Book 2, Chapter 7, of In Search of the Castaways This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eddie Winter. In Search of the Castaways or the Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne Book 2, Chapter 7, the Quartermaster of the Britannia The surprise caused by these words cannot be described. Glenarvon sprang to his feet, and pushing back his seat, it exclaimed, "'Who spoke?' "'I did,' said one of the servants, at the far end of the table. "'You, Erton,' replied his master, not less bewildered than Glenarvon. Yes, it was I rejoined, Erton, in a firm tone, though somewhat agitated voice. A scotchman like yourself, my lord, and one of the shipwrecked crew of the Britannia. The effect of such a declaration may be imagined. Mary Grant fell back half-fainting in Lady Helena's arms, overcome with joyful emotion, and Robert and Mangles and Paganel started up and toward the man that Paddy O'Mour had addressed as Erton. He was a coarse-looking fellow, about forty-five years of age, with very bright eyes, though half-hidden beneath thick, overhanging brows. In spite of extreme leanness there was an air of unusual strength about him. He seemed all bone and nerves, or, to use a scotch expression, as if he had not wasted time in making fat.  The interest he excited was still further heightened by the marks of recent suffering imprinted on his countenance. It was evident that he had endured long and severe hardships, and that he had borne them bravely and come off victor. You are one of the shipwrecked sailors of the Britannia, was Glenarvon's first question? Yes, my lord. Captain Grant's quarter-master, and saved with him after the shipwreck? No, my lord, no. I was separated from him at that terrible moment, for I was swept off the deck as the ship struck. Then you are not one of the two sailors mentioned in the document? No, I was not aware of the existence of the document. The captain must have thrown it into the sea when I was no longer on board. But the captain, what about the captain? I believed he had perished, gone down with all his crow. I imagined myself the sole survivor. But you said just now Captain Grant was living. No, I said, IF the captain is living. And you added, he is on the Australian continent. And indeed he cannot be anywhere else. Then you don't know where he is. No, my lord. I say again, I supposed he was buried beneath the waves, or dashed to pieces against the rocks. It was from you I learned that he was still alive. What then do you know? Simply this. If Captain Grant is alive, he is in Australia. Where did the shipwreck occur? asked Major McNabb's. This should have been the first question. But in the excitement caused by the unexpected incident, Glenarion cared more to know where the captain was than where the Britannia had been lost. After the Major's inquiry, however, Glenarion's examination proceeded more logically, and before long all the details of the event stood out clearly before the minds of the company. To the question put by the Major, Allen replied, When I was swept off the folksal, when I was hauling in the jib-boom, the Britannia was running right on the Australian coast. She was not more than two cables length from it, and consequently she must have struck just there. In latitude 37 degrees, asked John Mangles. Yes, in latitude 37 degrees. On the west coast? No, on the east coast was the prompt reply. And at what date? It was on the night of the 27th of June, 1862. Exactly, just exactly, exclaimed Glenarion. You see, then, my Lord, continued out, and I might justly say, If Captain Grant is alive, he is on the Australian continent, and it is useless looking for him anywhere else. And we will look for him there, and find him, too, and save him, exclaimed Paganel. Our precious document he added, with perfect naivety, you must own, you have fallen into the hands of uncommonly shooed people. But doubtless nobody heard his flashing words, for Glenarion and Lady Helena and Mary Grant and Robert were too much engrossed with the Ayrton to listen to anyone else. They pressed round him and grasped his hands. It seemed as if this man's presence was a sure pledge of Harry Grant's deliverance. If this sailor had escaped the pearls of the shipwreck, why should not the captain? Ayrton was quite sanguine as to his existence. But on what part of the continent he was to be found, that he could not say. The replies the man gave to the thousand questions that assailed him on all sides were remarkably intelligent and exact. All the while he spake, Mary held one of his hands in hers. This sailor was a companion of her father's, one of the crew of the Britannia. He had lived with Harry Grant, crossed the seas with him, and shared his dangers. Mary could not keep her eyes of his face, rough and homely though it was, and she wept for joy. Up to this time no one had ever thought of doubting either the veracity or the identity of the quartermaster. But the major, and perhaps John Mangles, now began to ask themselves if this Ayrton's word was to be absolutely believed. There was something suspicious about this unexpected meeting. Certainly the man had mentioned facts and dates which corresponded, and the minuteness of his details was most striking. Still, exactness of details was no positive proof. Indeed, it had been noticed that a falsehood had sometimes gained ground by being exceedingly particular in minutiae. McNabb's therefore prudently refrained from committing himself by expressing any opinion. John Mangles, however, was soon convinced when he heard Ayrton speak to the young girl about her father. He knew Mary and Robert quite well. He had seen them in Glasgow when the ship sailed. He remembered them at the farewell breakfast given on board the Britannia to the captain's friends, at which Sheriff McIntyre was present. Robert, then a boy of ten years old, had been given into his charge, and he ran away and tried to climb the rigging. Yes, that I did. It is quite right, said Robert. He went on to mention several other trifling incidents without attaching the importance to them that John Mangles did. And when he stopped, Mary Grant said in her soft voice, Oh, go on, Mr. Ayrton, tell us more about our father. The quartermaster did his best to satisfy the poor girl, and Glenarvon did not interrupt him, though a score of questions far more important crowded into his mind. Lady Helena made him look at Mary's beaming face, and the words he was about to utter remained unspoken. Ayrton gave an account of the Britannia's voyage across the Pacific. Mary knew most of it before, as news of the ship had come regularly up to the month of May 1862. In the course of the year, Harry Grant had touched at all of the principal ports. He had been to the Hebrides, to New Guinea, New Zealand, and New Caledonia, and had succeeded in finding an important point on the western coast of Papua, where the establishment of a Scotch colony seemed to him easy and its prosperity certain. A good port on the Malacca and Philippine route must attract ships, especially when the opening of the Suez Canal would have supplanted the Cape Route. Harry Grant was one of those who appreciated the great work of Monsieur de Lesseps and would not allow political rivalries to interfere with international interests. After reconnoitering Papua, the Britannia went to provision herself at Calleo, and left that port on the 30th of May 1862 to return to Europe by the Indian Ocean and the Cape. Three weeks afterward, his vessel was disabled by a fearful storm, in which they were caught, and obliged to cut away the masts. A leak sprang in the hold, and could not be stopped. The crew were too exhausted to work the pumps, and for eight days the Britannia was tossed about in a hurricane like a shuttlecock. She had six feet of water in her hold, and was gradually sinking. The boats had been all carried away by the tempest. Death stared them in the face, when on the night of the 22nd of June, as Paganel had rightly supposed, they came in sight of the eastern coast of Australia. The ship soon neared the shore, and presently dashed violently against it. Erton was swept off by a wave, and thrown among the breakers, where he lost consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself in the hands of natives, who dragged him away into the interior of the country. Since that time, he had never heard the Britannia's name mentioned, and reasonably enough came to the conclusion that she had gone down with all hands of the dangerous reefs of Twofold Bay. This ended Erton's recital, and more than once saw a full exclamations were evoked by the story. The major could not, in common justice, doubt its authenticity. The sailor was then asked to narrate his own personal history, which was short and simple enough. He had been carried by a tribe of natives, 400 miles north of the 37th parallel. He spent a miserable existence there, not that he was ill-treated, but the natives themselves lived miserably. He passed two long years of painful slavery among them, but always cherished in his heart the hope of one day regaining his freedom, and watching for the slightest opportunity that might turn up, though he knew that his flight would be attended with innumerable dangers. At length one night in October 1864, he managed to escape the vigilance of the natives, and took refuge in the depths of immense forests. For a whole month he subsisted on roots, edible ferns, and mimosa-gums, wandering through vast solitudes guiding himself by the sun during the day, and by the stars at night. He went on, though often or most despairingly, through bulks and rivers, and across mountains, till he had traversed the whole of the uninhabited part of the continent, where only a few bold travellers have ventured. And at last, in an exhausted and all but dying condition, he reached the hospitable dwelling of Padiomor, where he said he had found a happy home in exchange for his labour. The affairant speaks well of me, said the Irish settler, when the narrative ended, I have nothing but good to say of him. He is an honest, intelligent fellow, and a good worker. And as long as he pleases, Padiomor's house shall be his. Ayrton thanked him by a gesture, and waited silently for any fresh question that might be put to him, though he thought to himself that he surely must have satisfied all legitimate curiosity. What could remain to be said, that he had not said a hundred times already? Glenarvon was just about to open a discussion about their future plan of action, profited by this one contour with Ayrton, and by the information he had given them, when Major Knabbs, addressing the sailor, said, You were quartermaster, you say, on the Britannia? Yes, replied Ayrton, without the least hesitation. But as if conscious that a certain feeling of mistrust, however slight, had prompted the inquiry, he added, I have my shipping papers with me. I save them from the wreck. He left the room immediately, to fetch his official document. And though hardly absent a minute, Padiomor managed to say, My Lord, you may trust Ayrton, I vouch for his being an honest man. He has been two months now in my service, and I have never had once to find fault with him. I knew all the story of his shipwreck, and his captivity.  