So we kept going. We met many a swagman, a kind of native hobo who walks the roads, carrying nothing but a blanket and tin can. He eats what he can find and cooks up his tea in his tin can, called a billy can there. Tea leaves, brown sugar, and the whole mess stirred with what is handy, and when you drink with him, you hope he'll only use a eucalyptus twig. “The eucalyptus and the rabbit,” Mike said, “are slowly driving people out of Australia.”
One night we camped with a group of natives, not English natives but the black people who were here a million years ago. They smell high, live easy, and don't seem to give a damn. Mike, who was always hungry, decided to get into their cooking pots.
He pointed to a pot. “What that there, boy?” (Mike can speak any language.)
“Him ants and grasshopper. Very much good.”
“I pass. What's that?”
“Parlja.”
“I'll have a dime's worth.”
I watched him eat a mess off a big green leaf, very hot.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Not bad. What him in here, boy?”
“Come from eucalyptus tree.”
“Tastes like meat to me.”
“Him little white grub.”
Mike turned green, and I found out parlja is a tree larva, much loved by the natives. We didn't taste any native food after that. Some natives were dirt eaters, partial to a fatty clay; some were snake eaters, a habit I once found very popular on Park Avenue, New York. But I doubt whether New Yorkers are true snake-meat gourmets, for in Australia the snake livers are the caviar of the people. The ranchers eat a lot of scalloped mutton brain, and a sheep brain savory is ready for you at any ranchhouse.
We reached Station Inchcliff tired, worn, and sure the country was the biggest and emptiest on earth, unless you count sheep as people. The ranchhouse was built of stone with a straw roof, and two hundred men worked the place, though mast of them were out in the bush following sheep. A sheep can't be led, but it can be followed. A Mr. Rollo was manager of the station, and he offered us the brandy of the new country and the Scotch of the old country. He took us into a big living room, the walls hung with guns and animal heads.
“I say,” he said. “This Hopalong Gassidy. Some chap, what?”
“Nice guy,” said Mike, relaxing around bis Scotch. “Worked with him in the old days. Never knew he'd hit big time.”
Rollo's eyes hung out on stems. “You don't mean you've actually met Hoppy!”
“Sure, why?”
“Met Hoppy! We run his pictures every night here in the sheep-dipping yard.”
“Hoppy's a cowman himself,” I said.
“How many old Hoppy films have you got?” Mike asked.
“Only one, but we never tire of it. The hands all feel in some way a kinship to the chap.”
“He's pretty popular back home now. Television.”
“Heard of the blasted thing.” said Rollo. “But you must see our Hoppy film tonight.”
“Be glad to,” said Mike, reaching for the Scotch. “Cement friendship between two great countries. Yep.”
“Yep,” I said, taking the Scotch away from him. We were shooting a sheep-clipping in the morning.
We saw the Hoppy film that night. We saw it again the night after that. The next day was Sunday, so we saw it twice, once after lunch. After a week of this, Mike and I were kind of tired of the film, but Rollo and the boys looked hurt if we tried to say we wanted to miss a showing. They looked real mean when we said we had headaches. We didn't miss a showing.
One day Mike caught me behind the dog houses. “Listen, chum, you notice any signs I'm going mad?”
“Not more than the usual ones, Hoppy, I mean Mike.”
“I asked for soda pop this morning, just like Hoppy does.”
“I think we better get out of here.”
“All right, pack the gear.”
I told Rollo we were leaving, and he seemed sad. “Kind of been swanking it around here. Personal friends of Hoppy living with us. Can't you just stay one more week?”
“Sorry, have to catch a boat.”
“Why not just stay tonight? Make a real beano of it—show the Hoppy film and break open the ale.”
Mike closed his eyes and stabbed his mutton. I said we were sorry. The next day we took the bus for the coast. It was a long, tiring drive. We developed the film and one night we ran it off for Mrs. Inchcliff. She was very pleased with it all and said the little lambs looked real cute.
“Rollo has been happy to have you visit the Station. He sent me a long wire yesterday, wishes you were back.”
“Rollo is a fine man. You're lucky to have him.”
“I must ride out there this fall and see how the place is going.”
“To Hoppy,” said Mike.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Mrs. Inchcliff. loading her cigarette holder.
“Native American slang.” I explained.
We got our film on the boat and went down to the lobster stands and had a native girl broil a few for us. They are very cheap there, and kids eat them instead of Good Humors.
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