FROM OCEAN TO OCEAN. (continued 3)

Ah, yes! "Hast die das Schloss?"

He shook his head, and said, "Er," in disgust.

Beyond this I could not go. It was, perhaps, just as well. Later on I knew what "German blackfellow" meant. When a white man can't make himself understood the 'bout camp black (who knows he speaks pure English) says, disdainfully:—"What 'im pfeller talk? 'Im German, me tink it."

So it comes about that the "German blackfellow," is the blackfellow who no speak it Inglis—the "myall," the wild-fellow.

* * * *

Having cycled what I counted on as being the 15 miles, and while yet looking ahead expecting at any moment to catch sight of the Renner Springs station buildings, I was surprised to hear much shouting and many strange cries. A ridge chain ran parallel with the track, a quarter of a mile off, on my left-hand side; and in the bushes a little way out from this a dozen or more wurlies had been erected. From the vicinity of these wurlies scores of natives were now pouring, laughing, screaming, and yelling to each other to hurry up and see the circus. They had observed me before I had sighted them and were running towards a bend in the road ahead of me.

I slowed down; and as they were so considerate as to hoot back their yelping dogs, and as the pedalling operation appeared to divert them hugely (I believe they had never witnessed anything half so funny in their lives before), I stopped when part way along the line they formed to give them a better chance of satisfying to its full their very patent curiosity.

Those who had collected were of all sizes and ages, and most of them had left home so very hurriedly that they had quite forgotten to put on their "ulsters." But there were no females in the assembly. Here (and likewise back at the Stirling) I notice the lubras come but a very short distance from their wurlies, near which they remained standing—screaming during the first few minutes of the excitement with delight, and, I think, calling the dogs back.

Not from anyone of the crowd, for whose edification I spun the wheels round, could I get a word of white-fellow lingo; and all I have by which to remember my futile attempts at a conversation is a note written on the spot to the effect that they, in common with other of the natives whom I had met "laughed in fairly good English."

* * * *

The first beholding of adult blackfellows and blackfellowesses naked, may be slightly shocking to sensitive nerves. An uncomfortable, uneasy feeling will probably be induced. But this creepiness soon passes, and one comes to either look upon or pass unnoticed the ungarbed blackfellow (and later on the average lubra), as he might the apes and monkeys in a zoological gardens.

Some of the habits of those animals are theirs, too; when collected and watched awhile it will for evermore "go without saying" to the observer that they are natural-born hunters.

They have no thought for the things of the morrow, but they consider the birds of the air and how they shall catch them. The youths are adepts in the art of stone throwing; lubras, though, are by far the better hands. They ask not for money as wages—only "tucka," "toombacca," or "bacca," and "ole clo."

One of them in a quiet confidential chat gave it as his opinion—"White fella big one fool; him work all the time!"

I explained how it might be: the whitefellow worked to save up money with which to purchase leisure in his old age—"all the same sleep all day then," I explained.

After ruminating—"Why not him sleep all day along-a now?" he asked puzzled. And so puzzled me.

* * * *

Sometimes there is a charm in the simplicity of their "English."

"That one big fool hoss," remarked a blackboy, referring to an animal which, instead of remaining near and feeding, had a tiresome habit of travelling afar off when hobbled out of an evening—"every day him walk about all night."

This boy had seen a kangaroo close by the camp, and made an observation to that effect to his employer,—thinking probably the latter would like to have a shot at it.

"What sort of kangaroo; Big fellow?"

"N-o," came the answer slowly, "not big pella."

"Little fellow, then?" by way of suggestion.

"N-o," still the reply, "not little pella."

"Well what size was it?" impatiently.

"Lee-tle bit big pella."

It is fellow, fella, pfellow, pfeller, pfella, pella according to the pliancy of the talker's tongue.

Renner Springs is the name of a cattle station situated on the edge of a wide belt of table lands (and downs country as it is called), which stretches away eastward with hardly a break to Queensland. It is about 20 miles south of Powell's Creek. One white man only resided there. A chinaman cook is employed, and blacks do all the station work. Although not good for cycling over, most of the land between Tennants Creek and here seemed to me to be well suited for pastoral purposes.

Near the small homestead are several springs—circular ponds of clear drinkable water, occurring out on the flat; but along the line of an adjacent quartzite and—sandstone ridge, one overflows, is fenced in, and serves to irrigate a garden by means of the trenches in which the water is continually running. On leaving the garden what remains unabsorbed of the water (which on coming to the surface has a temperature of 95°), is soon lost again in the sand.

At Renner's there was the usual cordial invitation to eat, and the equally usual "Thanks—many thanks, yes." The blacks, the manager said, had during the past few days been gathering from all quarters for the purpose of holding a big corroboree, and the number in camp was being added to hourly.

The first part of the twenty miles or thereabouts to Powell's Creek consisted of sandy flats between the usual low hills; and for the rest the track kept on fairly hard ground between and over the hills of various small ranges.

Natives must have been about in great numbers, yet I saw none for some time after leaving Renner Springs. Stopping to make a note of something, and looking back, I was surprised to see a thin column of smoke ascending from a hillock which I had passed within the last quarter of a mile. Stopping again, further on, I observed the same thing had "again" occurred, and wondered if there was any truth in the smoke-signalling theory, and, if so, what did these present signals convey.

I missed a turn-off track at about 15 miles from Renner Springs, and, keeping close to the telegraph line, did some very rough hill-climbing. An hour or two's slow travelling, however, brought me first to Powell's Creek itself, and then, all safe but more clothes-torn, out through a gap in the ranges, immediately behind the telegraph station.

* * * *

The main buildings at Powell's Creek are of stone, with galvanized iron roofing; and, when taken together, form two sides of a square. The operating room, with two other rooms (officer's dwelling) are under the one roof; a wide verandah, bedecked with potted flowering-shrubs and faced with lattice-work, overgrown with evergreen climbing plants, runs along the front and at each end. At a right-angle, but separated from the more imposing structure by a distance of about one chain is a row of stone-walled cottages—stores and sleeping apartments, and other necessary offices; and a vegetable garden.

With the exception of the gums which grow thickly in the rich ground on the banks of the creek, there are no neighbouring trees of any great height. The telegraph station itself is in a fork of the creek.

In the stone walls of one of the cottages are several portholes—reminders of other days, when the natives were troublesome. To-day the blacks would be almost as likely to wage war on the citizens of Adelaide as to attack the inmates of one of those telegraph stations.

An enthusiastic cyclist (but minus a bicycle) was stationed, as assistant, at Powell's Creek. An amateur photographer also in same person, equipped, too with a camera; and during the several days I remained, several excellent photos of the bicycle were taken—some with a lubra or a blackboy "up."

My boots were mended with copper wire; and my cleaner pair of pyjamas (kept in reserve and put on in any sheltering clump of bushes or behind a hid-tree, immediately on sighting telegraph or other station buildings) were minus half a leg. Further, I gave them here, as I did people everywhere, to understand I was a nobody—one of whom they probably never again would hear anything more. Yet I was received as courteously, and welcomed as cordially, as if I had been an influential politician or a titled governor's son.

* * * *

From Powell's Creek it is but 54 miles to Newcastle Waters homestead. The road from the telegraph station to Lawson's Creek (26 miles) runs mostly either alongside or over low spurs and branches of the Ashburton Range, with occasional stretches of sand and clay flats.

When cycling through range country I have nearly always found the track, where track there was, fair for riding on; and there is ever a bright novelty in the panoramic changes. Any sort of surface, in fact, in preference to sand.

* * * *

Before reaching the Lawson (where I camped for a night) I obtained a splendid view of an extensive sheet of water, lying away from the track, about three miles to the west. So very small was my knowledge of the country that I had not the remotest idea of this vast reservoir's existence.

Yet Lake Woods is a permanent fresh-water lake, with a circumference of between 80 and 90 miles. It is fed from the north by the Newcastle River, and by the annually-flooded flats which drain into that, at times, noble stream.

The lake is bordered to the water's edge with heavy timber, and the country everywhere in its vicinity grows abundance of the best stock grasses—Mitchell and Flinders chiefly. The timber is mostly box; but among the lower trees are a pea-bearing plant and other bushes which cattle dearly love.

Native companions, ducks and wild fowl of many varieties gather, too, in uncountable numbers in the bays and long-reaching arms of this magnificent lake.

* * * *

From Lawson's Creek up to Newcastle Waters station (28 miles) and thence for 15 miles beyond, is some grand grazing country, carrying mobs of the sleek and most healthy-looking cattle that ever delighted an owner's eyes. But I cannot speak in like terms of praise about the roads.