Glenarvon was on the point of replying, that he had never doubted his good faith, when the man came in and brought his engagement written out in due form. It was a paper signed by the ship owners and Captain Grant. Mary recognized her father's writing at once. It was to certify that Tom Ayrton, able-bodied seamen, was engaged as quartermaster on board the three mast vessel in Britannia, Glasgow. There could not possibly be the least doubt now of Ayrton's identity, for it would have been difficult to account for his possession of the document, if he were not the man named in it. Now then, Secklenarvon, I wish to ask everyone's opinion as to what is best to be done. Your advice, Ayrton, will be particularly valuable, and I shall be much obliged if you would let us have it. After a few minutes' thought, Ayrton replied, I thank you, my Lord, for the confidence she showed towards me, and I hope to prove worthy of it. I have some knowledge of the country and the habits of the natives, and if I can be of any service to you, I certainly you can interrupt Ayrton. I think with you, resumed Ayrton, that the captain and his two sailors have escaped alive from the wreck, but since they have not found their way to the English settlement nor been seen anywhere, I have no doubt that their fate has been similar to my own, and that they are prisoners in the hands of some of the native tribes. That's exactly what I have always argued, said Paganel. The shipwrecked men were taken prisoners as they feared, but must we conclude without question that, like yourself, they have been dragged away north of the 37th parallel. I should suppose so, sir, for hostile tribes would hardly remain anywhere near the districts under the British rule. That will complicate our search, said Glynarvon, somewhat disconcerted. How can we possibly find traces of the captives in the heart of so vast a continent? No one replied, though Lady Helena's questioning glances at her companions seemed to press for an answer. Paganel even was silent. His ingenuity for once was at fault. John Mangles paced the cabin with great strides, as if he fancied himself on the deck of his ship, evidently quite nonplussed. And you, Mr. Ayrton, said Lady Helena at last. What would you do? Madam replied Ayrton, readily enough, I should re-embark in the Duncan, and go right to the scene of the catastrophe. There I should be guided by circumstances, and by any chance indications we might discover. Very good, returned Glynarvon. But we must wait till the Duncan is repaired. Ah, she has been injured, then, said Ayrton. Yes, replied Mangles. To any serious extent. No, but such injuries require more skillful workmanship than we have on board. One of the branches of the screw is twisted, and we cannot get it repaired nearer than Melbourne. Well, let the ship go to Melbourne, then, said Paganel, and we will go without her to Twofold Bay. And how? asked Mangles. By crossing Australia as we crossed America, keeping along the 37th parallel. But the Duncan, repeated Ayrton, as if particularly anxious on that score, the Duncan can rejoin us, or we can rejoin her as a case may be. Should we discover Captain Grant in the course of our journey, we can all return together to Melbourne. If we have to go on to the coast, on the contrary, then, the Duncan can come to us there. Who has any objection to make? Have you, Major? No, not if there is a practicable route across Australia, so practicable that I propose Lady Helena and Miss Grant should accompany us. Are you speaking seriously, Askle and Arvin? Perfectly so, my lord. It is a journey of three hundred and fifty miles, not more, if we go twelve miles a day, it will barely take us a month, just long enough to put the vessel in trim. If we had to cross the continent in a lower latitude at its wildest part, and traverse immense deserts, where there is no water and where the heat is tropical, and go where the most adventurous travels have never yet ventured, then that would be a different matter. But the 37th parallel cuts only through the province of Victoria, quite an English country, with roads and railways, and well populated almost everywhere. It is a journey you might make almost in a shares, though wagon would be better. It is a mere trip from London to Edinburgh, nothing more. What about wild beasts, though? Askle and Arvin anxious to go into all the difficulties of the proposal. There are no wild beasts in Australia. And how about the savages? There are no savages in this latitude. And if there were, they are not cruel like the New Zealanders. And the convicts? There are no convicts in the southern provinces, only in the eastern colonies. The province of Victoria not only refused to admit them, but passed the law to prevent any ticket or leave men from other provinces from entering her territories. This very year, the government threatened to withdraw its subsidy from the Peninsula Company if their vessels continued to take in coal in those western parts of Australia, where convicts are admitted. What? Don't you know that? I knew an Englishman. In the first place, I beg leave to say, I am not an Englishman, replied Glen Arvin. What Mr Paganel says is perfectly correct, said Paddy Omore, not only the province of Victoria, but also southern Australia, Queensland and even Tasmania have agreed to expel convicts from their territories. Ever since I have been on this farm, I have never heard of one in this province. And I can speak for myself. I have never come across one. You see, then friends went on Jack Paganel. There are few, if any, savages, no ferocious animals, no convicts, and there are not many countries of Europe which you can say as much. Well, where you go? What do you think, Helena, asked Glen Arvin. What we all think, do you, Edward, replied Lady Helena, turning toward her companions. Let us be off at once. End of Book Two, Chapter Seven. Book Two, Chapter Eight of In Search of the Castaways. This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eddie Winter. In Search of the Castaways or the Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne. Book Two, Chapter Eight. Preparation for the Journey. Glen Arvin never lost much time between adopting an idea and carrying it out. As soon as he consented to Paganil's proposition, he gave immediate orders to make arrangements for the journey with as little delay as possible. The time of starting was fixed for the 22nd of December, the next day he got one. What results might not come out of this journey? The presence of Harry Grant had become an indisputable fact, and the chances of finding him had increased. Not that anyone expected to discover the Captain exactly on the 37th parallel, which they intended strictly to follow, but there might come upon his track, and at all events, they would guide to the actual spot where the wreck had occurred. That was the principal point. Besides, if they hadn't consented to join them and act as their guide to the forests of the province of Victoria and right to the eastern coast, they would have a fresh chance of success. Glenarvon was sensible of this, and asked his host whether he would have any great objection to his ask in Outon to accompany them, for he felt particularly desirous of securing the assistance of Harry Grant's old companion. Paddy O'Mor consented, though he would regret the loss of his excellent servant. Well then, Outon, will you come with us in our search expedition? Outon did not reply immediately. He even showed signs of hesitation. But at last, after due reflection, said, Yes, my lord, I will go with you, and if I cannot take you to Captain Grant, I can at least take you to the very place where his ship struck. Thanks, Outon. One question, my lord. Well, where will you meet the Duncan again? At Melbourne, unless we traverse the whole continent from coast to coast. But the captain? The captain will await my instructions in the port of Melbourne. You may depend on me, then, my lord. I will, Outon. The quartermaster was warmly thanked by the passengers of the Duncan, and the children loaded him with caresses. Everyone rejoiced in his decision, except the Irishman, who lost in him an intelligent and faithful helper. But Paddy understood the importance Glenarvon had attached to the presence of the man, and submitted. The whole party then returned to the ship after arranging a rendezvous with Outon, and ordering him to procure the necessary means of conveyance across the country. When John Mangle supported the proposition of Paganel, he took for granted that he should accompany the expedition. He began to speak to Glenarvon at once about it, and reduced all sorts of arguments to advance his cause. His devotion to Lady Helena and his lordship, how useful could he be in organising the party, and how useless on board the Duncan? Everything, in fact, but the main reason, and that he had no need to bring forward. I'll only ask you one question, John, said Glenarvon.  Absolute, replied Mangle's. Tom Austin is a good sailor. He will take the ship to her destination. See that the repairs are skilfully executed, and bring her back on the appointed day. Tom is a slave to duty and discipline. Never would he take it upon himself to alter or retard the execution of an order. Your lordship may rely on him as on myself. Very well then, John, replied Glenarvon. You shall go with this, for it would be advisable, he added, smiling, that you should be there when we find Mary Grant's father. Oh, your lordship, murmured John, turning pale. He could say no more, but grasped Lord Glenarvon's hand. Next day, John Mangle's and the ship's carpenter, accompanied by sailors carrying provisions, went back to Paddy Omore's house to consult the Irishman about the best method of transport. All the family met him, ready to give their best help. Erton was there and gave the benefit of his experience. On one point, both he and Paddy agreed that the journey should be made in a bullock wagon by the ladies, and that the gentleman should ride on horseback. Paddy could furnish both bullocks and vehicle. The vehicle was a cart 20 feet long, covered over by a tilt, and resting on four large wheels, without spokes or fellows or iron tires, in a word, plain wooden discs. The front and hinder part were connected by means of a rude mechanical contrivance, which did not allow of the vehicle turning quickly. There was a pole in front 35 feet long, to which the bullocks were to be yoked in couples. These animals were able to draw, both with head and neck, as a yoke was fastened on the nape of the neck. And to this, a collar was attached by an iron peg. It required great skill to drive such a long, narrow, shaky concern, and to guide such a team by a goad. But Ayrton had