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 deep
by 1 1/2 long and 1 foot wide. By forcing this into the sand in the well
and digging out the sand contained in it, and then patiently waiting with