Here is a note from my directions for this stage: "From the Lawson to Sandy Creek is 6 miles. Mostly rough. Rough also to the bend in the line about three miles on. Kept along the line from Lawson's to the bend. About a mile north of Sandy Creek water can be had by going across to the Newcastle Creek (running north and south)—about ¾ or 1 mile westward. The bend to Pole Camp Shackle, about 8 miles. Water might be to the left, perhaps a mile; follow pad or tracks into it. The Shackle to Newcastle Station 12 miles."

* * * *

In this stretch (28 miles), I had the first experience worth noticing, of that "Bay of Biscay" formation of which much had been heard. And what there was of it was rough on bike and rider. Undeniably so.

Where "Bay of Biscay" ground occurs, the soil is generally a blue-black clay—a pug-mixture of silt and decomposed vegetable matter—which the roots of a thick and wiry blue-grass hold firmly lumped together.

Either that, or the loose stuff between lumps of stone-hard pug is periodically washed away, and in the process holes are formed of varying depths. Anyway, the surface is rough as the Bay of Biscay—which is the explanation of the term, I suppose. Where it is met with, the country is flat and subject to heavy floodings; and so it follows that in the rainy seasons those Bay of Biscay plains are converted into shallow, muddy lagoons or impassable lakes.

After the water has evaporated or drained off, and until a pad has been worn through, the journeying over these wretched tracts is so unavoidably jolting and chin-choppy that (so 'tis said) horsemen dismount or stop and loll in their saddles, every hundred yards or so, to rest until their aching jaws and bones re-set and the kinks straighten out of their spinal columns. Walking or cycling over it is as pleasant as walking or cycling up and down a stairway, with the stairs of unequal height and width, blindfolded or in the dark.

* * * *

The Lawson Creek rises in the ranges east of the track, and, cutting the road at right angles, flows into Lake Woods just below the mouth of the Newcastle. This latter creek then, coming from the north, is seen at intervals away to the west; and—a strongly running river for months in some rainy seasons—contained, when I passed along, a chain of wide lagoons and lengthy waterholes between its thickly timbered banks.

The water is quite white; not thick, but milky in appearance, a minute quantity of clay or silt being held in suspension. Nevertheless one could hardly wish for more palatable drinking water. But with its peculiar color it is wasted here. A dairyman, now, would go into raptures over it. Indeed, the country about here, what with the excellent pasturage and the abundance of water, was strongly suggestive of overflowing milk pails.

The road crosses the Newcastle Creek before the cattle station, a couple of chains up from the north-westerly bank, is reached; and a very large waterhole (from which, with a well to fall back upon, the station gets its supply) is close by the crossing place.

I had seen many smokes since leaving Powell's Creek, but had not caught sight of any of the natives. To this waterhole, however, had just come in some ten or a dozen weedy ones; but interest in their kind was on the wane, and I gave them scant attention.

* * * *

A Chinaman—for we are entering the land of the Chinaman now—was in charge at the Newcastle. A "colonial experience" gentleman was there, but he was on the sick list. Three or four valuable dogs were chained to box kennels around the homestead. In case the blacks showed signs of becoming troublesome, all the person in charge had to do was to unloose one of those dogs, and no blackfellow could come within two miles of the place. Possibly no other fellow either.

The two managers, brothers, were absent; but I had had full permission to "make myself at home at Newcastle waters" from one of them—I had met him travelling southwards between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks, and, as I said, had been generously treated by him.

The buildings, of which there are perhaps half-a-dozen—store, kitchen, men's sleeping room, manager's dwelling and others, as well as sheds—had all been designed and erected with an eye to use rather than to ornament. A garden close by is tendered to by a very civil Chinaman, I noticed only one blackfellow about the place.

Here I spent two happy days, eating, sleeping, writing and reading; taking no account of the time, absolutely unconscious of day or date, nor troubling about such inconsequential matters; I was right, the bike was right, so all was right as right could be.

Leaving the station, the creek must be re-crossed to get to the track which runs northwards to Daly Waters (82 miles). To this track the thoughtful Chinaman ordered the station blackfellow to lead me—thoughtful, because the maze of tracks and pads was slightly bewildering. Here for once was the yellow man superior over the black. But, ordinarily, there is no love lost between them. Each views the other with a magnificent contempt.

To one of the blackboys in the service of a traveller, I said at nighttime, pointing to a place where someone, camping, had made a comfortable bed of dry grass, (the blackboy was peering around for a sleeping place.)

"Why you not sleep over there Johnny?"

"No fea," he replied; "Him Chinaman make it that one."

Or he may have only meant that it was too luxurious.

* * * *

From Newcastle to Newcastle North (a waterhole in the "river,") is 8 or 9 miles; a very good and level road. From the waterhole the road continues for six miles through scrub, swamp, and box trees; and this was chiefly a stretch of silky clay, kneaded, when wet, by travelling cattle, and ruined for the cyclist's purpose.

Bright green-leaved guttapercha trees are numerous along this portion of the route. The tree, or more properly bush, grows to a height of 15 or 20 feet; when a branch is broken, a thick milky substance exudes. Scratches made on one's hands or face by its thorny projections become very painful and take a long time to heal.

* * * *

At the end of the 15 miles from Newcastle station one suddenly finds oneself clear of the scrub, and, as it were, precipitated into Sturt's Bay of Biscay Plains. This arm of plain is 15 miles across; enough to make a cyclist feel sea-sick before getting half-way through.

Towards the middle of the dry season a fairly level pad is beaten; and then the ride across could be done expeditiously and without much risk to man or mount. But that pad, although traceable, had not as yet been fashioned when I chanced to get there, and as much careful navigation was called for as is needed to steer a ship through the Bay of Biscay itself when in its most cantankerous mood.

Having launched this frail barque upon this tempestuous sea (this is merely by way of variation), the voyager loses sight of land. Billows and blue grass everywhere, and not a drop to drink. One false step, and a broken neck or leg might follow. The look-out must be kept alert.

To save the barque—or perhaps we had better come back to the continent and call it a bike—I had been doing a good deal of walking; and when 7 or 8 miles had been covered I sat down to rest and make a short note of the fact that neither a tree or a shrub was within range of vision, "although afar off, to the east, what is either a low range of hills (the Ashburton?) or a line of dense scrub can be traced." The note lengthened out, and it rambles on:—"I feel it more than ever to be almost an indictable offence (against its maker) to press a respectable bicycle into negotiating such an outrageous track. Where's the telegraph line? As usual, I dunno. But no matter. This is the road right enough. Cut the telegraph wire? As soon think of cutting——

"What a sheet of water must be here when this plain is covered! Besides being 'Biscay'—lumped clay—this ground is fissured—long slits and crevices, from an inch to four or five inches wide.... Sky overcast....

"Been thinking what a mess I'd be in if a downpour of rain comes on before I could get out of this. In a few minutes all the ground would be impassable—20 miles or so of black stickphast. Bad for D (Diamond); bad for me."

The note was unfinished. I stowed the book, picked up my ever-sparkling Diamond (for I had spent many a half hour in brightening it), and vaulted into the saddle as the hind wheel was going to bump. There was a moment's strain and doubt as to whether the bicycle could be upright as the wheel endeavoured to climb out of the abyss, then we were off bump, bump, bump, kangaroo-fashion.

There was a reason for this unusual haste—a heavy black mass away back on the southerly horizon. The clouds overhead, too, were moving up fast from that direction; and as these ominous signs to me betokened the quick occurrence of that dreaded rain—

On, Diamond, on!

* * * *

The clouds held back, and I was industriously persuading myself that they were only smoke, when out of the treacherous 'Biscay' we passed unharmed, Diamond and I, through a narrow opening in an apparently never-ending and sharply-defined wall of thickly-packed tropical vegetation, of glistening leafy trees and trailing plants, bright flowers and rank undergrowth.

Fifteen anxious miles of bumpy, desolate, barren wretchedness, and now, all suddenly, a cyclist's paradise, dense foliage and deep shade, with a winding track, hard and level and strewn with ironstone gravel.

A fairy land; and fairy fingers pulled hard upon the wheels and stopped them. Then, as in some delightful dream, I led Diamond to a hedgewood tree, and stood stock still to drink in the melody—silent melody; for there was no sound to woo the eyes from the feast of tropic beauty.