served his apprenticeship to it on the Irishman's farm, and Paddy could answer for his competency. The role of conductor was therefore assigned to him. There were no springs to the wagon, and consequently it was not likely to be very comfortable. But such as it was, they had to take it. But if the rough construction could not be altered, John Mangles resolved that the interior should be made as easy as possible. His first care was to divide it into two compartments by a wooden partition. The back one was intended for the provisions and luggage, and Monsieur Albionette's portable kitchen. The front was set apart, especially for the ladies, and under the carpenter's hands, was to be speedily converted into a comfortable room, covered with a thick carpet and fitted up with a toilet table and two couches. Thick leather curtains shut in this apartment and protected the occupants from the chilliness of the nights. In case of necessity, the gentleman might shelter themselves here, when the violent rains came on. But a tent was to be their usual resting place, when the caravan camped for the night. John Mangles exercised all of his ingenuity in furnishing the small space with everything that the two ladies could possibly require, and he succeeded so well that neither Lady Helena nor Mary had much reason to regret leaving their cosy cabins on board the Duncan. For the rest of the party, the preparations were soon made, for they needed much less. Strong horses were provided for Lord Glenarvon, Paganel, Robert, Grant, McNabs and John Mangles, also for the two sailors, Wilson and Mulrady, who were to accompany their captain. Ayrton's place was, of course, to be in front of the wagon, and Monsieur Albignette, who did not care much for equitation, was to make room for himself among the baggage. Horses and bullocks were grazing in the Irishman's meadows, ready to fetch at a moment's notice. After all arrangements were made and the carpenter set to work, John Mangles escorted the Irishman and his family back to the vessel, for Paddy wished to return the visit of Lord Glenarvon. Ayrton thought proper to go to, and about four o'clock the party came over the side of the Duncan. They were received with open arms. Glenarvon would not be out stripped in politeness, and invited his visitors to stop and dine. His hospitality was willingly accepted. Paddy was quite amazed at the splendor of the saloon, and was loud in admiration of the fitting up of the cabins, and the carpets and hangings, as well as of the polished maple wood of the upper deck. Ayrton's approbation was much less hearty, for he considered it mere costly superfluity, but when he examined the yacht with a sailor's eye, the quartermaster of the Britannia was as enthusiastic about it as Paddy. He went down into the hold, inspected the screw department and the engine room, examining the engine thoroughly, and inquired about its power and consumption. He explored the coal bunkers, the storeroom, the powder store, and armory, in which he seemed to be particularly attracted by a cannon mounted on the folksel. Glenarvon saw he had to do with a man who understood such matters, as was evident from his questions. Ayrton concluded his investigations by a survey of the masts and rigging. You have a fine vessel, my lord, he said, after his curiosity was satisfied. A good one, and that is best, replied Glenarvon. What is her tonnage? Two hundred and ten tons. I don't think I am far out, continued Ayrton, in judging her speed at fifteen knots. I should say she could do that easily. Say seventeen, put in John Mangles, and you have hit the mark. Seventeen exclaimed the quartermaster. Why? Not a man of war, not the best among them, I mean, could chase her. Not one, replied Mangles. The Duncan is a regular racing yacht, and would never let herself be beaten. Even at sailing, asked Ayrton. Even at sailing. Well, my lord, a new two captain returned Ayrton.  Say on board of her, then, Ayrton, said Glenarvon, it rests with yourself to call it yours. Overthink of it, my lord, was all Ayrton's reply. Just then, Richard Albionette came to announce dinner, and his lordship repaired with his guests to this alone. That Ayrton is an intelligent man, said Paganel to the major. Two intelligent muttered McNabs, who without any apparent reason had taken a great dislike to the face and manners of the quartermaster. During the dinner, Ayrton gave some interesting details about the Australian continent, which he knew perfectly. He asked how many sailors were going to accompany the expedition, and seemed astonished to hear that only two were going. He advised Glenarvon to take all his best men, and even urged him to do it, which advised, by the way, all to remove the major's suspicion. But, said Glenarvon, had journey is not dangerous, is it? Not at all, replied Ayrton quickly. Well then, we'll have all the men we can on board. Hands will be wanted to work the ship, and to help in the repairs. Besides, it is of the utmost importance that she should meet us to the very day, but whatever place may be ultimately selected. Consequently, we must not lessen her crow. Ayrton said nothing more, as if convinced his lordship was right. When evening came, Scotch and Irish separated. Ayrton and Paddy O'More and family returned home. Horses and wagons were to be ready the next day, and eight o'clock in the morning was fixed for starting. Lady Helena and Mary Grant soon made their preparations. They had less to do than Jack Paganel, for he spent half the night in arranging and wiping and rubbing up the lenses of his telescope. Of course, next morning he slept on to the major's dentorian voice roused him. The luggage was already conveyed to the farm, thanks to John Mangles, and a boat was waiting to take the passengers. They were soon seated, and the young Catzen gave his final orders to Tom Austin, his chief officer. He impressed upon him that he was to wait at Melbourne for Lord Glenarvon's commands, and to obey them scrupulously, whatever they might be. The old sailor told John he might rely on him, and in the name of the men, they hoped to offer his lordship their best wishes for the success of this new expedition. A storm of horrors burst forth from the yacht as the boat rode off. In ten minutes the shore was reached, and a quarter an hour afterward, the Irishman's farm. All was ready. Lady Helena was enchanted with her installation. The huge chariot with its primitive wills and massive planks pleased her particularly. The six bullocks yoked in pairs at a patriarchal ear about them, which took her fancy. Ayrton, going in hand, stood waiting the orders of this new master. My word, said Bagonel, this is a famous vehicle. It beats all the male coaches in the world. I don't know a better fashion of travelling than an Amunt Banks Caravan, a movable house which goes or stops wherever you please. What can one wish better? The Samorations understood that and never travelled in any other way. Monsieur Bagonel, said Lady Helena, I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in my salon. Assuredly, madam, I should count it an honour. Have you fixed the day? I shall be at home every day to my friends, replied Lady Helena, and you are the most devoted among them all interrupted Bagonel gaily. These mutual compliments were interrupted by the arrival of the seven horses, saddled and ready. They were brought by Paddy's sons, and Lord Grenarvon paid the sums stipulated for his various purchases, adding his cordial thanks which the worthy Irishman valued at least as much as his golden guineas. The signal was given to start, and Lady Helena and Mary took their places in the reserved compartment. Airton seated himself in front, and Albionette scrambled in among the baggage. The rest of the party were alarmed with carbines and revolvers, mounted their horses. Airton gave a peculiar cry, and his team set off. The wagon shook, and the planks creaked, and the axles grated in the naives of the wheels, and before long the hospitable farm of the Irishman was out of sight. END OF BOOK TWO CHAPTER VIII BOOK TWO CHAPTER IX OF INSEARCH OF THE CASTOWAIS This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. INSEARCH OF THE CASTOWAIS OR THE CHILDREN OF CAPTAIN GRANT by Jules Verne BOOK TWO CHAPTER IX A COUNTRY OF PARADOXES It was the twenty-third of December, 1864, a dull, damp, dreary month in the northern hemisphere, but on the Australian continent it might be called June, the hottest season of the year had already commenced, and the sun's rays were almost tropical when Lord Glen Irvine started on his new expedition. Most fortunately the 37th parallel did not cross the immense deserts in accessible regions which have cost many martyrs to science already. Glen Irvine could never have encountered them, he had only to do with the southern part of Australia, that is, with the narrow portion of the province of Adelaide, with the whole of Victoria, and with the top of the reverse triangle which forms new south Wales. It is scarcely sixty-two miles from Cape Bernoulli to the frontiers of Victoria. It was not above two days March, and Ireton reckoned on their sleeping next night at Apsley, the most westerly town of Victoria. The commencement of a journey is always marked by ardour, both in the horses and the horsemen. This is well enough in the horsemen, but if the horses are to go far their speed must be moderated and their strength husbanded. It was therefore fixed that the average journey every day should not be more than from twenty-five to thirty miles. Besides, the pace of the horses must be regulated by the slower pace of the bullocks, truly mechanical engines which lose in time with the gain in power. The wagon with its passengers and provisions was the very centre of the caravan, the moving fortress. The horsemen might act as scouts, but must never be far away from it. As no special marching order had been agreed upon everybody was at liberty to follow his inclinations within certain limits. The hunters could scour the plain, amiable folks could talk to the fair occupants of the wagon, and philosophers could philosophize. Paganel, who was all three combined, had to be and was everywhere at once. The march across Adelaide presented nothing of any particular interest. A succession of low hills, rich in dust, a long stretch of what they call in Australia, bush, several prairies covered with small prickly bush, considered a great dainty by the Ovine tribe, embraced many miles. Here and there they noticed the species of sheep peculiar to New Holland, sheep with pig's heads, feeding between the posts of the telegraph line, recently made between Adelaide and the coast. Up to this time there had been a singular resemblance in the country to the monotonous plains of the Argentine Pampas. There was the same grassy flat soil, the same sharply defined horizon against the sky. McNabs declared that they had never changed countries, but Paganel told him to wait, and he would soon see a difference, and on