Bluey was a brute of a camel, and used to give an immensity of trouble in the mornings, galloping off at full speed when he should have quietly waited to have his nose-line adjusted.  Added to this, he would kick and strike with his fore-legs, so much so that none of us cared about catching him.  One morning whilst Breaden was after the horses, I was helping Warri collect the camels, and tried my hand with Bluey.  At the moment that I was putting the loop of his line on to the nose-peg, he reared up and struck me on the chest, his hobble-chain adding power to the blow, which sent me spinning on to my back.  For this and other assaults I meant to punish him, so shortening his hobbles until his fore-legs were fastened with no more than an inch or two between, I armed myself with a stout stick.  As I had expected, as soon as I started to put on his nose-line, off he went as hard as he could, jumping like a kangaroo, and I after him beating him the while.  Round and round we went, the pace getting slower and slower, until, amidst shrieks of laughter and shouts of “The Leader wins!” “Bluey wins!” “Stick to it!” and so forth, from want of breath we came to a stop, and gazed at each other, unable to go further.  It was a tough run, and, like a schoolmaster caning a small boy, I felt inclined to say, “Remember, my dear Bluey, it pains me as much as it does you.”

The lesson had a most salutary effect, and never again did he gallop away when being caught in the morning, though he was not a well-behaved beast, and always the first to give in in the sandhills, even though carrying the lightest load.  His good looks, however, were so much in his favour that subsequently a wily Afghan paid me a big price for him (comparatively), and winked to some fellow-countrymen as if he had got the best of “Eengleeshman.”  If he was satisfied, I am sure that I was.

CHAPTER VII

THE LAST OF THE RIDGES OF DRIFT SAND

On June 1st we left the rock-holes on a South-West course, crossing irregular sandhills with the usual vegetation.

On June 2nd we crossed the last sand-ridge of the great northern desert, and before us spread the rolling gravel-covered undulations of sand, treeless except for an occasional beefwood or small clump of mulga, rolling away before us like a swelling ocean.  What a blessed relief it was after the awful toil of crossing Heaven knows how many sand-ridges day after day!

Taking into account the country north of lat. 24 degrees 45 minutes only—­for though we had a long spell of sand-ridges between the edge of the desert and Woodhouse Lagoon, and again between that point and Lake Wells, yet these were comparatively low and less steep than those further north, and therefore their extent is not included in this reckoning—­we traversed 420 miles on the upgoing journey, and 451 miles on the return journey—­that is, 871 miles of actual travelling over a desert of sand blown