And, drinking, I tingled with delight, and gloated on this prodigal glory in form and color as a miser might in secret upon his piled-up hoards of gold.

O marvellous Nature, supreme master-artist, what human brain could conceive so glorious a transformation scene—so swift, so entrancing, so unexpected!

But the wheels spin again, yet slowly; for the change may come at any moment, and I dawdled to stretch the sweetness out.

* * * *

Bluegrass and open space appeared too soon. But the fit of depression was a thing of a moment; for around the little flat were large box-trees thickly clustered; and, on the further side, majestic leafy coolabahs fringed a reservoir carved by the hand of nature in the rock and clay, and capable of holding three or four million gallons of water; fairly open on the side from which I approached, but on the other sides walled in by a tangled growth of well-nigh impenetrable scrub and brush and forest tree.

The coolabahs threw deep shadows on the carpet of soft grass spread upon the open side; and in this romantic spot—were six or eight confounded Chinamen!

* * * *

Occasional parties of celestials, equipped with guns, horses, and provisions, make across from about here to Queensland, to evade the poll tax. Along by many cattle stations to Camooweal, a border-town, is the favored route. As Camooweal is far away from anywhere else, the expense of carting the Chinamen back to whence they came would be too great; and if imprisoned for a short term, when they first arrive—well, they have arrived anyhow.

A party of Chinamen are considered to have done well if half of those who set out for Camooweal ever see it. The blacks knock over a lot; several always drop by the way, and nobody troubles much about them or their misfortunes.

The present gathering had with them three horses.

These they did not ride, but loaded them with provisions and necessaries, and, walking beside them, led them along.

Deciding to camp at Frew's Ironstone Ponds (the reservoir is 36 miles from Newcastle), I chose a place among the coolabahs, and walked over to the Chinamen.

"Good day." It was a feeler.

"No savee."

Taking out a florin (the only silver coin I had), I said to him, whose smile was blandest, "You got it flour?" pointing to a small bag of it. "You bake it Johnny cake, so big," I drew a small circle on the ground and laid the two-shilling-piece within the circle.

The yellow man's smile broadened at sight of the white money. He knew something of English. He said, "Welly goo."

So, happy in the certainty of having fresh baked bread for supper, I, leaving them, proceeded to make my primitive wash-basin preparations, and had a bath.

Before sundown, the Chinamen had shot a great number of the ducks with which the surface of the waterhole (in common with most of the others along the track, by the way) was swarming. And one of them, at supper time, came over and presented me with an only three-parts empty tin of jam—a small tin. May he have escaped both niggers and imprisonment?

* * * *

Often o' nights, as here at this romantic camping place, there came to me the clear realization of what would be the consequence of a disabling accident.

There were no means that I could see of getting out from places in this country for months if my machine smashed up. I was a nobody—had neither wealth nor influence at my back, and would be powerless to do anything or get people to do anything for me.

And suppose I did get to a telegraph or other station. Is it a couple of riding and pack horses, with saddles, packs, and provisions all on, and a black boy, you would throw at the head of a stranger cyclist who had been warned against coming your way, yet who arrives—only to break down at your door?

I would be a nuisance to myself and everyone else around the place I reached, and to all who had associated their names in any way with mine. Ugh? The situation would be unbearably horrible. And the prospect! When the time came, and I was given the chance to go north or south, what a prospect loomed either way before me!

If the bike broke down, I would have made but very little exertion indeed to get out into the world at either end. Why should I, even if an opportunity of doing so soon presented itself—out into where the crooked finger of derisive "I told him so" would evermore be mockingly bent towards me? Why should I, when I could lie down and remain, quite comfortably, and in peace, at the side of the first waterhole I should come upon!

When a fellow gets into the habit of lying awake o' nights out in the open, gazing upwards at the starlit sky, and thinking dreamily of what lies beyond, he is—at least some of him are—liable to become more or less desirous of satisfying the curiosity such ruminations excites. The stars twinkle as if they were all quite happy. If one could only be quite sure.—But I'd rather chance that than face the other certainty. I would cut no telegraph wire; would trouble no station people or anyone else. And so I comforted myself, and slept well.

* * * *

On leaving Frew's beautiful pond early in the morning, the road leading to Daly Waters (55 miles) was assured by the Chinamen's tracks. Remarkable tracks these—left by flat oblong pieces of wood with which each traveller was sandal-shod.

The road from the pond, still strewn with ironstone-gravel, immediately entered the forest, where of the sky little was to be seen except a narrow strip overhead. A short strip this, too, for the road wound now to the west, now away to the east, or, again, ran northwards.

And so light-heartedly I wheeled through the morning's shadows, between two walls of forest trees, and over or around logs and branches of fallen ones, for 17 miles. Then came three miles of dangerous "Bay of Biscay" ground; then five miles of still treacherous track, on which were many patches of "Biscay holes" and lengths of fallen timber; and then again the jungle, and so to Daly Waters.

Besides the higher trees, a heavy undergrowth, and many kinds of grass flanked either side. The trees were in great variety—bloodwood, ironwood, lancewood, coolabah, bauhinia, hedgewood, whipcord tree and quinine tree. Added to these, a bush known as the water wattle, a native orange, and a turpentine bush; and, for aught I know, a dozen others.

I passed through an extensive belt of tall, and remarkably straight trees, growing very close together. The trunks were branchless for a long way up, 25 feet of clear stem being not uncommon. To this very respectable forest tree there had been given the name of mulga, a misnomer truly, judged by the standards of the south.

But of them all the most to be admired had a stem, straight and slender, 30 feet or more in height, leafless; but bearing on every branch large numbers of a bright red flower, in shape, resembling very much the fuchsia!

And of flowers there are not many on the Overland. From the MacDonnell Ranges, right up to Powell's Creek, my only "button hole," was a large bell-shaped, blue flower, growing on a bush about 3 feet in height; but, Diamond, I bedecked with yellow wattle blossom wherever it could be got. Beyond Daly Waters, a little round flower, like a "billy-button"—white, blood-red or variegated—replaced the larger, and more quickly, withering blue-bell.

* * * *

This day, like every other day up there, was "blazing" hot. Parts of the road, too, were unsafe; and my waterbag, from being knocked about, and worn thin in places, allowed the water to evaporate quickly (truth to tell, I had soon drunk it all rather than have this occur), and a stretch of 35 miles had to be cycled over before more was got. Yet, notwithstanding these things, the ride from Frew's to Daly Waters, all through dense forest, lingers in my memory as making one of the most enjoyable day's cycling I ever had.

* * * *

The feeling of loneliness had to a great extent worn off. I had, it may be, become inured to it. Still, the change of scene and country was so marked and impressive that often throughout the ride, in the lasting gloom and shadow of countless solemn giant trees, encompassed by a penetrating solitude, I experienced again those indescribable sensations to which I had not been for many a day susceptible—mystic sensations of a hushed expectant awe as in the presence of a something living, breathing, but unseen, intangible. As I passed by I glanced into an opening, or looked far back between the trunks where trees were scattered—and it seemed to me so very strange that nothing should be moving there!

Yet this sense of being alone with throbbing nature—the hidden influence—was not by any means unhappy. It was a restful feeling—a feeling of peacefulness, as though one had awakened from a long, long sleep, to find oneself in a calm and weird existence somewhere beyond the state of life: a borderland arrived at after death.

And the toil and turmoil of existence in the world which had been left behind, viewed from the distance, appeared now to be so very purposeless; its work-a-day prosaic rounds and its confinement so very galling; its dead-sea-apple pleasures so few and short-lived; its miseries, so many and enduring; the worth of it all so very little that the consciousness of having to again return to it was as a jarring note.

And in the vast immensity of towering forest the thought of quiet Death was no unwelcome one. I realised so clearly what an insignificant atom this was which moved through it, as an ant might—so insignificant that, had the certain prospect of the atom's end appeared, for anyone to fuss or mourn over such a trivial incident as that death would be, seemed extravagant, as absurd as to mourn the withering of a blade of grass or the falling of a leaf.

In this land of forest, and quiet, and vastness, the silence, if it be given a thought, is so profound, so unnatural, that memories of some night in childhood come back to mind—some dark, still night through whose long hours the child waited alone in a roomy house, hushed with bated breath, and "fancied things."

* * * *

About mid-day I arrived at water—probably The Burt; a shallow, clayey creek. After drinking, and whilst the quart-pot boiled, I put in the time carving my name on the trunk of a gum-tree overhanging the waterhole. I was not sure about the date, but cut one in. High grass grew on that bank of the creek on which I stopped—grass high enough to cover and shade the bicycle which, when I pushed it in, stood nearly upright against the finger-thick blades.

