arriving at Lake Darlot, carrying an average load of nine hundred pounds, exclusive of the saddle.  The extra load that they carry hardly compensates for the trouble of looking after them, for when in that state they fight like tigers, especially if they have not been long together.  Once, however, the bulls become friendly, they only fight in a more or less half-hearted way amongst themselves; but woe betide any alien who finds himself near them—­they will then band themselves together and fall upon that stranger until even his master would not recognise him.  There is no fun attached to travelling along a much-frequented track, on which mobs of twenty to fifty camels may be met with; and there is no sleep to be got at night, for if, following the practice of most white men, a man ties down his camels at night, he may be certain that they will be attacked, and from their defenceless position, perhaps seriously injured or killed by the loose camels of some Afghan, who has neither the energy nor sense of fair-play to restrain the bulls under his charge.

In this troublesome state were our camels, and poor Breaden, being a stranger to them, was treated with neither politeness nor respect; Kruger, especially, being so exceedingly ill-behaved as not only to knock Breaden down, but to attempt to kneel on his chest and crush him.  This disaster was narrowly averted by the prompt action of Warri, who first dragged his master out of danger, and then chastised Kruger with a heavy stick, across the head and neck.  Kruger was equally rough to his fellows, for as in a pioneering party, so in a mob of bull camels, there must be only one boss.

This knotty point was fought out with bitter vehemence, Czar, Shiddi, and Misery being vanquished in turn by the redoubtable Kruger.  The others knew their places without fighting; for old Billy, the only one of them not too young to compete, was far too good-tempered and easy-going to dispute anything (except the passage of a salt-lake, as we afterwards discovered).  I was naturally sorry to see Misery deposed; but for his age he fought a good fight, and it was gratifying to possess the champion who could beat him.  What a magnificent fellow was Kruger—­a very tower of strength, and (excepting of course when in the state above described) with a nature like that of an old pet sheep.

In the meantime I was under the sheltering roof of my old foster-mother “Bayley’s Reward Claim”—­the guest of Tom and Gerald Browne.

Gerald had as his henchman a small boy whom he had taken from a tribe away out to the eastward of Lake Darlot—­a smart little chap, and very intelligent, kept neat and clean by his master, whose pride in his “boy” knew no bounds.  He was wonderfully quick in picking up English and could count up to twelve.  No doubt by this time he is still more learned.  It is rather strange that so much intelligence and aptitude for learning should be found in these children of the wilderness, who in their wild and