road; and we made bets in fun whether we should reach the line before or after a certain hour; as we started our march on the 30th there was no happier little band in the wide world.  Charlie followed one side of the river, carrying the gun, as we meant to celebrate the arrival at the telegraph line with a pot of kangaroo-tail soup.  To pass the ridge of rock, the end of the Ramsay Range, it was necessary for us with the camels to keep wide of the river bank and descend a steep little gorge.  As we started to go down we saw some kangaroos jumping off towards Charlie, and presently heard a shot.  A shout from us elicited no reply, so we concluded he had missed, and continued on our march.

When we reached the river bank again, I looked out for Charlie, but somebody said he was across the river-bed in the long grass.  After about an hour’s travel it struck me that he should have rejoined us, or else that he had shot the kangaroo and was delayed by skinning or carrying it.  No thought of any mishap entered my head, for a prolonged absence of one or other of us was of common occurrence.  However, after another half-hour a nervous feeling came over me, and, stopping the camels, I sent Warri back to see what Charlie was about.  Before very long Warri returned, hardly able to speak from fear mixed with sorrow.

“What on earth’s come over the boy?” I said.  Then he blurted out, “Charlie dead, I think.”  “Good God!  Are you sure?—­did you speak to him, or touch him?” I asked, as we ran back together, the rest with the camels following behind.  “Him dead, lie ’long a rock—­quite still,” Warri answered, and he had not spoken or touched him.  Panting and anxious—­though even then I thought of nothing worse than a sprained ankle, and a faint in consequence—­we arrived at the foot of the rocks where Charlie had last been seen, and whence the sound of the gunshot had come.  Right above us, caught by a ledge on the face of the rock, fifty feet from the ground, I saw Charlie lying, and clambering up somehow at full speed, reached his side.

Good God!  Warri had spoken a true word.  There was no spark of life in the poor old fellow.  What a blow!  What an awful shock!  What a calamity!  I sat dazed, unable to realise what had happened, until roused by a shout from below:  “Is he hurt?—­badly?—­not dead!” “As a stone,” I answered; and that was what we felt in our hearts, a dull weight, pressing all sense or strength from us.

How to describe that sad scene?  Poor old Charlie! one of the best and truest men that God ever blessed with life; such a fine manly character; so honest and generous—­a man whose life might stand as an example for any in the land to follow; from whose mouth I never heard an oath or coarse word, and yet one whose life was spent amongst all classes, in all corners of Australia; such a true mate, and faithful, loyal companion—­here his body lay, the figure of strength and power, he who had been most cheerful of us all.  It seemed so hard,