the faith of this assurance marvellous things were expected by the whole party. In this fashion, after a march of sixty miles in two days, the caravan reached the parish of Apsley, the first town in the province of Victoria, in the Wimerra district. The wagon was put up at the town in. Supper was soon smoking on the table. It consisted solely of mutton, served up in various ways. They all ate heartily, but talked more than they ate, eagerly asking Paganel questions about the wonders of the country they were just beginning to traverse. The amiable geographer needed no pressing, and told them first that this part of it was called Australia Felix. Wrongly named, he continued. It had better have been called rich, for it is true of countries, as individuals that riches do not make happiness. Thanks to her gold-minds Australia has been abandoned to wild devastating adventurers. You will come across them when we reach the gold fields. Is not the colony of Victoria of but a recent origin? asked Lady Glenarvon. Yes, ma'am, it only numbers thirty years of existence. It was on the sixth of June, eighteen-thirty-five, on a Tuesday. At a quarter-past seven in the evening, put in the Major, who delighted in teasing the Frenchman about his precise dates. No, at ten minutes past seven, replied the geographer gravely, that Batman and Faulkner first began a settlement at Fort Phillip, the bay on which the large city of Melbourne now stands. For fifteen years the colony was part of New South Wales, and recognized Sydney as the capital. But in eighteen-fifty-one she was declared independent, and took the name of Victoria. And has greatly increased in prosperity since then, I believe, said Glenarvon. Judge for yourself, my noble friend, replied Paganel, here are the numbers given by the last statistics, and let McNabs say, as he likes, I know nothing more eloquent than statistics. Go on, said the Major. Well then, in eighteen-thirty-six, the colony of Phillips had two-hundred-and-twenty-two inhabitants. Today the province of Victoria numbers five-hundred-and-fifty-thousand. Seven millions of vines produce annually one-hundred-and-twenty-one-thousand gallons of wine.  Is there not also a certain number of pigs? Yes, Major, seventy-nine-thousand-six-hundred-and-twenty-five. And how many sheep? Seven-million-one-hundred-fifteen-thousand-nine-hundred-and-forty-three McNabs. Including the one we are eating at this moment? No, without counting that, since it is three parts devoured. Bravo, Mr. Paganel! exclaimed Lady Helena, laughing heartily. It must be owned. You are posted up in geographical questions, and my cousin, McNabs, cannot try and find you tripping. It is my calling, ma'am, to know this sort of thing, and to give you the benefit of my information when you please. You may therefore believe me, when I tell you that wonderful things are in store for you in this strange country. It does not look like it at present, said McNabs, on purpose to tease Paganel. Just you wait, impatient Major, was his rejoinder. You have hardly put your foot on the frontier. When you turn round and abuse it. Well, I say and I say again, and will always maintain, that this is the most curious country on the earth. Its formation and nature, and products and climate, and even its future disappearance, have amazed and are now amazing and will amaze all the savantes in the world. Think, my friends, of a continent, the margin of which, instead of the centre, rose out of the waters originally like a gigantic ring, which encloses, perhaps in its centre, a sea partly evaporated, the waves of which are drying up daily, where humidity does not exist, either in the air or in the soil, where the trees lose their bark every year instead of their leaves, where the leaves present their sides to the sun and not their face, and consequently give no shade, where the wood is often incompostable, where good-sized stones are dissolved by the rain, where forests are low, and the grasses gigantic, where the animals are strange, where quadrupeds have beaks, like the Iknada, or ornithonicus, and naturalists have been obliged to create a special order for them, called monotremes, where the kangaroos leap on unequal legs, and sheep have pigs' heads, where foxes fly a boat from tree to tree, where swans are black, where rats make nests, where the bower bird opens her reception rooms to receive visits from her feathered friends, where the birds astonish the imagination by the variety of their notes and their aptness, where one bird serves for a clock, and another makes a sound like a postulun cracking of a whip, and a third imitates a knife-grinder, and a fourth the motion of a pendulum, where one laughs when the sun rises, and another cries when the sun sets, Oh, strange, illogical country, land of paradoxes and anomalies! If ever there was one on earth, the learned botanist Grimard was right when he said, There is that Australia, a sort of parody, or rather a defiance of universal laws, in the face of the rest of the world. Paganel's tirade was poured forth in the most impetuous manner, and seemed as if it were never coming to an end. The eloquent secretary of the geographical society was no longer master of himself. He went on and on, gesticulating furiously, and brandishing his fork to the imminent danger of his neighbours. But at last his voice was drowned in a thunder of applause, and he managed to stop. Certainly after such an enumeration of Australian peculiarities he might have been left in peace, but the major said in the coolest tone possible. And is that all, Paganel? No, indeed not. Rejoined the Frenchman with renewed vehemence. What! exclaimed Lady Helena. There are more wonders still in Australia? Yes, madam, it's climate. It is even stranger than its productions. Is it possible? they all said. I am not speaking of the hygienic qualities of the climate, continued Paganel, rich as it is, in oxygen and poor in azote. There are no damp winds, because the trade winds blow regularly on the coast, and most diseases are unknown, from typhus to measles and chronic affections. Still, that is no small advantage, said Glen Arvin. No doubt, but I am not referring to that, but to one quality, it has, which is incomparable. And what is that? You will never believe me. Yes, we will! exclaimed his auditors. Their curiosity aroused by this preamble. Well, it is— It is what? It is a moral regeneration. A moral regeneration? Yes, replied this avant, in a tone of conviction. Here metals do not get rust on them by exposure to the air, nor men. Here the pure dry atmosphere whitens everything rapidly, both linen and soles. The virtue of the climate must have been well known in England, and they determined to send their criminals here to be reformed. What? Do you mean to say the climate has really any such influence? said Lady Helena. Yes, madam, both on animals and men. You are not joking, Mr. Paganel? I am not, madam. The horses and the cattle here are of incomparable docility. You see it? It is impossible. But it is a fact. And the convicts transported into this reviving, salubrious air become regenerated in a few years. Philanthropists know this. In Australia all natures grow better. But what is to become of you, then, Mr. Paganel? In this privileged country you, who are so good already? said Lady Helena. What will you turn out? Excellent, madam, just excellent, and that's all. End of Book Two, Chapter Nine. Book Two, Chapter Ten of In Search of the Castaways. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. In Search of the Castaways or the Children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne, Book Two, Chapter Ten, An Accident. The next day, the twenty-fourth of December, they started at daybreak. The heat was already considerable, but not unbearable, and the road was smooth and good, and allowed the cavalcade to make speedy progress. In the evening they camped on the banks of the White Lake, the waters of which are brackish and undrinkable. Jacques Paganel was obliged to own that the name of this lake was a complete misnomer, for the waters were no more white than the Black Sea is Black, or the Red Sea Red, or the Yellow River Yellow, or the Blue Mountains Blue. However, he argued and disputed the point with all the amir-prepare of a geographer, but his reasoning made no impression. Mr. Oblinette prepared the evening meal with his accustomed punctuality, and after this was dispatched the travellers disposed themselves for the night in the wagon and in the tent, and were soon sleeping soundly, notwithstanding the melancholy howl of the dingos, the jackals of Australia. A magnificent plain, thickly covered with chrythanthemums, stretched out beyond the lake, and Glen Arvin and his friends would gladly have explored its beauties when they awoke next morning, but they had to start. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible, but one stretch of prairie enamled with flower, in all the freshness and abundance of spring. The blue flowers of the slender-leaved flax, combined with the bright hues of the scarlet acanthus, a flower peculiar to the country. A few castle-wearies were bounding over the plain, but it was impossible to get near them. The Major was fortunate enough, though, however, to hit one very rare animal with a ball in the leg. This was the jabaroo, a species which is fast disappearing, the gigantic crane of the English colonies. This waned creature was five feet high, and his wide, conical, extremely pointed beak, measured eighteen inches in length. The violet and purple tints of his head contrasted vividly with the glossy green of his neck, and the dazzling whiteness of his throat, and the bright red of his long legs. Nature seemed to have exhausted, in its favour, all the primitive colours on her palette. Unfinished admiration was bestowed on this bird, and the Major's spoil would have borne the honours of the day, had not Robert come across an animal a few miles further on, and bravely killed it. It was a shapeless creature, half porcupine, half anteater, a sort of unfinished animal belonging to the first stage of creation. A long, glutinous, extensible tongue hung out of his jaws, in search of the ants which formed its principal food. It is an echidna, said Paganel, have you ever seen such a creature? It is horrible, replied Glen Arvin. Horrible enough, but curious, and what's more, peculiar to Australia. One might search for it in vain in any other part of the world. Naturally enough, the geographer wished to preserve this interesting species of monotromata, and wanted to stow it away in the luggage. But Mishir Ablanet resented the idea so indignantly that the savant was obliged to abandon his project. About four o'clock in the afternoon, John Mangles described an enormous column of smoke about three miles off, gradually overspreading the whole horizon. What could be the cause of this phenomenon? Paganel was inclined to think it was some description of meteor, and his lively imagination was already