uck, he tried in the
darkness to secure the loose end of the outrigger, but failed, owing to
the heavy, lumpy seas. Then for two anxious, miserable hours he clung to
the canoe, expecting every moment to find himself minus his legs by the
jaws of a shark, and when sighted and picked up by the native boat he
was barely conscious.

He learnt a lesson that did him good. He never again went out alone in
a canoe at night, and for many days after his recovery he never uttered
the word "Bosh!"

CHAPTER XXIX ~ THE PATTERING OF THE MULLET

It is a night of myriad stars, shining from a dome of deepest blue.
The lofty, white-barked swamp gums stand silent and ghost-like on the
river's bank, and the river itself is almost as silent as it flows to
meet the roaring surf on the bar of the rock-bound coast fifteen miles
away, where when the south-east wind blows lustily by day and dies away
at night the long billows of the blue Pacific roll on unceasingly.

Overhead, far up in the topmost boughs of one of the giant gums some
opossums squeal angrily at an intruding native bear, which, like
themselves, has climbed to feed upon the young and tender eucalyptus
leaves. Below, a prowling dingo steals slowly over the thick carpet of
leaves, then sitting on his haunches gazes at the prone figures of two
men stretched out upon their blankets at the foot of the great tree.
His green, hungry eyes have discerned a pair of saddle-bags and his keen
nostrils tell him that therein are salt beef and damper. He sinks gently
down upon the yielding leaves and for a minute watches the motionless
forms; then he rises and creeps, creeps along. A horse bell tinkles from
beyond the scrub and in an instant the wild dog lies flat again. Did he
not see one of the men move? No, all is quiet, and once more he creeps
forward. Then from beneath the tree there comes a flash and a report and
a bullet flies and the night prowler leaps in the air with a snarling
yelp and falls writhing in his death agony, as from the sand flats in
the river arises the clamour of startled wild fowl and the rush and
whirr of a thousand wings. Then silence again, save for the long-drawn
wail of a curlew.

One of the men rises, kicks together the dying camp fire and throws on
a handful of sticks and leaves. It blazes up and a long spear of light
shoots waveringly across the smooth current of the river.

"Get him, Harry?" sleepily asks his companion as he sits up and feels
for his