There seemed room for tickets, and for the man who sold
them--if he were not a very large man. There was not much hope for
visitors.
"I'm running up a bosker hotel soon's I can get a bit of
weather-boarding and a few nails along," he said hopefully.
"That doesn't solve th-th-the immediate problem," said Louis.
"Let's sleep with half of us in the hotel and half on the platform,"
said Marcella, delighted with the authentic lack of civilization.
"Be et up with h'ants," the driver informed them. "Look here, chum, if
I was you I'd sleep in the train. She don't set off till between seven
and eight to-morrow."
They jumped at the idea, and the stationmaster, suddenly helpful,
offered them the loan of his hut, his spirit lamp, his kerosene tins and
his creek which was half a mile away among a few trees, low-growing,
stunted blue gums.
"Have to have a wash," the stationmaster told himself unhappily, and
suggested the same course to the driver and guard as there was a lady to
dinner. Then he piloted Marcella and Louis to his hut.
It struck a homely note in several ways. The name of Rockefeller came to
them in the flattened out kerosene tins which, nailed to supports,
formed the roof; boxes stencilled with the names of well-known
proprietary English goods formed the walls. Inside was a bed in shape of
a frayed hammock; upturned boxes formed the chairs and there was an
incongruous leather-topped, mahogany-legged writing-table.
Pages:
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408