in search of an explanation, when Ayrton cut short all his conjectures summarily by announcing that the cloud of dust was caused by a drove of cattle on the road. The quartermaster proved right, for as the cloud came nearer, quite a chorus of bleeding and naing and bellowings escaped from it, mingled with the loud tones of a human voice, in the shape of cries, whistles, and vociferations. Presently a man came out of the cloud. This was the leader-in-chief of the four-footed army. Glen Arvin advanced toward him. The friendly relations were speedily established between them. The leader, or to give him his proper designation, the stockkeeper, was part owner of the drove. His name was Sam Machel, and he was on his way from the eastern provinces to Portland Bay. The drove numbered twelve thousand seventy-five head in all, or one thousand bullocks, eleven thousand sheep, and seventy-five horses. All these had been bought in the blue mountains in a poor lean condition, and were going to be fatted up on the rich pasturelands of southern Australia, and sold again at a great profit. Sam Machel expected to get pounds, two on each bullock, and ten shilling on every sheep, which would bring him in pounds three thousand seven hundred and fifty. This was doing good business, but what patience and energy were required to conduct such a restive, stubborn lot to their destination, and what fatigues must have to be endured, truly the gain was hardly earned. Sam Machel told his history in a few words, while the drove continued their march among the groves of Mimosas. Lady Helena and Mary and the rest of the party seated themselves under the shade of a widespread income-tree, and listened to his recital. It was seven months since Sam Machel had started.  His assistants in the laborious task comprised twenty dogs and thirty men, five of whom were blacks, and very serviceable in tracking up any stray beasts. Six wagons made up the rear-guard. All the men were armed with stock-whips, the handles of which are eighteen inches long, and the lash nine feet, and they move about among the ranks, bringing refractory animals back into order, while the dogs, the light calvary of the regiment, preserved discipline in the wings. The travellers were struck with the admirable arrangement of the drove. The different stock were kept apart, for wild sheep and bullocks would not have got on together at all. The bullocks would never have grazed where the sheep had passed along, and consequently they had to go first, divided into two battalions. Five regiment of sheep followed, in charge of twenty men, and last of all came the horses. Sam Machel drew the attention of his auditors to the fact that the real guides of the drove were neither the men nor the dogs, but the oxen themselves, beasts of superior intelligence, raised as leaders by their congenitors. They advanced in front with perfect gravity, choosing the best route by instinct, and fully alive to their claim to respect. Indeed they were obliged to be studied and humoured in everything, for the whole drove obeyed them implicitly. If they took it into their heads to stop, it was a matter of necessity to yield to their good pleasure, for not a single animal would move a step till these leaders gave the signal to set off. Sundry details added by the stock-keeper completed the history of this expedition, worthy of being written, if not commended by Xenophon himself. As long as the troop marched over the planes, it was well enough, there was little difficulty or fatigue. The animals fed as they went along, and sleep their thirst at the numerous creeks that watered the plains, sleeping at night and making good progress in the day, always obedient and tractable to the dogs. But when they had to go through great forests and groves of eucalyptus and mimosas, the difficulties increased. Platoons, battalions, and regiments got all mixed together or scattered, and it was work of time to collect them again. Should a leader, unfortunately, go astray, he had to be found, cost what it might, on pain of general disbandment, and the blacks were often long days in quest of him, before their search was successful. During the heavy rains the lazy beasts refused to stir, and when violent storms chanced to occur, the creatures became almost mad with terror, and were seized with wild, disorderly panic. However, by dint of energy and ambition, the stock-keeper triumphed over these difficulties, incessantly renewed though they were. He kept steadily on, mile after mile, of plains and woods and mountains, lay behind. But in addition to all his other qualities, there was one higher than all that he especially needed when they came to rivers. This was patience, patience that could stand any trial, and not only could hold out for hours and days but for weeks. The stock-keeper would be himself forced to wait on the banks of a stream that might have been crossed at once. There was nothing to hinder but the obstinacy of the herd. The bullocks would taste the water and turn back. The sheep fled in all directions, afraid to brave the liquid element. The stock-keeper hoped when night came he might manage them better, but they still refused to go forward. The rams were dragged in by force, but the sheep would not follow. They tried what thirst they could, by keeping them without drink for several days. But when they were brought to the river again they simply quenched their thirst and declined a more intimate acquaintance with the water. The next expedient employed was to carry all the lambs over, hoping the mothers would be drawn after them, moved by their cries. But the lambs might bleed as pitifully as they liked. The mothers never stirred. Sometimes the state of affairs would last a whole month, and the stock-keeper would be driven to his wit-sand by his bleeding, bellowing, neighing army. Then all of a sudden one fine day, without rhyme or reason, a detachment would take it to their heads to make a start to cross, and the only difficulty now was to keep the whole herd from rushing helter-skelter after them. The wildest confusion set in among the ranks, and numbers of the animals were drowned in the passage. Such was the narrative of Sam Mitchell. During its recital a considerable part of the troop had filed past in good order. It was time for him to return to his place at their head, that he might be able to choose the best pastureage. Taking leave of Lord Gelenarvin, he sprang on a capital horse of the native breed, that one of his men held waiting for him, and after shaking hands cordially with everybody all round, took his departure. A few minutes later nothing was visible of the stock-keeper in his troop but a cloud of dust. The wagon resumed its course in the opposite direction and did not stop again till they halted for the night at the foot of Mount Talbot. Paganel made the judicious observation that it was the twenty-fifth of December, that Christmas Day so dear to English hearts. But the steward had not forgotten it, and an appetizing meal was soon ready under the tent, for which he deserved and received warm compliments from the guests. Indeed, M. Oblenet had quite excelled himself on this occasion. He produced from his stores such an array of European dishes as his seldom seen in the Australian desert. Reindeer-hams, slices of salt-beef, smoked salmon, oat-cakes, and barley-meal scones, tea at Lebedum, and whiskey in abundance, and several bottles of port, composed this astonishing meal. The little party might have fought themselves in the grand dining-hall of Malcolm Castle in the heart of the Highlands of Scotland. The next day at eleven a.m. the wagon reached the banks of the Womerah, on the one-hundred-and-forty-third Meridian. The river, half a mile in width, wound its limpid course between tall rows of gum-trees and acacias. Magnificent specimens of the Mertesia, among others, the metrocyed Ross, speciosa, fifteen feet high, with long, drooping branches adorned with red flowers, thousands of birds, the lorries and greenfinches and gold-winged pigeons, not to speak of the noisy parriquettes, flew about in the green branches. Below, on the bosom of the water, were a couple of shy and unapproachable black swans. This rarer avus of the Australian rivers soon disappeared among the windings of the Womerah, which watered the charming landscape in the most capricious manner. The wagon stopped on a grassy bank, the long fringes of which dipped in the rapid current. There was neither raft nor bridge, but cross over they must. Ayrton looked about for a practicable ford. About a quarter of a mile up the water seemed shallower, and it was here they determined to try and pass over. The soundings in different parts showed a depth of three feet only, so that the wagon might safely enough venture. I suppose there is no other way of fording the river, said Glen Arvin to the quartermaster. No, my lord, but the passage does not seem dangerous. We shall manage it. Shall Lady Glen Arvin and Miss Grant get out of the wagon? Not at all. My bullocks are sure footed, and you may rely on me for keeping them straight. Very well, Ayrton, I can trust you. The horsemen surrounded the ponderous vehicle, and all stepped boldly into the current. Generally, when wagons have to ford rivers, they have empty casks, slung all round them, to keep them floating on the water, but they had no such swimming-belt with them on this occasion, and they could only depend on the sagacity of the animals and the prudence of Ayrton who directed the team. The major and the two sailors were some feet in advance. Glen Arvin and John Mankels went at the sides of the wagon, ready to lend any assistance the fair travellers might require, and Paganel and Robert brought up the rear. All went well until they reached the middle of the Wimmera, but then the hollow deepened and the water rose to the middle of the wheels. The bullocks were in danger of losing their footing, and dragging with them the oscillating vehicle. Ayrton devoted himself to his task courageously. He jumped into the water, and hanging on by the bullock's horns dragged them back into the right course. Suddenly the wagon made a jolt that it was impossible to prevent. A crack was heard, and the vehicle began to lean over it in a most precarious manner. The water now rose to the lady's feet. The whole concern began to float, though John Mankels and Lord Glen Arvin hung on to the side. It was an anxious moment. Fortunately a vigorous effort drove the wagon toward the opposite shore, and the bank began to slope upward so that the horses and bullocks were able to regain their footing, and soon the whole party found themselves on the other side, glad enough, though wet enough too. The four part of the wagon, however, was broken by the jolt, and Glen Arvin's horse had lost a shoe. This was an accident that needed to be promptly repaired. They looked at each other hardly knowing what to do, till Ayrton proposed he should go to Black Point Station twenty miles for the north and bring a blacksmith with him. Yes, go, my good fellow, said Glen Arvin, how long will it take you to get there and back? About fifteen hours, replied Ayrton, but no longer. Start it once then, and we will camp here on the banks of the Wimmera till you return. And of Book Two, CHAPTER X CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER CHAPTER Quite a number of persons were hastening toward the railway bridge. The people from the neighbouring stations left their houses, and the shepherds their flocks, and crowded the approaches to the railway. Every now and then there was a shout, the railway, the railway! Something serious must have occurred to produce such an agitation, perhaps some terrible accident. Glen Arvin, followed by the rest, urged his horse. In a few minutes he arrived at Camden Bridge, and then he became aware of the cause of such an excitement.  