By morning we had given the camels another five gallons apiece and had some to go on with in our tanks, having, by working for two days and three nights, scraped together 140 gallons in all.  On the 30th we travelled again Westwards, though making some Northerly progress towards the smoke which Charlie and I had located.  We had a long talk about our methods of travelling, and Charlie thought that I was inclined to spare the camels at the expense of ourselves.  We travelled all day without a break so that they should have the longer to look for feed at night, then we always hunted for tracks and water on foot, and when we found water, gave it to the camels before looking after our own wants, and he thought we might do longer stages straight ahead so long as we had a native.  I held, and I think the outcome of the journey proved me correct, that our own well-being was a secondary consideration to that of our animals, for without them we should be lost.  “Slow but sure” was my motto.

Though anxious to make as much northing as possible I did not feel justified in passing by almost certain water for the sake of a few hours.  I felt always that we might come into an even more waterless region ahead, and perhaps be unable to find any natives.  Some twelve miles brought us to the well—­the smoke had been beyond it—­and a more wretched spot I never saw.  Absolutely barren, even of spinifex, were the high ridges of sand between which was the well—­merely a small, round hole, with no signs of moisture or plant life about it, not a tree “within cooee.”  We had to go far to collect enough wood for a fire, and cut two sticks with which to rig up a fly to shade us from the sun—­a purely imaginary shade, for light duck is of little use against the power of such a burning sun; but even the shadow cast by the fly gave an appearance of comfort.

At this camp we made two new caissons, as our old tin-lined boxes were no longer strong enough.  Amongst our gear were two galvanised-iron boxes, made to order, with lids which completely covered the boxes and were held on by straps.  “Concertina-made boxes” they were called by the tinsmith—­a name which gave rise to a curious misstatement in a Perth paper which published a letter I wrote to Sir John Forrest.  The letter read:  “. . .  We made boxes out of concertinas”!  I fear any who read this must have thought me fairly good at “romancing.”  I had them made that shape so that they might be filled to nearly double the capacity of the boxes and still have serviceable lids.  I had hoped to have filled them with specimens of plants and birds.  Unfortunately we had neither the time to, nor the opportunity of making any such collection, though we might easily have filled them with specimens of the desert house-fly which swarm at every well!  By sawing off the ends of these lids we had two useful boxes, with neither top nor bottom, and by screwing them on to a framework of wood we manufactured a most useful caisson, 2 feet