of the narrow ledge on which the poor fellow was standing, and only when we approached to within a couple of boats’ lengths, did the ferocious brute sail sullenly out to sea, pursued by a harmless bullet from Jim’s rifle.  Poor Wordsworth dropped into the boat fainting from terror, exhaustion, and loss of blood, for, although he was unconscious of it all the time, in his convulsive grip, the sharp oyster-shells had cut his hands to the very bone.  A good glass of grog and some hot tea —­ the bushman’s infallible remedy —­ soon brought him round, but the scars on his hands and knees will accompany him to his grave.  He afterwards described the glances that the shark threw at him as perfectly diabolical, and confessed that he it not been for the cheery hails of the pilot, he should most certainly have relinquished his hold, and met with a death too horrible to contemplate.

It was now about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the boat being launched, we resolved to reach Gould Island before dark.  The tent was soon struck, the provisions stowed away, the priming of the carbines looked to afresh, and in a few minutes we were sweeping across the small belt of water that separated the two islands.  We approached the shore with caution, for, as I mentioned before, the sides of Gould Island are everywhere very steep, and hostile blacks, by simply dislodging some of the loose masses of rock, could easily have smashed the boat and its crew to pieces without exposing themselves to the slightest danger.  Noiselessly, and with every faculty painfully alert, we closed the land, sprang on to the rocks, and at once set about the tedious task of breasting the hill.  Hill climbing, under the vertical sun of North Australia, is by no means an enjoyable undertaking, more particularly when the loose shale and rock gives way at every stride, bringing down an avalanche of rubbish on the heads of the rearmost of the party.  Encumbered with our carbines, we made but slow progress, and it was nearly six o’clock before we attained the summit, from whence we saw several canoes making their way with full speed towards Hinchinbrook.

“So far then, so good,” we said; “we have made certain that none of the rascals are lurking about the two islands, and we are sure to get them now, when we sweep Hinchinbrook.”

We had now done everything that was possible until the ‘Daylight’ had finished unloading, and so spread ourselves out about the island to see if the blacks had left any of their curious implements behind them.  We were in no hurry to get back to the township, so purposed having supper where we were, and pulling back in the cool of the evening, by the light of the moon, which was just then in full glory.  We found plenty of traces of the blacks, the embers of their fires even still glowing, but they had carried off everything with them, and no trophies crowned our search of Gould Island; and yet I am wrong, for I got one memento, which I have by me still, and which is so curious to lovers of natural history that I am tempted to describe it.  In rummaging about, I came to a place strewed with old bones, shells, parrots’ feathers, etc., close to which stood a platform of interwoven sticks.  I was terribly puzzled at first to account for the presence of this miniature rag and bone depot, and my astonishment culminated when Ferdinand informed me that —­