The affair recalled the worst disasters of American railways. The river crossed by the railway was full of broken carriages and the engine. Whether the weight of the train had been too much for the bridge, or whether the train had gone off the rails, the fact remained that five carriages out of six fell into the bed of the loaden, dragged down by the locomotive. The sixth carriage, miraculously preserved by the breaking of the coupling chain, remained on the rails, six feet from the abyss. Below nothing was discernible but a melancholy heap of twisted and blackened axles, shattered wagons, bent rails, charred sleepers. The boiler, burst by the shock, had scattered its plates to enormous distances. From this shapeless mass of ruins, flames and black smoke still rose. After the fearful fall came fire, more fearful still. Great tracts of blood, scattered limbs, charred trunks of bodies, showed here and there. None could guess how many victims lay dead and mangled under those ruins. Glenarvin, Paganel, the major, mangles, mixing with the crowd, heard the current talk. Everyone tried to account for the accident, while doing his utmost to save what could be saved. The bridge must have broken, said one. Not a bit of it. The bridge is whole enough. They must have forgotten to close it, to let the train pass. That is all. It was, in fact, a swing bridge, which opened for the convenience of the boats. Had the guard by an unpardonable oversight omitted to close it for the passage of the train, so that the train, coming on at full speed, was precipitated into the loading. This hypothesis seemed very admissible, for although one half of the bridge lay beneath the ruins of the train, the other half, drawn up to the opposite shore, hung, still unharmed by its chains. No one could doubt that an oversight on the part of the guard had caused the catastrophe. The accident had occurred in the night, to the express train which left Melbourne at eleven forty-five in the evening. About a quarter past three in the morning, twenty-five minutes after leaving Castle Main, it arrived at Candon Bridge, where the terrible disaster befell. The passengers and guards of the last and only remaining carriage at once tried to obtain help. But the telegraph, whose posts were lying on the ground, could not be worked. It was three hours before the authorities from Castle Main reached the scene of the accident, and it was six o'clock in the morning when the salvage party was organised, under the direction of Mr. Mitchell, the surveyor general of the colony, and a detachment of police, commanded by an inspector.  A few unrecognisable bodies lay on the slope of the embankment, but from that blazing mass no living thing could be saved. The fire had done its work too speedily. Of the passengers ten only survived, those in the last carriage. The railway authorities sent a locomotive to bring them back to Castle Main. Lord Gunarvin, having introduced himself to the surveyor general, entered into conversation with him and the inspector of police. The latter was a tall, thin man, impeturably cool, and whatever he may have felt, allowed no trace of it to appear on his features. He contemplated this calamity as a mathematician does a problem. He was seeking to solve it, and to find the unknown. And when Gunarvin observed, this is a great misfortune, he quietly replied, Better than that, my lord. Better than that, cried Gunarvin, I do not understand you. It is better than misfortune. It is a crime, he replied, in the same quiet tone. Gunarvin looked inquiringly at Mr. Mitchell for a solution. Yes, my lord, replied the surveyor general. Our inquiries have resulted in the conclusion that the catastrophe is the result of a crime. The last luggage van has been robbed. The surviving passengers were attacked by a gang of five or six villains. The bridge was intentionally opened, and not left open by the neglect of the guard, and, connecting with this fact, the guard's disappearance, we may conclude that the wretched fellow was an accomplice of these ruffians. The police officer shook his head at this inference. You do not agree with me? said Mr. Mitchell. No, not as to the complicity of the guard. Well, but granting that complicity, we may attribute the crime to the natives who haunt the Murray. Without him, the blacks could never have opened a swing bridge. They know nothing of its mechanism. Exactly so, said the police inspector. Well, added Mr. Mitchell, we have evidence of a boatman whose boat passed Camden Bridge at eleven forty p.m. that the bridge was properly shut after he passed. True. Well, after that I cannot see any doubt as to the complicity of the guard. The police officer shook his head gently but continued. Then you don't attribute the crime to the natives? Not at all. To whom, then? Just at this moment a noise was heard from about half a mile up the river. A crowd had gathered and quickly increased. They soon reached the station, and in their midst were two men carrying a corpse. It was the body of the guard, quite cold, stabbed to the heart. The murderers had no doubt hoped, by dragging their victim to a distance, that the police would be put on a wrong scent in their first inquiries. Their discovery, at any rate, justified the doubts of the police inspector. The poor blacks had had no hand in the matter. Those who dealt that blow, said he, were already well used to this little instrument, and so saying he produced a pair of Darby's, a kind of handcuff made of a double ring of iron secured by a lock. I shall soon have the pleasure of presenting them with these bracelets as a New Year's gift. Can you suspect some folks who came out free in Her Majesty's ships? What convicts, cried Paganel, who recognized the formula employed in the Australian colonies. I thought, said Glenarvon, convicts had no right in the province of Victoria. Bah! said the inspector. If they have no right they take it. They escape sometimes, and if I am not greatly mistaken this lot have come straight from Perth, and take my word for it they will soon be there again. Mr. Mitchell nodded acquiescence in the words of the police inspector. At this moment the wagon arrived at the level crossing of the railway. Glenarvon wished to spare the ladies the horrible spectacle at Camden Bridge. He took courteous leave of the surveyor general, and made a sign to the rest to follow him. There is no reason, said he, for delaying our journey. Glenarvon merely mentioned to Lady Helena that there had been a railway accident without a hint of the crime that had played so great a part in it. Neither did he make mention of the presence of a band of convicts in the neighborhood, reserving that piece of information slowly for Ereton's ear. The little procession now crossed the railway some two hundred yards below the bridge, and then resumed their eastward course. End of Book 2, Chapter 11. In search of the castaways, or the children of Captain Grant by Jules Verne, Book 2, Chapter 12, Tolene of the Lachlan. About two miles from the railway, the plane terminated in a range of low hills, and it was not long before the wagon entered a succession of narrow gorges and capricious windings, out of which it emerged into a most charming region, where grand trees, not closely planted, but in scattered groups, were growing with absolute tropical luxuriance. As the party drove on, they stumbled upon a little native boy, lying fast asleep beneath the shade of a magnificent banksia. He was dressed in European garb, and seemed about eight years of age. There was no mistaking the characteristic features of his race, the crisp tear, the nearly black skin, the flattened nose, the thick lips, the unusual length of the arms, immediately clasped him among the aborigines of the interior. But a degree of intelligence appeared in his face that showed some educational influence must have been a work on his savage, untamed nature. Lady Helena, whose interest was greatly excited by this spectacle, got out of the wagon, followed by Mary, and presently, the whole company surrounded the peaceful little sleeper.  I wonder. In this desert? I suppose, said Lady Helena, he has come a long way to visit this part. No doubt some he loves are here. But he can't be left alone, added Robert. We must. His compassionate sentence remained unfinished, for, just at that moment, the child turned over in his sleep. And to the extreme surprise of everybody, there was a large label on his shoulders, on which the following was written. Tolene, to be conducted to your draw, care of Geoffrey Smith, railway porter, prepaid. That's the English all over, exclaimed Paganel. They send off a child just as they would luggage, and book them like a parcel. I heard it was done, certainly, but I could not believe it before. Poor child, said Lady Helena, could he have been in the train that got off, the line in Camden Bridge? Perhaps his parents were killed, and he is left alone in the world. I don't think so, Madame, replied John Mangles. The card rather goes to prove he was traveling alone. He is waking up, said Mary. And so he was. His eyes slowly opened, and they closed again, pained by the glare of the light. But Lady Helena took his hand, and he jumped at once, and looked about him in bewilderment at the sight of so many strangers. He seemed half-frightened at first, but the presence of Lady Helena reassured him. Do you understand English, my little man? Asked the young lady. I understand it, and speak it, replied the child in fluent enough English. But with a marked accent, his pronunciation was like a Frenchman's. What is your name, asked Lady Helena. Tolene, replied the little native. Tolene? exclaimed Paganel. Ah, I think that means bark of a tree in Australian. Tolene nodded, and looked again at the travelers. Where do you come from, inquired Lady Helena? From Melbourne, by way of rail, from Sandhurst. Were you in the accident at Camden Bridge, asked Glenirvan? Yes, sir, was Tolene's reply, but the God of the Bible protected me. Are you traveling alone? Yes, alone. The Reverend pacts and put me in charge of Geoffrey Smith. But unfortunately, poor man was killed, and you did not know anyone else on the train? No one, ma'am, but God watches over children, and never forsakes them. Tolene added this in a soft, quiet tone, which went to her heart. When he mentioned the name of God, his voice was grave, and his eyes beamed with all the fervor that animated his young soul. This religious enthusiasm, at so tender an age, was easily explained. The child was one of the Aborigines baptized by the English missionaries, and trained by them in all the rigid principles of the Methodist Church.  