A smoke was rising down the creek; and when my opposition cloud was raised an inquisitive black female hove in sight. When first observed, she was on the far side of the watercourse, peeping from behind some bushes; but a minute afterwards she came out into full view. My first impulse was to call her over. Then I wondered how she would act if I remained silent. So I pretended not to be aware of her presence, and went on with the letter-forming.

The lubra stood still for a moment, irresolute; then she advanced slowly, keeping a little way out from the creek, and passed me before she crossed. To keep her in sight I had need to turn but very slightly. On seeing her step down into the creek's bed I took pains to keep my back to her. Presumably she was unable to satisfactorily explain away the mien of deep preoccupation so ostentatiously displayed. At any rate she came very close, looked on from behind as I worked, and once coughed, or "hem'd" aboriginally. And still I obstinately continued deaf. She had a becomingly dirty bone stuck horizontally through her broad nose, and for the rest was fashionably dressed in a dog's-tooth necklace.

At last she touched me on the shoulder. At this I faced sharply around and stared with a look intended to convey blank astonishment. She giggled; but there was a tinge of uneasiness or uncertainty about the giggle; then said "which way nanto?"

Having gone so far with no idea of saying or doing anything in particular to the young woman, I now acted on the prompting of the moment—rushed from her suddenly into the long grass, collared the nanto, and rushed out with it. She screamed at my reappearance—or rather at the appearance of the prancing bicycle. Then turned and ran; and I ran the nanto after her.

But shoving the bicycle handicapped me, and she out-distanced us easily. I stopped and called out to her to come back, but she wouldn't. I cried almost tearfully, "Angelina," but 'twas no use.

I reckoned women were a class of people no fellow could understand, and walked sadly back to my lonely dinner—hour—for dinner I had little.

From this waterhole I felt not the slightest of inclinations to go on. Had I brought with me from Newcastle sufficient food to last me out I might have camped there for a week. Finishing off my name plate leisurely (this was the only place at which I had so occupied myself), I ate what I had to eat, and smoked.

And, smoking, I pondered deeply over the notion of making for the blacks' camp and trying to strike a bargain with the chief or elders of the tribe—that they should keep me well supplied with tucker for a week or so, and show me the lions in return for which I'd teach 'em to ride the bicycle at, say, two snakes a lesson, lubras half price.

But I had been learning to ride myself one time and knew how strangely learner's legs get tangled up in spokes and other parts, a cyclist cannot cycle without. So I decided to go on. Having so decided, I yawned, called out despairingly for Angelina to come forth and see me off, waved my hand in the direction she would most likely be observing from, and made wheel tracks for Daly waters.

* * * *

Those tracks were formed but very slowly; for it had entered my mind that the end of my journey was approaching, and I knew not whether to be glad or sorry. I almost concluded to my own satisfaction that life would be almost worth living if at the end of it a fellow having arrived all alone at a weird undesecrated old forest like this should then mysteriously disappear. If he were to get away far back, and tread lightly in going, people might search for months and never find him; and there would be no ghosts of ghoulish undertakers or neighboring unsympathetic corpses to trouble his last sleep.

But for myself I had no justifiable excuse for doing anything of that sort—so long as the bicycle didn't break down.

Meditating thus, I came to still another large waterhole, surrounded on all sides by massive boulders of the now common brown and friable iron ore. A pretty spot indeed. Forest trees grew thickly around, except at one side, and there they were more scattered, and high grass and bushes lined that bank.

The follow-on track was most uncertain, and half an hour was occupied in making sure of it.

Having at length traced out the right pad, which went off again from the waterhole at a sharp angle, I strolled down to the water's edge and had a drink; then cracked up several pieces of the iron ore, but as they didn't look "kindly," gave up prospecting; next cooeed to try if there was an echo, but found there wasn't; had another drink, stretched myself out in a shady place, and, without having the slightest intention of doing so, fell asleep.

On waking I looked at my watch. "The deuce!" I darted for the bicycle. Now where was the bicycle? The soil was hard white clay, yielding no foot-prints for a guide. Think fixedly as I might, I could not bring to mind where I had "planted" it. True, I could not think very fixedly. Too many disagreeable thoughts came crowding up.

What a pretty ending to my journey this! My bicycle, it would almost seem, had carried into execution the little poetical thing in the way of existence-endings I had contemplated vaguely a while back—had wheeled itself out into the undesecrated old forest, and vanished from mortal ken.

I found it—of course somewhere, and within half an hour.

* * * *

The watercourse this hole or pond was in, came into view occasionally until Daly Waters telegraph station was reached. Ergo it must have been the Daly Creek. It, like all the watercourses beyond the Burt, has its fall towards the north to join the coastal rivers. Ergo, again, the country running northward from the Burt must have its fall towards the coast.

The buildings at Daly Waters are on the south bank of the winding creek, and, being erected on piles, stand two feet or more above the ground—not, because of floods, though, for this bank is well above the plains but to mitigate the white ant evil.

All the way up from the MacDonnell Ranges, ant-hills had ever figured more or less prominently. Oftentimes fantastically-shaped groupings of them had been mistaken for men or animals. They had been gradually increasing in average size, until here at Daly Waters, or a few miles on, they rose as high as the sag in the telegraph wire.

It had already been told me that between Pine Creek (258 miles from Daly Waters) and Palmerston (146 miles still further on) the railway line in many places deviated to save the cost and labour of cutting through the ant-hills, so large and of such very tough material were they fashioned there. I was always very grateful for scraps of information like this.

Daly Waters seemed nearly as good as the end of the journey; for at the Katherine River (only 190 miles on) there was a hotel, and this meant civilization and perhaps a township. At the telegraph station two or three days were spent. Residing there, besides the stationmaster, were an assistant, and a Chinaman cook. Many natives were camped in the neighborhood, and they, or occasionally a handy Chinaman, got the "odd jobs" of the station to do.

Here, as at every other place of call, the tinkling of the meal bell fell on my ears sweetly as heavenly music. Music with words, too, learned from a blackfellow, who thus pithily interpreted the ringing—"Chow-chow, quick fella, come on now."

* * * *

The natives, of whom some were about the station have a faith in the professing medicine man, which, unless a limb be missing, often goes far towards making the patient whole. The "doctor" of a tribe will examine the afflicted one, diagnose the case, and find out where the pain is. There's bound to be something of a pain somewhere. Having made his arrangements preparatory to operating, he applies his mouth to the part—swelling or wound, or whatever it may be—makes a big show of sucking, tangles himself up somewhat in the practice of his profession—and draws out a lump of wood, or a stone, thus exhibiting tangible proof of the efficacy of his method of treatment.

They put a little fire (live coals and a few pieces of dry wood, with the fired end towards the wind) at their heads of nights, so fearful are they of an evil spirit—a bogey man, of whom their grandmothers warned them when they were children.

* * * *

A native at one of the telegraph stations kindly pointed out to me two remarkable constellations, hitherto, doubtless, unheard of by our own astronomers. He interpreted them to be, one, a representation of the emu, the other, of course, of the kangaroo.

And, why not? The natives should have their familiar animal groups of stars just as properly as had the ancients on other continents their Bears and Fishes. And both of those to which I have referred are "all there," safe enough—up in the heavens somewhere.

* * * *

This astronomer had been working steadily about the station for a matter of three or four months at a stretch, during which period he had shifted his residence a few dozen times, and had now taken it into his head that he would be all the better for a bit of holiday-making (from which, by the way, the natives generally return in a very lanky condition) away out among the smokes. He counted on being absent until the middle of the next following month, and informed the station master of that fact in these terms:—"This one moon tumble down. By-'n'-bye new pella moon jump up. Fust time picaninny. Lee-tle bit ole man—then come back."

The expert understands this "yabber" instantly.

* * * *

There is a law of the Overland—an unwritten law, of course—regarding the camping of blacks at wells by which white men are gathered. At sundown one of the whites says to the blacks, "clear out, go to your camp," and indicates a locality for them to "clear out" to. Or one of them comes up and asks, "which way we camp to-night?" If they venture to put in an appearance again before sunrise—well, then, it is understood they can be up to no good, and, as trespassers, are duly "dealt with."

