horses to water. Though glad of their company, it was not with unmixed
feelings that we viewed their arrival, for it took us all our time to get
sufficient water for ourselves. I well remember one occasion on which,
after a slight shower of rain, we, having no tank, scooped up the water we
could from the shallow holes, even using a sponge, such was our eagerness
not to waste a single drop; the water thus collected was emptied into a
large rock-hole, which we covered with flat stones. We then went to our
daily work on the reef, congratulating ourselves on the nice little
"plant" of water. Imagine our disgust, on returning in the evening, at
finding a mob of thirsty packhorses being watered from our precious
supply! There was nothing to be done but to pretend we liked it. The
water being on the rock was of course free to all.

How I used to envy those horsemen, and longed for the time when I could
afford horses or camels of my own, to go away back into the bush and just
see what was there. Many a day I spent poring over the map of the Colony,
longing and longing to push out into the vast blank spaces of the unknown.
Even at that time I planned out the expedition which at last I was enabled
to undertake, though all was very visionary, and I could hardly conceive
how I should ever manage to find the necessary ways and means.

Nearly every week I would ride into Coolgardie for stores, and walk out
again leading the loaded packhorse, our faithful little chestnut "brumby,"
i.e., half-wild pony, of which there are large herds running in the bush
near the settled parts of the coast. A splendid little fellow this, a true
type of his breed, fit for any amount of work and hardship. As often as
not he would do his journey into Coolgardie (twenty-five miles), be tied
up all night without a feed or drink--or as long as I had to spend there
on business--and return again loaded next morning. Chaff and oats were
then almost unprocurable, and however kind-hearted he might be, a poor
man could hardly afford a shilling a gallon to water his horse. On these
occasions I made my quarters at Bayley's mine, where a good solid meal and
the pleasant company of Messrs. Browne and Lyon always awaited me. Several
times in their generosity these good fellows spared a gallon or two of
precious water for the old pony.

They have a funny custom in the West of naming horses after their
owners--thus the chestnut is known to this day as "Little Carnegie."