The seat of the cart was slanting and slippery. Polly was continually
sliding forward, now by inches, now with a great jerk. At last Mahony
noticed it. "You are not sitting very comfortably, Polly, I fear?" he
said.
Polly righted herself yet again, and reddened. "It's my . . . my feet
aren't long enough," she replied.
"Why, my poor little love!" cried Mahony, full of quick compunction.
"Why didn't you say so?" And drawing rein and getting down, he stuffed
some of Mrs. Beamish's bundles--fragments of the feast, which the good
woman had sent with them--under his wife's feet; stuffed too many, so
that Polly drove the rest of the way with her knees raised to a hump in
front of her. All the afternoon they had been making for dim blue
ranges. After leaving the flats near Geelong, the track went up and
down. Grey-green forest surrounded them, out of which nobbly hills rose
like islands from a sea of trees. As they approached the end of their
journey, they overtook a large number of heavy vehicles labouring along
through the mire. A coach with six horses dashed past them at full
gallop, and left them rapidly behind. Did they have to skirt bull-punchers
who were lashing or otherwise ill-treating their teams, Mahony
urged on the horse and bade Polly shut her eyes.
Night had fallen and a drizzling rain get in, by the time they travelled
the last couple of miles to Ballarat. This was the worst of all; and
Polly held her breath while the horse picked its way among yawning pits,
into which one false step would have plunged them.
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