* * * *

The officer in charge at Daly Waters showed me many kindnesses; and as his business took him up the track I rode on and camped with him at some iron tanks near a dried-up waterhole known as The Ironstone, about 33 miles beyond the station. Between those tanks and the Elsey cattle station—77 miles—there are on the road two wells (from one of which, by the way, a man walked out to look up some horses about a year ago and has never been heard of since); and as the cattle station is approached several billy-bongs in or near the Elsey creek are met with.

The country from the Daly to Elsey Station is nearly all low-lying and subjected to annual heavy floodings. The dangerous "Bay of Biscay" is come upon within a mile or two of the telegraph station, and extends northwards through Stewart's Swamp for about 30 miles. Thence the riding varies. There is a good deal of sand, with many long and short stretches of harder "crab-hole" ground, "gilguy," and "devil-devil."

This last name is applied to clay, pure and simple, or silty soil similar to "Biscay," but with this difference, that in contracting after rains, in the quick-drying rays of fierce tropical suns it cracks, while the "Biscay" becomes distressingly bumpy. These cracks are as so many ever-set traps lying in wait for wheeled vehicles. The jaws of many of them would easily admit a waggon wheel. They run in all directions across the track and with it. To go slow is the cyclist's sure way of getting through without accident.

"Gilguy" denotes small patches of mixed "Biscay" and "devil-devil" ground—possibly dried up clay pans. And "crab-holes" are roundish openings, like rabbit barrows, but going straight down in the soil. These "crab-holes" are the more dangerous ones for horsemen. Here and there one is warned to sheer off the pad by an uprising roughly-trimmed branch of tree or length of dry wood which some traveller has shoved in to mark a bad spot.

The vegetation along the track is distinctly tropical. So also is the climate. And so both continue all the way to Palmerston.

But I confess to disappointment with the arrangements in the forestry department. From Elsey upwards there were altogether too many trees of the Eucalyptus family.

From Daly Waters to the Katherine (190 miles) are many and fine specimens of Ironwood, Ebony, Bloodwood and Currajong; but the prevailing tree—the one, at least, which from the track the passer-by will see most of—is the familiar Gum.

* * * *

The homestead buildings at Elsey Cattle Station (100 miles from Daly Waters) were, I thought, the most prettily situated group I had seen anywhere since—oh, years ago. The Elsey river winds its billabonged way in front and between the homestead. This is a garden in which anything that might be planted should be proud to grow.

A beautiful reach of fresh water is a permanency in the river at this point, with the sweetly scented flowers of many water lilies ever floating gracefully upon its surface—a surface ruffled, as I at calm evening time gazed with admiration on the fair picture, by sharp splash and undulating widening circle, as a fish jumped now close to one bank now over at the other; or, again, where one had risen high up to a fly, or for amusement, in the centre.

Little forests of pandannus palms overtopped by stately paperbarks or gum trees line the sides; and massive climber-laden trunks, or towering branches of giant tree growths, meet the eye wherever it be turned.

Here also, along the chain of ponds and billabongs up and down the Elsey, is some of the most delightful scenery one could desire to look upon. Here, too, cotton grows naturally, making a brave show—bunches of pure white dotting the landscape, and touching off the vivid green of tropic bush, or thickly grouping in some wide space by themselves.

The Paper-bark at once attracts the eye. A very large tree this. On the wettest day one has but to prize off a piece of the trunk's soft outer covering, and there is to his hand compressed—laminated, as mica—a hundred sheets of dry and easily-lighted coarse straw paper.

The mimosa tree and the cabbage tree, as well as many other palms, likewise flourish in the favoured neighbourhood of the Elsey. In fact, Elsey, as it appeared to me, was a vast botanical garden; and at supper time, such a feast of sweet potatoes and other dainties were spread that sleep but tardily drove out the thoughts of them.

A Chinaman cook had been speared here, in the manager's absence, about a fortnight before, and I thought the Chinaman who had replaced him, and who was now in charge (the manager being again absent) must be a fairly lucky man—for a Chinaman. And, above all, he cooked the sweet potatoes deliciously, and baked—oh! lovely cake.

* * * *

From the Elsey a stretch of 18 miles of sand (the timber is mostly gum trees) runs northwards; but this is to be avoided by taking the "new road," which bears in a more easterly direction. The track for part of the way to the Katherine was freshly marked, as a party of black trackers and a police trooper, having in charge two or three prisoners—natives, who had speared the Chinaman—had left the vicinity of the station only the day before my arrival there.

From the excellent road-plan made out for me by the courteous officer at Daly Waters (he had, I think, every inch of the road in his mind's eye) I was able to make unhesitatingly into the various watering places. Nevertheless, there are one or two places on the Roper River and at the Esther Well which might puzzle one not so blest as I was.

I overtook the police party after I had camped one night on the Stirling, at a waterhole in one of that creek's bends, about 40 miles from the Elsey; but after a very brief stoppage, proceeded on towards the Katherine.

Of the prisoners I know nothing, and never heard of them again; but I was told they would be imprisoned, then quickly released, enrolled among the native police, and for evermore hold their heads high. "There is always an opening for men of spirit in the native police force," said one who ought to know.

Give a nigger a rifle or revolver and he will shoot his fellow niggers—go out hunting after them if permitted—with the greatest of glee, readiness, and cheerful animosity.

"You see wild blackfellow along track," more than one "civilised" philanthropist asked me. "Sometimes, I think," I have answered. At once has come an expectant, pleased expression to the questioner's face. "You shoot him all right?" has been asked in amusingly hopeful tone.

* * * *

The presence of a trooper with black trackers probably accounted for the scarcity of blackfellows along the road, but just after leaving the Esther Well, which is only 24 miles from the Katherine, I ran across two. They seemed though rather inclined to clear among the trees.

Dismounting, I endeavoured to get some information from them about a turn off of which I was still doubtful; but they were too much interested in the bicycle to make what they would tell me very clear.

Each carried a spear. One was headed with three wires—No. 6 gauge—fastened close together, and looked quite bad or good enough to permanently damage a Chinaman with. The effective end of the other one, a long bamboo, was fashioned out of one side of a square gin bottle. (Gin, by the way, is a favorite N.T. drink.) A very business-like weapon this was too. A slight scratch from it should be capable of inducing delirium tremens in the veins of the staunchest teetotaler.

* * * *

From Daly waters, and at many places still farther south, the grass was for miles at a stretch so high that, mounted on the bicycle, I often could not see over the top of it. In front, at such times, was only a faint streak or hollow, where the top of the bending grass at either side of the narrow pad met. The pad itself, the ground on which I cycled, was not at such times visible—except when I dismounted and crept down into the strange narrow tunnel to have a reassuring look for or at it. When riding, a passage through was forced, or as it were, was ploughed open, which when the machine had passed closed up again as water would. It felt like being engulphed in ocean. I often fancied I was on the point of drowning, and sat bolt upright to take in a breath of the upper air. That was fancy; what I now say is not.

At every few hundred yards, the thinner, shorter, wiry undergrowth of "blades" wound round and round the rear hub, until the roll becoming wide and high and tightly coiled, it acted as a brake twixt wheel and forks. They became entwined among the chain's links, and fastened themselves between the teeth on both the sprocket wheels, and so frequent stoppages were a necessity.

This state of things lasts only to the end of May or June. The long, rank, useless grass, being an impediment to the progress of man and beast, is, as it dries, fired by passing travellers, and the second growth which then springs up, is short and sweet. The natives, too, set fire to it, as when it grows, they cannot see or track the game or animals they hunt for. Many patches had already been burned off, and the minute particles of black ash which overspread the ground, rose at the slightest touch, floated in the air, and begrimed the passer-by.

Two very extensive fires faced me after parting from the natives at Esther Well. I had grown used to riding among smouldering embers, and with the grass or dry trees burning right and left; but the second of these fires was the biggest thing I had witnessed. After passing out of the first, and leaving one black, sky-obscuring wall behind, a mile or two's stretch of untouched grass and tropic bush and stunted gums was ridden on to. At the end of this arose a mighty pall of jet-black smoke, stretched out I knew not how far, with flame-jets glancing through. The whole country seemed ablaze. The land was overcast, the sky shrouded as if a fearful thunder storm was imminent. The smoke ascended and remained suspended, as might dark, heavy, threatening banks of cloud, and the fire at intervals leaped up and gleamed on this side or on that—a passable equivalent for lightning.

It was a grandly impressive spectacle. But there were other considerations than the spectacular. I looked, a little uneasily, for an unlighted opening along the fast advancing line; and seeing such a gap between two trees where there was little else but sand, I hurried over—walking—and so passed through.

A dozen steps in I stopped to look behind. The flames had already closed in!

