But I will not occupy the reader with all these minor details, nor with the numberless little trifles that it devolves upon the leader of such an expedition to remember, suffice it to say that by noon on the following day, all our preparations were completed, and we shoved off from the beach in high spirits, the party consisting this time of nine, viz., Dunmore, the pilot, two boatmen, Lizzie, three troopers, and myself, about as many as the boat could carry comfortably.  A rendezvous had been arranged on a known portion of the river; the other expedition was to start in seven days; and, according to our programme, if all went well, we should meet on the tenth, or on the eleventh day at furthest.

The sea-breeze was blowing steadily, cresting the tiny waves which sparkled in the hot sun as they broke into foam, and under its grateful coolness we glided comfortably along, with a flowing sheet.  The bar at the mouth of the Macalister was eighteen miles distant, and we hoped to cross it about sunset, when the breeze would have dropped, and the passage through the surf would be readily distinguishable; but our plans were completely upset by one of the troopers espying smoke issuing from the scrub on a small creek, that entered the bay about half-way between the town and the Macalister.

“We had better have a look in here,” said Dunmore, “there is no knowing where we may stumble on some information.”

Accordingly, the helm was put up, and we ran into the mouth of the inlet, with the wind right aft.  Beaching the boat on the soft sand, we sprang out, and advanced cautiously in the direction of the smoke, but, after several minutes of scrambling, we reached the fire only to find it deserted, its original proprietors having seen our sudden alteration of course, and sought the safety of the dense bush, where further search would have been useless.

“Now that we are on shore,” said Dunmore, “let us make a billy full of tea; it won’t take long.  Here, you boys, get ’em like ’it waddy to make ’em fire.”

The troopers and Lizzie dispersed in quest of fuel; Ferdinand walking up the bank of the creek, where he was soon lost to sight.  A loud coo-eh from that direction soon brought us to the spot from whence it issued, and we found the boy staring at several pieces of timber sticking out of the sand.

“Big fellow canoe been sit down here,” he said, on our approach, and examining the protruding stumps, we soon saw enough to convince us that the boy was right, and that we were in the presence of a vessel, wrecked, or abandoned, Heaven only knows how many years ago.  With our hands, with pint pots, with a spade we had brought with us —­ mindful of the difficulty we had experienced in finding a resting-place for poor Cato —­ with every utensil, in fact, that ingenuity could devise, we set to work clearing away the sand that had accumulated round the old ribs.  Suddenly, the tin rim of one of the pots gave back a ringing sound, as if it had struck against metal, and in less than a minute, a much rusted cannon-shot was exposed to view, and passed round from hand to hand.  It was of small size, weighing, perhaps, five pounds, though its dimensions were evidently much decreased by the wasting action of damp.