst into tears.
I had no matches, no money, no tobacco, and no handkerchief.
I said to myself, “Lower, this is no time for panic. Keep a grip on yourself. Don’t get hysterical.
So I kept on walking, and hours and hours later I found myself outside the same pub.
Trekked Again!
I have in there, and rapped feebly on the door.
They let me in and gave me a bed with two hundred blankets on it.
In the morning I went and had a look at the bathroom, smiled politely at it, and came away again.
I then sought out Straw Weston, the publican.
“I have no money to pay for my room,” I said, getting ready to run like mad.
“That’s all right.” He replied. “you can fix it up later.”
I then proceeded to get lost all over again. Early in the afternoon I found the caravan.
The inmates sneered at me, but I was too weak to object. Next time I go out, I’m going to be hung all over with hurricane lamps and fog horns.
Wep On The Rocks
This is no place for a man who has been delicately brought up in Darlinghurst.
Wep, my artist friend, is away in the hills painting rocks.
Some people have quaint hobbies.
All I’ve got to do now is to find the post office all over again.
If ever I get back to Sydney, the first person who says to me, “Did you enjoy the trip?” gets a smack in the teeth.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.