In front, far on as I could see, the stems or branches of dry standing trees were burning; and on the ink-black ground were smouldering heaps of tindery bush, or still-blazing fallen limbs. Thick strewn everywhere were the hot, and quickly blackening ashes of that tall grass which had been waving majestically in each breath of wind a few short moments since.

Shouldering the bicycle I walked cautiously to where the pad showed still a narrow streak, yet offering a clear, narrow running space. As I walked—I speak without exaggeration—I now and again heard sweat drops, hiss and fizzle, as they fell on a burning log or some little grass-root heap.

* * * *

For five miles at a stretch this fresh-burnt ground continued. Tress stood out like torches all the way; and on the pad were many live coals of fallen timber. I dare not hurry, and often had to dismount and lift the bicycle over, because if my tyres blazed up I hadn't water to spare with which to put the Ixionic fire out. Nevertheless I did that five miles scorching.

* * * *

Out of the fire and into a frying-pan of hot sand ten miles long and unridable. Towards the end of the ten miles so many large boulders and long flat slabs of granite cropped up in the track that there was a danger of getting dizzy from rounding them; and these senseless outcroppings at the last became so numerous that a bye-track made a seven mile detour towards the Katherine. At that beautiful river I arrived, after a hard days "graft" at sundown. 214 miles from Palmerston.

A hotel at last. Those "terrors" of the Overland which were to bring certain destruction had been left behind.

The buildings consist of the hotel and store, telegraph and police stations. They are on the south side of the river, which to the westward joins the Daly.

The sloping banks of the Katherine rise 80 or more feet from the gravelly bed, and are thickly timbered with giant trees of many varieties. Here and in the country round about are, as well as thickets, jungles and beauty spots innumerable, the stately paperbark and Leichhardt pine, Pandanus palms, white cedar, woollybutt, bloodwood, ironwood, banyan, and other trees; and splendid couch and buffalo grasses.

When in flood the stream is about a quarter of a mile wide. Boats are kept at both the hotel and the telegraph station. Alligators are known to exist in several places, in deep holes and long reaches, but only a small species of crocodile is often seen about the crossing place. A fine specimen of one of these latter was on view at the hotel.

* * * *

It was at this telegraph station that I received a message from a fabulously wealthy company of cycle-part makers. My journey, as I have said, was practically at an end. Those "perils" that were so great that failure was, I was told, certain, had been surmounted. Yet, only now, seated at a hotel, I read a curt and, as it seemed to me, impertinent and "catchy" telegram, endeavoring, as I took it, to ferret out of me—unwealthy me—a most valuable advertisement gratis. Up to this moment, when success had been practically achieved, nothing had been heard from that quarter. I regarded it as mean, and answered accordingly.

The company took further action then; but, in view of later developments, it would be meanness on my part now to speak further of a matter which would not deserve mention at all but that it has been made to some extent public property. Only this further: my answer to the telegram has never yet been published!

Without any promise of recompense I gladly did all I could for another firm whose manager had treated me civilly, and who did not wait until danger had been passed before identifying itself with the fortunes of the trip.

* * * *

At the Katherine, where only one night was spent, I refitted myself with wearables from the stock of the widely known hotel and storekeeper; had a swim in the river; then tied boots and other things on Diamond, shouldered the lot and walked across.

The country is flat for ten or twelve miles. Travelling only middling—rather soft. But before the morning was far gone, rough hills were entered and they continued most of the way to Pine Creek (68 miles).

* * * *

It was hazardous to hurry the bicycle over those rocky hills, but Diamond stood the rough experience more than manfully, and jumped the miniature precipices encountered on the down-hill sides without ever loosening a spoke.

At one time, in the very early part of the journey, I favored the notion of entering Palmerston, with the bicycle in a fearfully battered condition—a revolving bundle of splints and copper wires. But how could I? And I found myself proudly exhibiting it everywhere, and finally in a Palmerston shop window as being "better than new."

In my mind, now, was the fixed idea that nothing could break that machine. I knew I couldn't. And it had been called on to undergo some rough usage. Towards the end, such confidence had I come to repose in its excellence, in its unbreakableness, that on hearing sticks and things rattle among the spokes I used only to laugh, say "Sool it, Diamond!" and let them fight the battle out.

* * * *

The hilly country alternates with stretches of sand, blue-grass, swamps, and rough patches of white clay or pug, with here and there a stunted gum. I find at this stage this memorandum written for myself—"Horrid, swampy, inexpressibly bleak and unattractive, miserably stunted timber—a result, p'raps, of centuries of bush fires. A 68 mile-span unfit for anything—except those strips close by the creeks and watercourses." These latter were the redeeming features. The water in some was deep, notably in the Driffield, Fergusson, Edith and Cullen Creeks, which are rivers for a month or two in the rainy season.

In one of them—the Edith, I think—a little way down from one, nearly waist-deep crossing, was an inviting reach of calm, deep water, with many picturesque pandanus palms and woolly butts caressing it; and as a family of aboriginals—two old men, many picaninnies and some females—were bathing by the roadway. To this I wheeled the bicycle.

The bottom was gravelly, and in the deepest place there was only four feet or so of water. The stream, or rather hole, was narrow; and while paddling about in it the thought struck me that it would be just as well to cross now and here as to cross at any other time and place. And, besides, an opportunity for experimenting presented itself.

To bundle up the clothes and the few odds and ends I had with me was the work of but a couple of minutes; those things I was able to walk across with. On returning I laid the bicycle on its side close by the water's edge, made fast the interlocking gear, and fastened securely to its handlebars one end of the strong string I always had carried. To the free end of the string I attached a stone. This I threw to the opposite bank and swam over after it.

I would have swam that stream though my knees had got the gravelrash in the transaction!

Laying hold now of the string I pulled gently on the bicycle until it moved; then pulled it quickly whilst in the water; and so landed it where I was standing. Undoing the string I allowed my silently weeping comrade to remain out in the sun, where its doleful tears quick turned into smiling rainbows while I resumed my clothes. Then gave it five minutes attention.

This wetting, I might here remark, did no more harm to the bicycle than a smart shower of rain would have done, but at Palmerston, where I totally immersed it in the sea, I found the salt water quickly formed rust on the various nickeled parts around the nuts and where the spokes entered the rim and perhaps within the tubes themselves for aught I know, as there, alas! monetary considerations forced me to part with it.

* * * *

I caught some fish in the waterholes, along the track. They bite at dough or flesh of any sort; or the first one captured will do as bait for catching more with.

From the Hayward Creek up to Daly Waters (230 miles), the fish are small, averaging about 8 inches; but higher up, as at the Elsey, and in more lasting holes to east and west, much larger ones are to be had. Some will rise to a fly; others take meat. The best bait one can use is a section of widgery (or "witchery," a grub three or four inches in length, found at the roots of gum trees, and tasting, when slightly roasted, not unlike a hen's egg.)

A packing or any other needle, heated to take the temper out, and bent into shape, makes a sufficiently good hook. But I had been provided with the regulation pattern steel article by a trooper, at one of the telegraph stations.

* * * *

At the Little Cullen Creek, seven miles from the Palmerston railway terminus, a genuine diamond has been found within the last couple of years; and several small heaps of tailings near the crossing place were accounted for by a native who told me "whitefellow bin on track of nudder one; but no catch im."

On from the Cullen are groups of shallow holes, now half tilled in, where alluvial gold has been sought; and various reefing properties, notably the Cosmopolitan, came into view on nearing Pine Creek.

Pine Creek (where I spent but a night) is not itself a large place, but it is the centre of an extensive gold-mining district. On one side of the main street is the railway station yard; on the other a first-class hotel, a store, blacksmith's, wheelwright's, and butcher's shops, besides several more business and dwelling houses. Most of the Asiatics connected with the mines, occupy a portion of the town away back from the main street.

Owing to the surrounding wooded hills and neighbouring gum creek the general aspect of the place is prepossessing.

Of the Wandi goldfields, about 30 miles to the east, it is said that several valuable properties exist there. But the climate is trying, and properties in the district need to be very valuable indeed before Europeans will infuse energy into their developement.

* * * *

This line from Pine Creek to Palmerston is spoken of as "the northern section of the Transcontinental." I do not pose as one who can say with authority whether it is advisable or not to complete the railway through the continent. That is not my "line" at any rate. Nevertheless I have formed opinions. Without any concessions at all from a leave-granting government, with barely the permission given them to construct a railway, and with even a squaring donation to the exchequer of a million pounds or so, a band of reasonably, business-like, experienced, company-promoters, I'm very sure, could make large fortunes in English or French money out of the undertaking—for themselves.

