It was with great difficulty The Instigator could be persuaded to leave
the plough, and at one time his enthusiasm (and the engine) carried him
out of sight, and those remaining at the starting-point grew speculative
as to whether he would return before dark. However, a recommencement of
drizzling rain apparently cooled his ardour, and restored him to the
party. The nomads gladly turned their thoughts and coaches towards the
section house, realising as they went the sweet truth of the words, "The
ploughman homeward plods his weary way." Lunch awaited them, and the
fish of the morning appeared in a more pleasant guise, to be enjoyed by
all. After lunch, the rain showing no signs of clearing off, the party
had to give up all idea of the lake proper, but watched one form in
front of the house instead, and wondered how it would be negotiated when
the time came for an onward move. So they sat on chairs, baggage and
benches under the verandah, and tried to keep awake, while observing
the steady downpour. One member of the party at last gave up the
struggle against the inevitable, and sank gracefully into the arms of
Morpheus, represented by the bags of biscuits and other impedimenta. A
photo was secured of him as he lay half concealed amongst the
portmanteaux, packages and "pan.
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