What a joy that water was to us! what a luxury a wash was! and clean clothes!  Really it’s worth while being half famished and wholly filthy for a few days, that one may so thoroughly enjoy such delights afterwards!  I know few feelings of satisfaction that approach those which one experiences on such occasions.  Our cup of joy was not yet full, for as we sat mending our torn clothes, two over-inquisitive emus approached.  Luckily a Winchester was close to hand, and as they were starting to run I managed to bowl one over.  Wounded in the thigh he could yet go a great pace, but before long we caught up with him and despatched him with a blow on the head.  What a feed we had!  I suppose there is hardly a part of that bird, barring bones, feathers, and beak that did not find its way into our mouths during the next day or two!  Tinned meat is good, sometimes excellent; but when you find that a cunning storekeeper has palmed off all his minced mutton on you, you are apt to fancy tinned fare monotonous!  Such was our case; and no matter what the label, the contents were always the same—­though we tried to differentiate in imagination, as we used to call it venison, beef, veal, or salmon, for variety’s sake!  “Well, old chap, what shall we have for tea—­Calf’s head?  Grouse?  Pheasant?” “Hum! what about a little er—­minced mutton—­we’ve not had any for some time, I think.”  In this way we added relish to our meal.

Amongst the hills we saw numerous kangaroos, but could never get a shot.  This must be a fine camp for natives.  Near the soak was a camp of quite a dozen blacks, but recently deserted.  In fact we must have scared them away, for their fires were still smouldering.  We spent three days in exploring the hills, but failed to see any auriferous indications, excepting in the immediate neighbourhood of Mount Shenton.  We had therefore had our long tramp for nothing, and had to be content with knowing that we had tried our best and had at least proved the useless character of a large stretch of country.  For this, however, one gets no thanks.

On the 6th we moved to a rock-hole near Mount Grant, in the same range as Mount Shenton, and spent another day tramping the hills with no result.  Here again we were in luck, for a mob of thirteen emus came to drink whilst I was in the rock-hole.  Having seen them early that morning and knowing that they had had no drink, I felt sure they would return, and so had patiently waited, crouched in the rock hole, waist deep in water.  This, perhaps, did not improve its flavour, but emu meat was worth procuring at the small cost of tainting the water with the taste of clothes.  Presently I heard the drumming of the approaching birds, and, cautiously looking up, found them attentively examining the bucket and pannikin, I had left on the rock.  They made such a quaint, pretty picture that unless we had really wanted meat, I should not have disturbed them.  Had I been so inclined I could have shot several as they were bunched together within a few feet of me; one, however, was sufficient, and as he fell the rest streamed away up the slope with tremendous speed.  This bird we cut into strips of meat which we dried in the sun.