* * * *

I had expected to find a well-beaten track, perhaps a macadamised road from Pine Creek to Palmerston. But—a road where there was already a railway! What for?

On to Union Town. There is a store here, kept by a welcoming European. So far 10 miles of good, although hilly road.

At the store I was advised to look out for tracks leading off to the Chinamen's mines, of which there were several, away back in the hills from the railway. This advice I conscientiously acted on—"looked out" and followed one for miles until I came to the mine and the Chinaman. But in among the hills there was only "no savee," and a noisy quartz crushing plant; so I retraced my wandering wheelmarks, kept close to the railway line, and arrived at Burrundie (124 miles from Palmerston) sometime in the afternoon.

Burrundie is the last—or first, whichever you please—of the overland telegraph stations. Here there was hospitable entertainment at the hands of the station master; then on to the Howley Cottages, 100 miles from Palmerston. As the unpremeditated visit into the regions of Chinese no-saveedom had interfered with the day's progress, at the Howley Cottages I was made comfortable for the night.

My voucher book was now again constantly in use. I had tried hard when in at the Chinamen's mine to possess myself of a celestial's signature, as a curio, but had not succeeded. Was it possible that the book-fiend had been there too?

Next day, from the Howley, I made fairly good time, passed the Adelaide River (the half-way refreshment-house on the railway, 77 miles from Palmerston), and Rum Jungle (58 miles from Palmerston) and got in as far as the 46 mile cottages, where on the warm invitation of the resident ganger, I camped until morning.

* * * *

From about Burrundie the cyclist is given the choice of occasional lengths of old pads (white clay soil mostly), alongside the railway line, and of the ballast or embankments, between or close by the rails. I chose a little of each.

Hilly country extends from Pine Creek to about the Adelaide River. The various rivers are thickly lined with screw palms and thickets of stout bamboos, and the country generally is substantially timbered.

The only white resident at Rum Jungle (a railway camp, on a small watercourse, tributary to the Finniss, where the jungle is remarkably dense; the prefix may be reminiscent of railway-construction days), said there was plenty of time yet to find alligators in the Darwin River, between the jungle and Palmerston, although the water was getting low. But why should I go hunting for them when I bore away hence as trophies, still preserved, two alligator teeth?

And, speaking of alligators, it has recently been printed—"there are no snakes in the Northern Territory." There are, in their proper season. You may see them even without drinking heavily. I cycled over two and left them behind, on a narrow pad by the eastern side of the railway line, within a few hours of leaving the Howley cottages.

The size of one was larger than I would care to say. It remained quite motionless after the bicycle had passed over it; so I dismounted and threw a stick to ascertain whether the docile-seeming reptile was alive. It was. First rising aloft its head swiftly to bite at the passing piece of timber, it then immediately turned and commenced wriggling towards myself. I never mounted a bicycle more quickly in my life, nor did a quarter mile in faster time.

The ganger at the 46 mile cottages and the guard of the passenger train running between Palmerston and Pine Creek, as well as the writer, have cause to know that in the matter of snakes, as of some few other things, the Northern Territory isn't Ireland.

From the 46th mile I kept entirely to the railway line (a blackfellow at one of the cottages dubbed the bicycle "kangaroo engine") and before midday I was within ten miles of Palmerston.

There was a fairly-good road, its surface covered with fine brown ironstone rubble, for the remainder of the distance. Very high trees and a profuse wealth of tropical vegetation lined the track; but "cyclone" was writ large and in unmistakable characters everywhere—in uprooted trees and other features.

At two and a half-miles from Palmerston are the railway workshops and several suburban dwelling houses.

* * * *

On arriving opposite the first of these buildings I dismounted to take off my hat and wipe a little of the dampness from my forehead; and a sentence picked up somewhere came back to mind. I looked fondly upon the bicycle which had served me so well, pressed gently one of its handles, and whispered:—

"Thanks, Diamond, 'Es ist vollbracht.'"

With a sigh of relief the pen is laid down and the scissors are picked up. The few next following paragraphs are from The Northern Territory Times:—

"Mr. Murif, the gentleman who undertook to ride across the continent on a bicycle, arrived in Palmerston on Friday afternoon, accompanied by several of the local cyclists, who picked him up at the 2½ mile. After riding round the town the party proceeded to the point below Fort Hill, where the overlander's bicycle was dipped in the sea, and the point christened 'Bicycle Point' in commemoration of the event.

"On Saturday evening Mr. Murif was entertained by the Athletic Club at a smoke social in the Town Hall. The Government Resident presided over a large gathering. Murif was heartily welcomed.

"He declared that he could have accomplished the trip in less time, but if good time was made nobody would follow him. He would like another man to try the journey.

"He was sorry, he said that he could not say as much as he would like in thanking the residents of the Territory for the kindness they had shown him since his arrival amongst them. He had also to thank the Athletic Association, who were treating him in a right royal manner, and also those gentlemen who had so kindly come out to meet him on Friday afternoon. In fact, ever since he had started upon his trip, that one word 'Thanks!' had ever been upon his tongue. He had had to say thanks for kindnesses received at the very commencement of his journey; all along the route he had had occasion to use the word, and now when his task was completed and all his troubles over, all that he could say, in return for the hearty welcome they had tendered him, was that one little word—thanks. Down south he had always heard much of the hospitality of Port Darwinites, but he had not the remotest idea of its munificence until he came among them."

* * * *

Again:—"When seen by The Advertiser correspondent on Saturday morning Murif was busy cleaning his machine after the sea bath. On being congratulated on his safe arrival he replied, 'Yes, both of us,' pointing to the bicycle, 'are safe and strong as ever.' The cycle, indeed, looked in perfect condition, the wheels running as true as when they left the workshop. Murif was well and in the pink of condition."

And among other things, in reply to an interviewer:—"I wish you would do me a favor. I want to thank all those whom I met on the road for the most hospitable manner in which they treated me. Never have I met a better class of men. I was treated like a prince whilst en route, and never once was I refused anything I asked. Information re the track ahead was readily tendered, and it was with regret that I had to leave my new friends who had been so kind to me. I had heard that the Territorians were the essence of hospitality, and now I fully believe it."

* * * *

These Palmerstonians, who treated me so handsomely, are a laughter-loving and generously hospitable people.

The European residents, being very largely civil servants are as such prohibited from entering the field of politics. This disability hangs heavily on them, and is ruinously enervating and mischievous in its effects. Peacefully, contentedly, unprogressively as the calm and happy dead are they. Earnest consideration and study of the wants and welfare of the land in which they live are neglected and the action to which such grave study ever prompts men is wanting. Their lives are rounds of light gaieties and small pleasures. A picnic, dance, a sports day or a concert is ever an absorbing topic.

These are not right lives for white men, such as they are, to live; but the embargo forces them to live it. Nothing so retards a country's progress, nothing perhaps is so great a hindrance to the development of its resources, as a non-political feeling among the inhabitants. Here politics are taboo. The real business of life, the stirring cry of "Advance Australia!" is awfully lacking.

Remove the disability, take away the restraint, make an exception in favour of those civil servants who live so far up north in South Australia, unmuzzle those who have it in them to speak, and the people of the Territory—the Territory itself—will soon be heard of. So long as they are not heard from, so long must the Territory continue as a heavy weight.

* * * *

Chinese, who are ready and willing to work night or day and seven days a week, have ousted Europeans from many branches of trade. Hairdressing, tailoring and bootmaking are all done by them or Japanese.

Paper kite flying seems to be those people's most favoured form of recreation. Of a breezy evening the main street of Chinatown, running parallel with and distant but a couple of hundred yards from Palmerston's principal street, is indicated by half a dozen or more kites rising up into or stationary in mid-air. The ends of the retaining strings are either fastened to shop verandah posts or proudly held by their yellow owners.

These kites, built on scientific principles, are made very large and of fantastic shapes. Hollow "musical" reeds are attached; and when kite flying is "on" the loud monotonous humming of these wind instruments pervades every nook and cranny in Palmerston.

Every visitor gets a crick in his neck from looking skywards.

* * * *

Many blacks hang about the town. The roads are unmetalled. The loose soil is dark brown, and consists of sand mixed with particles of friable ironstone. The three varieties of tracks which show prominently everywhere are suggestive—a few of booted whites, many of sandalled Chinamen, and over and under all those of unshod natives.

