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
whilst I was in the rock-hole.
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