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blustering.
    â€˜He can be,’ Snook said, grinning that crooked grin of his. ‘If you upset him, then there’s no telling what he’ll do.’
    I couldn’t help smiling. I’d seen the reason for the mysteriously moving plate but considering Blowhard’s earlier loutish behaviour I reckoned it wouldn’t hurt for Mr Blowhard to wonder for a while. Although, seeing the growing look of terror that had now come over him, I quickly changed my mind. His face had gone a deep purple colour and his breath was coming in short, gasping spurts. It looked like his eyes might pop at any second, too. I figured I’d better tell him what was going on before he had a heart attack. Trying to be serious, I said, ‘You put your plate on the back of an echidna, Mr Blowhard. He was in the middle of burrowing under-ground at the time; echidnas do that. He must have decided to take your plate for a ride.’ To prove my point, I walked over and extracted the paper plate from the echidna’s prickly spikes that were just jutting above the ground. That got him moving. The little fellow, legs working like pistons, came to the surface and then, as though wondering what all the fuss was about, waddled off towards the trees and the long tufts of grass at the edge of our camp. Shadow, head on his outstretched paws, and probably wondering what the fuss was about too, watched as the echidna disappeared.
    Still puffing and blowing in harsh, wet gasps, Blowhard, bent over, retreated to the other edge of the camp. After several minutes and regaining his breath, Blowhard straightened and brushed some imaginary crumbs from his shirt. He called back to us, ‘Of course, I knew what it was all along. There’s no fooling Reginald Blowhard, you know.’ Tossing his head in the air, he added, ‘Thank you very much for lunch, but I must go and make preparations for my expedition this afternoon to Mount … What was it called again?’
    â€˜Ghost Mountain,’ I called back.
    â€˜Yeah,’ Snook yelled out. ‘Where Mamu lives. You’d better keep a look out for him; he could be anywhere.’
    â€˜What do you reckon?’ Snook asked me after Blowhard had left. ‘Do you still want to go to the gorge?’
    I told Snook that we’d better. Something was telling me that Blowhard could very well run into trouble where he was going. I also had the feeling that all the self-confidence oozing out of him was nothing but hot air.
    Snook, putting on his best posh accent and with rounded lips, replied, ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that Mr Reginald Blowhard, the famous bushman extraordinaire, will get himself into a spot of bother, are you?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m afraid so, but there’s something else.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜We forgot to tell him about the dam.’

Chapter 13
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    R eginald Blowhard sat at his table finalising plans for that afternoon. Whilst listening to his second favourite song, It’s Just An Itsy Bitsy, Teeny Weeny, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, he thought of his options. ‘ Yes, I believe that would be best,’ he said aloud above the music. ‘I don’t believe in any of that hoo-hah those children were on about anyway. I’m certainly not going to be intimidated by their tales of ghost mountains and spirit monsters. I’ll go for a leisurely walk in the gorge.’ Pushing up from the table, he patted the van wall and asked Rex , ‘You don’t believe in those childish stories about monsters, do you, Rex ?’ Answering his own question, he said, ‘No, of course you don’t.’
    With his mind made up and with visions of competition-winning photos swirling around in his head, he turned off the music, grabbed his camera from the top of the bed, filled his pockets with goodies from the fridge, opened the van door and then stepped out into the autumn sunshine. ‘Here I come!’ he called across the