which we found, upon baling out, to contain only three buckets of a filthy black fluid that old Jimmy declared was water.  We annoyed him fearfully by pretending we did not know what it was.  Poor old chap, he couldn’t explain how angry he was, but he managed to stammer out, “White fellow—­fool; pony drink ’em.”  The day was excessively hot, the thermometer stood at 106 degrees in the shade.  The horses or ponies, as universally called at Fowler’s Bay, drank the dirty water with avidity.  It was early in the day when we arrived, and so soon as the water was taken, we pushed on towards the next place, Pylebung.  At Youldeh our guide had so excited my curiosity about this place, that I was most anxious to reach it.  Jimmy said it was not very far off.

On the night of the 26th March, just as it was getting dark and having left Chimpering twenty-five miles behind us, we entered a piece of bushy mulga country, the bushes being so thick that we had great difficulty in forcing our way through it in the dark.  Our guide seemed very much in the dark also; his movements were exceedingly uncertain, and I could see by the stars that we were winding about to all points of the compass.  At last old Jimmy stopped and said we had reached the place where Pylebung ought to be, but it was not; and here, he said, pointing to the ground, was to be our wurley, or camp, for the night.  When I questioned him, and asked where the water was, he only replied, which way?  This question I was altogether unable to answer, and I was not in a very amiable frame of mind, for we had been traversing frightful country of dense scrubs all day in parching thirst and broiling heat.  So I told Nicholls to unpack the camels while I unsaddled the horses.  All the animals seemed over-powered with lassitude and exhaustion; the camels immediately lay down, and the horses stood disconsolately close to them, now no longer terrified at their proximity.

Nicholls and I extended our rugs upon the ground and lay down, and then we discovered that old Jimmy had left the camp, and thought he had given us the slip in the dark.  We had been lying down some time when the old fellow returned, and in the most voluble and excited language told us he had found the water; it was, he said, “big one, watta, mucka, pickaninny;” and in his delight at his success he began to describe it, or try to do so, in the firelight, on the ground; he kept saying, “big one, watta—­big one, watta—­watta go that way, watta go this way, and watta go that way, and watta go this way,” turning himself round and round, so that I thought it must be a lake or swamp he was trying to describe.  However, we got the camels and horses resaddled and packed, and took them where old Jimmy led us.  The moon had now risen above the high sandhills that surrounded us, and we soon emerged upon a piece of open ground where there was a large white clay-pan, or bare patch of white clay soil, glistening in the moon’s rays, and upon this there appeared an astonishing object—­something like the wall of an old house or a ruined chimney.  On arriving, we saw that it was a circular wall or dam of clay, nearly five feet high, with a segment open to the south to admit and retain the rain-water that occasionally flows over the flat into this artificial receptacle.