But where was he going all alone in these solitudes, and why had he left Camden Bridge? Lady Helena asked him about this. I was returning to my tribe in Lachlan, he replied. I wish to see my family again. Are they Australians, inquired John Mangels? Yes, Australians of the Lachlan, replied Tolene. Have you a father and mother? Said Robert Grant. Yes, my brother, replied Tolene, holding out his hand. To little Grant, Robert was so touched by the word brother that he kissed the black child, and they were friends fortwith. The whole party were so interested in these replies of the little Australian savage that they all sat around him in a listening group. But the sun had meantime sunk behind the tall trees, and as a few miles would not greatly retard their progress, and the spot they were in would be suitable for a halt. Glenavan gave orders to prepare for Cam for the night at once. Arton unfastened the bullocks and turned them out to feed at will. The tent was pitched, and Ulbricht got the supper ready. Tolene consented after some difficulty to share it. Though he was hungry enough, he took his seat beside Robert, who chose out all the tidbits for his new friend. Tolene accepted them with a shy grace that was very charming. The conversation with him, however, was still kept up, for everyone felt an interest in the child, and wanted to talk to him and hear his history. It was simple enough. He was one of the poor native children confined to the care of charitable societies by the neighboring tribe. The Australian aborigines are gentle and inoffensive, never exhibiting the fierce hatred toward their conquerors, which characterizes the New Zealanders, and possibly a few of the races of Northern Australia. They often go to the large towns, such as Adelaide, Sydney, and Melbourne, to walk about in very primitive costume. They go to barter their few articles of industry, hunting and fishing implements, weapons, etc. And some of the chiefs, from culinary motives, no doubt, willingly leave their children to profit by the advantages of gratuitous education in English. This was how Tolene's parents had acted. They were true Australian savages living in the Lachlan, a vast region lying beyond the Murray. The child had been in Melbourne five years, and during that time he had never once seen any of his own people. And yet the imperishable feeling of kindred was still so strong in his heart that he had dared to brave his journey over the wilds to visit his tribe once more. Scattered throughout per chance, it might be. And his family, even should he find it, be decimated. And after you have kissed your parents, are you coming back to Melbourne? asked Lady Glenevan. Yes, madame, replied Tolene, looking at the lady with loving expression. And what are you going to be someday? she continued. I am going to snatch my brothers from misery and ignorance, and I am going to teach them to bring them to know and love God. I am going to be a missionary. Words like those spoken with such animation from a child of only eight years might have provoked a smile in light scoffing auditors, but they understood and appreciated by the grave scotch who admired the courage of the young disciple already armed for the battle. Even Paganel, who stirred in the depths of his heart and felt his warmer sympathy awakened for the poor child. To speak the truth, up to the moment he did not care much for a savage in European attire. He had not come to Australia to see Australians in coats and trousers. He preferred them simply tattooed. And this conventional dress jarred on his preconceived notions, but the child's genuine religious fever won him over completely. Indeed, the wind-up of the conversation converted the worthy geographer into his best friend. It was in reply to a question Lady Helen had asked that Tolene said he was studying at the normal school in Melbourne, and that the principal was Reverend Mr. Paxton. And what do they teach you? She went on to say. They teach me the Bible and mathematics and geography. Paganel pricked up his ears at this and said, indeed, geography? Yes, sir, said Tolene. And I had the first prize for geography before the Christmas holidays. You had the first prize for geography, my boy? Yes, sir, here it is, returned Tolene pulling a book out of his pocket. It was a Bible, 32 MO size, and well-bound. On the first page was written the words, normal school, Melbourne, first prize for geography, Tolene of the Lachlan. Paganel was beside himself, an Australian well-versed in geography. This was marvelous, and he could not help kissing Tolene on both cheeks, just as if he had been the Reverend Mr. Paxton himself on the day of the distribution of prizes. Paganel need not have been so amazed at this circumstance, however, for it is frequent enough in Australian schools. The little savages are very quick in learning geography. They learn it eagerly. And on the other hand, are perfectly averse to the science of arithmetic. Tolene could not understand this outburst of affection on the part of the Frenchman. He looked so puzzled that Lady Helena thought she had better inform him that Paganel was a celebrated geographer and a distinguished professor on occasion. A professor of geography, cried Tolene, oh, sir, do question me. Question you? Well, I'd like nothing better, indeed. I was going to do it without your leave. I should very much like to see how they teach geography in the normal school of Melbourne. And suppose Tolene trips you up, Paganel, said McNabs? What a likely idea, exclaimed the geographer, trip up the secretary of the Geographical Society of France. Their examination then commenced after Paganel had settled his spectacles firmly on his nose, drawn himself up to his full height, and put on a solemn voice becoming the professor. Pupil Tolene, stand up. As Tolene was already standing, he could not get any higher. But he waited modestly for the geographer's question. Pupil Tolene, what are the five divisions of the globe? Oceania, Asia, Africa, America, and Europe. Perfectly so. Now, we'll take Oceania first. Where are we at this moment? What are the principal divisions? Australia, belonging to the English. New Zealand, belonging to the English. Tasmania, belonging to the English. The islands of Chatham, Auckland, Macquarie, Kermadec, Macon, Marrakei are also belonging to the English. Very good. And New Caldania, the Sandwich Islands, the Mendena, and the Pompatou, they are islands under the protectorate of Great Britain. What? cried Paganel, under the protectorate of Great Britain. I rather think the contrary, that France. France, said the child with an astonished look. Well, well, said Paganel. Is that what they teach you in the Melbourne Normal School? Yes, sir. Isn't it right? Oh, yes, yes, perfectly right. All Oceania belongs to the English. That's an understood thing. Go on. Paganel's face betrayed both surprise and annoyance to the great delight of the major. Let us go on to Asia, said the geographer. Asia, replied Tolene. It's an immense country. Capital, Calcutta. Chief towns, Bombay, Madrid, Calcutta, Aden, Malacca, Singapore, Pegu, Colombo, the Lake Dive Islands, the Maladives, the Chagos, et cetera, belong to the English. Very good, pupil Tolene, and now for Africa. Africa comprises of two chief colonies, the Cape on the South, Capital Cape Town, and on the West, the English settlement's chief city, Sierra Leone. Capital, said Paganel, beginning to enter into his perfectly taught but Anglo-colored fanciful geography. As to Algeria, Morocco, Egypt, they are all struck out of the Britannic cities. Let us pass on, prayed to America. It is divided, said Tolene promptly, into North and South America. The former belongs to the English in Canada, New Brunswick, New Scotland, and the United States, under the government of President Johnson. Paganel, the successor of the great and good Lincoln, assassinated by a mad fanatic of the slave party, Capital, nothing could be better. And as to South America, with its Guiana, its archipelago of South Shelton, its Georgia, Jamaica, Trinidad, et cetera, that belongs to the English too. Well, I'm not to be the one to dispute that point, but Tolene, I should like to know your opinion of Europe, or rather, your professors. Europe, said Tolene, not at all understanding Paganel's excitement. Yes, Europe. Who does Europe belong to? Why, to the English, replied Tolene, as if the fact was quite settled. I much doubt it, returned Paganel. But how's that, Tolene, for I want to know that. England, Ireland, Scotland, Malta, Jersey, and Guernsey, the Ionian Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and the Ornquays, yes, yes, my lad, but there are other states you forgot to mention. When are they, replied the child, not the least concerted. Spain, Russia, Austria, Persia, France, answered Paganel. They are provinces, not states, said Tolene.  