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