on the Port Albert Road,
robbed him of two orders for money and a certificate of freedom, and
made his way to Melbourne. There he was arrested, and remanded by
the bench to the new court at Alberton. But there was no court
there, no lock-up, and no police; and Mr. Latrobe, with tears in his
eyes, said he had no cash whatever to spend on Michael Shannon.

The public journals denounced Gippsland, and said it was full of
irregularities. Therefore, on September 13th, 1843, Charles J. Tyers
was appointed Commissioner of Crown Lands for the district. He
endeavoured to make his way overland to the scene of his future
labours, but the mountains were discharging the accumulated waters of
the winter and spring rainfall, every watercourse was full, and the
marshes were impassable.

The commissioner waited, and then made a fresh start with six men and
four baggage horses. Midway between Dandenong and the Bunyip he
passed the hut of Big Mat, a new settler from Melbourne, and obtained
from him some information about the best route to follow. It began
to rain heavily, and it was difficult to ford the swollen creeks
before arriving at the Big Hill. At Shady Creek there was nothing
for the horses to eat, and beyond it the ground became treacherous
and full of crabholes. At the Moe the backwater was found to be
fully a quarter of a mile wide, encumbered with dead logs and scrub,
and no safe place for crossing the creek could be found. During the
night the famishing horses tore open with their teeth the packages
containing the provisions, and before morning all that was left of
the flour, tea, and sugar was trodden into the muddy soil and
hopelessly lost; not an ounce of food could be collected. There was
no game to be seen; every bird and beast seemed to have fled from the
desolate ranges. Mr. Tyers had been for many years a naval
instructor on board a man-of-war, understood navigation and
surveying, and, it is to be presumed, knew the distance he had
travelled and the course to be followed in returning to Port Philip;
but there were valleys filled with impenetrable scrub, creeks often
too deep to ford, and boundless morasses, so that the journey was
made crooked with continual deviations. If a black boy like
McMillan's Friday had accompanied the expedition, his native instinct
would, at such a time, have been worth all the science in the world.

The seven men, breakfastless, turned their backs to Gippsland. The
horses w