* * * *

The thermometer does not register very high. But here there is a stuffy, suffocating, sweat-producing latent heat the whole year round, with very few weeks' cool to brace the enervated up.

One misses the heavenly blue of southern climes. The sky has ever in it a hazy dull metallic grey.

The town is on a table-land, and is well laid out. The drainage is good; hence malarial fever, once pretty prevalent, is now less common.

* * * *

The chefs are invariably Chinamen; this applies to most of the Northern Territory. Hence one hears the word "chow, chow" used commonly by the whites to denote meals or meal time—"Chow's ready," "come to chow," "There goes the Chow bell," and such like expressions.

A nobbler is disposed of with one indefinite "Chin, chin." Freely translated it means something between a votre sante and "another coffin nail."

And, over and above all, is a splendid, almost prodigal hospitality.

* * * *

One last look back over the journey and the track.

However it may have been with myself (whether I met with the adventures I had been hopefully looking forward to and whether the exciting episodes or interesting incidents and objects came up to expectations or not) of this I still feel assured: For two or three good humoured cyclists, with whom considerations of time would be of but secondary importance who would start in the proper season (that is March or April), and who would need not to be niggardly in their expenditure, no more promising fields can there be in all the world for a cycle-trip, at once interesting and sufficiently adventurous, than along this same route—in the crossing of Australia from South to North.

Although anyone undertaking to do the journey in fast time will be called upon to endure privations and run grave risks of coming to grief, yet a person who had been once overland, or one of the telegraph station employees—a cyclist in short, who beforehand knew how the tracks ran and where exactly the watering places lay—should find the task neither very difficult nor demanding a great expenditure of days.

Now that the country and what to expect has become a little better known; now that it has been seen and spoken of from a cyclist's view, now that the wheelman may therefore prepare himself, it remains open for any down-town or up-country sprinter, with the three good things of which I have made previous mention, viz., good health, good luck and a good bicycle, to double up the writer's so called "feat" into very small compass indeed, and incontinently knock it out of sight into the obscuring depths of an oblivious cocked hat.

It was one of my objects to leave it so open. Nevertheless I will not take upon myself the responsibility of advising anyone to bother about having a try at the "record-smashing" business unless it be well worth his while to do so.

To be prepared counts for very much. The cyclist who is sure of his road can never imagine the weakening effect which uncertainties on that most vital point can produce. Such doubts evolve sickening, depressing, unhappy sensations which make themselves felt more acutely than do the mere bodily disablements associated with hunger and thirst.

I knew next to nothing of the country, and made it a point to make but very few enquiries about it before I travelled up to have a look. I knew nobody in it, and from the day of my leaving Adelaide to the day I arrived at Sydney, I met no one with whom I had been in any way previously acquainted.

* * * *

I have in no case named those with whom I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted on the track for the reason that had those names been written it would as frequently have devolved upon the writer to expatiate on matters by right concerning only the men themselves, and besides I but seldom indeed questioned anyone about his business.

I have no material, therefore, out of which to "work up" on the weakness of slight acquaintanceships, the usual traveller's series of semi-biographical impertinences, even were I so minded.

But the following-named gentlemen are well-known, and I feel especially grateful to them for they all in one way or another befriended me:—Mr. Mat Connor, Mr. Harry Gipp, Mr. James Cummins, the Messrs. Louis Brothers, Mr. Coulthead, Mr. Gunter, Mr. Heilbraun, Mr. Wallis, Mr. Campbell, and police officers Bennett and Kingston.

From what I have already written it will go without further emphasizing that to the ever-courteous and obliging assistants and officers in charge at the various inland telegraph stations I have cause to be and am grateful also.

* * * *

The only wheeled vehicles I knew, or now know of, as being in the country, besides the bicycle, after leaving Alice Springs, were those under cover at the Telegraph and Cattle Stations, and a buggy at the sheep camp, between Tennant's and Powell's Creeks.

There are no camels north of Alice Springs, except when a caravan travels from the latter place to Barrow's or Tennant's Creek with the yearly supplies.

* * * *

Yet, in this land where the bicycle is but imperfectly known one may pick up some bright knowledgeable notions in "improved bike" building. An "additional strengthener" suggestion came from a man who had been inspecting my mount as it stood against a wall with the interlocking gear closed, and thus of course kept perfectly straight. He said to me—"See how strong the back part of the machine is compared with the front," and his "notion," soon forthcoming, was that it would be an improvement if two more tubes were added: These to run, one at each side, from barrel bracket forward to the front fork extremities, back stay style.

As I had no desire to make enemies I admitted the front-fork-to-crank-shaft-bracket stay would undoubtedly be, as the inventive person remarked, "a strengthener." "But," said I hesitatingly, "As the most agile brains in all the world have been at work for the last ten years or so intent upon thinking out improvements in bicycle construction, I fear there must be some and (although to us perhaps unapparent) objection to the innovation."

At another place I had casually remarked upon the fact of the bicycle's handlebars having turned in the steering socket when I fell somewhere (thus, by the way, saving other, more vital parts, the sharp shock.) That this movement should have occurred appeared to a listener, as it will to many people, to indicate a grave fault, if not danger. "Why," he exclaimed suddenly, but after much cogitation, "to provide against that happening would be the simplest thing in the world"—by drilling a hole through the front tube where the maker's name and trade mark were (in my case, where they were not, because I had scratched both off) and then driving a strong pin in! I told him I didn't want the fault rectified.

It surprised me to find how extraordinarily anxious people were about punctures. It was "What would you do if you got a puncture?" until I came to hate the word. Very few had much thought of the consequences of a broken crank, fork, tube, shaft, or rim. But I believe nearly every one who hasn't a bicycle lives in constant terror of that dreadful bogy puncture.

I was made re-acquainted with descriptions of many of those wonderful leverage-chains, improved brakes, and puncture-proofing devices which work so emphatically well in print. One invention very much in favor was an inner-tubular arrangement—"quite a simple thing—made up of a hundred or so sections or distinct chambers, like an endless string of stumpy sausages." It was so obvious that when one sausage had lost all of its stuffing and collapsed, the other ninety-nine would yet remain for the utilisation of the wheelman!

Of such were the humors of the trip.

If the blacks I met with were not quite so wild-mannered as I could have feared or hoped for, it was through no fault of mine. Neither was it for me to rouse them up with a stick, or go hunting for some others less mild-mannered.

As I have said, if I heard of a white traveller anywhere, I did not try to dodge him. If one will but consider how I spent time and money in searching for a companion before starting (it was only because I was forced to, that I started alone), one may perhaps find excuse for me when I confess to feeling rather glad whenever I met or heard of there being a white man on the track.

* * * *

And why was the journey made? As was said long ago, I wanted to do something before I was put out of sight and mind. Had I merely wanted to dig out a few sovereigns for the pockets of cycle or cycle-part makers I should have adopted other methods. But I sincerely desired to do something for Australia, and it seemed to me that this would be the most effective means in my power of making the inlands better known, and of arousing some interest in our heritage in the north. Two or three knew of the desire; and no sooner was the task accomplished than on a day in June I wrote this letter to one of them:—

"Sir,—Now that the matter has passed very nearly out of my hands and risen beyond me, I wish to formally assure you ("formally," for hitherto I have spoken the words, as it may have appeared, but lightly) that everything I have done in connection with my recent bicycle trip has been mainly with a view to advertising the Northern Territory—a country which it is my hope to see, in the near future, looked upon and referred to no longer as a costly, cumbrous and unremunerative "White Elephant," but rather as a strong and healthy, though over-sleepy youth, whom, on awakening, something had aroused to manhood.

"I have allowed to slip by opportunities of making fair money (of which, sir, I thoroughly appreciate the value) which I might have earned by accomplishing the journey in hard-to-be-improved on time; but I preferred this rather than do aught to defeat the end I primarily had in view.

"A declaration in public to that effect in the past would, perhaps, have savored of boastfulness or presumption; it may, indeed, perhaps so savor now. So certainly also, a few months ago, would any announcement of my intention to cycle alone across the continent. Hence my silence, lest my own ambitious purpose should be frustrated. That purpose is now being well worked out.

"It will make the Territory known: that, sir, you know, was the ground upon which I sought from you and the Hon. the —— the favor of those highly-prized signatures in my voucher book, which you both granted me. And that, as it was the ground on which I approached you, was the main prompting to do the thing I have done.

"I thank you once more for having obliged me, and remain, sir, your most obedient servant,

"JEROME J. MURIF."