Yes, continued the child, Spain, capital Gibraltar. Admiral, perfect, sublime, and France, for I am French, and I should know to whom I belong. France, said Tolene quietly, is an English province, chief city, Calus. Calus, cried Paganel, so you think Calus still belongs to the English? Certainly, and that is the capital of France. Yes, sir, and it is there that the governor, Lord Napoleon, lives. This was too much for Paganel's risable faculties. He burst out laughing. Tolene did not know what to make of him. He had done his best to answer every question put to him, but the singularity of the answers were not his blame. Indeed, he never imagined anything singular about them. However, he took it all quietly and waited for the professor to recover himself. These peals of laughter were quite incomprehensible to him. You see, said Major McNabb, laughing, I was right, the pupil could enlighten you after all. Most absurdly, friend major, replied the geographer. So that's the way they teach geography in Melbourne. They do it well, these professors in the normal school, Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Oceana. The whole world belongs to the English. My consensus, with such an ingenious education, it is no wonder the natives submit. Oh well, Tolene, my boy, does the moon belong to England too? She will someday, replied the young savage gravely. This was the climax. Paganel could not stand anymore. He was obligated to go away and take his laugh out, for he was actually exploding with mirth. And he went fully a quarter of a mile from the encampment before his equilibrium was restored. Meanwhile, Glenirhan looked up a geography they had brought among their books. It was Richardson's Compendium, a work of great repute in England, and more in argument with modern science than the manual in use in the normal school in Melbourne. Here, my child, he said to Tolene, take this book and keep it. You have a few wrong ideas about geography, which it would be well for you to rectify. I will give you this as a keepsake from me. Tolene took the book silently, but after examining it attentively, he shook his head with an air of impredulity. He could not even make up his mind to put it in his pocket. By this time, night had closed in. It was 10 p.m. and time to think of rest, if they were to start betimes next day. Robert offered his friend Tolene half his bed, and the little fellow accepted it. Lady Helena and Mary Grant withdrew to the wagon, and the others lay down in the tent. Paganel's merry peels still mingled with the low, sweet song of the wild magpie. But in the morning, at six o'clock, when the sunshine wakened the sleepers, they looked in vain for the little Australian. Tolene had disappeared. Was he in haste to get to Lachlan district, or was he hurt by Paganel's laughter? No one could say. But when Lady Helena opened her eyes, she discovered a fresh branch of mimosa leaves laying across her, and Paganel found a book in his vest pocket, which turned out to be Richardson's geography. End of book two, chapter 12, recording by Michael Gray, Tacoma, Washington. Book two, chapter 13, of In Search of the Castaways. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. In Search of the Castaways, or The Children of Captain Grant, by Jules Verne. Book two, chapter 13, a warning. On the second of January at sunrise, the travellers forded the Colben and the Kalpesby rivers. The half of their journey was now accomplished. In fifteen days more, should their journey continue to be prosperous, the little party would reach Twofold Bay. They were all in good health. All that Paganel said of the hygienic qualities of the climate was realized. There was little or no humidity, and the heat was quite bearable. Neither horses nor bullocks could complain of it any more than human beings. The order of the march had been changed in one respect since the affair of Camden Bridge. That criminal catastrophe on the railway made Ayrton take sundry precautions, which had hitherto been unnecessary. The hunters never lost sight of the wagon, and whenever they camped one was always placed on watch. Morning and evening the firearms were primed afresh. It was certain that a gang of ruffians was prowling about the country, and though there was no cause for actual fear, it was well to be ready for whatever might happen. It need hardly be said that these precautions were adopted without the knowledge of Lady Helena and Mary Grant, as Lord Glenarvin did not wish to alarm them. They were by no means unnecessary, however, for any imprudence or carelessness might have cost the travellers dear. Others besides Glenarvin were on their guard. In lonely settlements and on stations the inhabitants and the squatters prepared carefully against any attack or surprise. Houses are closed at nightfall, the dogs let loose inside the fences, barked at the slightest sound. Not a single shepherd on horseback gathered his numerous flocks together at close of day, without having a carbine slung from his saddle. The outrage at Camden Bridge was the reason for all this, and many a colonist fastened himself in with bolts and bars now at dusk, who used to sleep with open doors and windows. The government itself displayed zeal and prudence, especially in the post-office department. On this very day, just as Glenarvin and his party were on their way from Kilmore to Heathcott, the mail dashed by at full speed, but though the horses were at a gallop, Glenarvin cut sight of the glittering weapons of the mounted police that rode by its side, as they swept past in a cloud of dust. The travellers might have fancied themselves back in those lawless times when the discovery of the first gold fields deluged the Australian continent with the scum of Europe. A mile beyond the road to Kilmore, the wagon for the first time since leaving Cape Bernoulli struck into one of those forests of gigantic trees which extend over a superfaces of several degrees. A cry of admiration escaped the travellers at the sight of the eucalyptus trees, two hundred feet high, with tough bark five inches thick. The trunks measuring twenty feet round and furrowed with foamy streaks of an odorous resin rose one hundred and fifty feet above the soil. Not a branch, not a twig, not a stray chute, not even a knot spoiled the regularity of their outline. They could not have come out smoother from the hands of a turner. They stood, like pillars, all moulded exactly alike, and could be counted by hundreds. At an enormous height they spread out in chaplets of branches, rounded and adorned at their extremity with alternate leaves. At the axle of these leaves solitary flowers drooped down, the callix of which resembles an inverted urn. Under this leafy dome, which never lost its greenness, the air circulated freely and dried up the dampness of the ground. Horses, cattle, and wagon could easily pass between the trees, for they were standing in wide rows, and parceled out like a wood that was being felled. This was neither like the densely packed woods choked with brambles, nor the virgin forest barricaded with trunks of fallen trees, and overgrown with inextricable tangles of creepers, where only iron and fire could open up a track. A grassy carpet at the foot of the trees, and a canopy of vergera above. Long perspectives of bold colours, little shade, little freshness at all, a peculiar light, as if the rays came through a thin veil, dappled lights and shades, sharply reflected on the ground, made up a hole, and constituted a peculiar spectacle rich in novel effects. The forests of the oceanic continent do not in the least resemble the forests of the New World, and the eucalyptus, the terra of the Aborigines, belonging to the family of Martatia. The different varieties of which can hardly be enumerated is the tree par excellence of the Australian flora. The reason of the shade not being deep nor the darkness profound under these domes of verger was that these trees presented a curious anomaly in the disposition of the leaves. Instead of presenting their broad surface to the sunlight, only the side is turned. Only the profile of the leaves is seen in this singular foliage. Consequently the sun's rays slant down them to the earth, as if through the open slats of a Venetian blind. Glenarvin expressed a surprise at this circumstance, and wondered what could be the cause of it. Paganel, who was never at a loss for an answer, immediately replied, "'What astonishes me is not the caprice of nature.  But botanists don't always know what they are saying. Nature made no mistake in giving this peculiar foliage to the tree, but men have aired in calling them eucalyptus.' "'What does the word mean?' asked Mary Grant. "'It comes from a Greek word, meaning I cover well. They took care to commit the mistake in Greek, that it might not be so self-evident, for any one can see that the eucalyptus covers badly.' "'I agree with you there,' said Glenarvin, but now tell us, Paganel, how is it that the leaves grow in this fashion?' "'From a purely physical cause, friends,' said Paganel, and one that you will easily understand. In this country, where the air is dry and rain seldom falls, the ground is parched, the trees have no need of wind or sun. Moisture lacking, sap is lacking also, hence these narrow leaves, which seek to defend themselves against the light, and prevent too great evaporation. This is why they present the profile, and not the face, to the sun's rays.  "'And nothing more selfish,' added the Major, these only thought of themselves, and not at all of travellers.' Everyone inclined to the opinion of McNabs except Paganel, who congratulated himself on walking under shadeless trees, though all the time he was whipping the perspiration from his forehead. However, this disposition of foliage was certainly to be regretted, for the journey through the forest was often long and painful, as the traveller had no protection whatever against the sun's fierce rays. The whole of this day the wagon continued to roll along through interminable rows of eucalyptus without meeting either quadruped or native. A few cockatoos lived in the top of the trees, but at such a height they could scarcely be distinguished, and their noisy chatter was changed into an imperceptible murmur.  When night came they camped at the foot of some eucalyptus which bore marks of a comparatively recent fire. They looked like tall factory chimneys, for the flame had completely hollowed them out, their whole length. With the thick barks still covering them they looked none the worse. However this bad habit of squatters or natives will end in the destruction of these magnificent trees, and they will disappear like the cedars of Lebanon those world monuments burnt by unlucky campfires. Alblanet acting on Paganel's advice lighted his fire to prepare supper in one of these tubular trunks. He found it drew capitably and the smoke was lost in the dark foliage above. Their requisite precautions were taken for the night, and Ayrton, Mulready, Wilson and John Mangles undertook in turn to keep watch until sunrise. On the third of January all day long they came to nothing but the same symmetrical avenues of trees. It seemed as if they were never going to end. However toward the evening the ranks of trees began to thin, and on a little plain a few miles off an assemblage of regular houses. See more! cried Paganel, that is the last town we come to in the province of Victoria. Is it an important one? asked Lady Helina. It is a mere village, madam, but on the way to becoming a municipality. Shall we find a respectable hotel there? asked Glenarvon. I hope so, replied Paganel. Very well, let us go on to the town, for our fair travellers with all their courage will not be sorry, I fancy, to have a good night's rest. My dear Edward, Mary and I will accept it gladly, but only on the condition that it will cause no delay, or take us the least out of the road. It will do neither, replied Lord Glenarvon, besides our bullocks are fatigued, and we will start to morrow at daybreak. It was now nine o'clock, the moon was just beginning to rise, but her rays only slanting yet, and lost in the mist. It was gradually getting dark when the little party entered the wide streets of Seymour, under Paganel's guidance, who seemed always to know what he had never seen, but his instinct led him right, and he walked straight to Campbell's north British hotel. The major, without even leaving the hotel, was soon aware that fear absorbed the inhabitants of the little town. Ten minutes' conversation with Dixon, the loquacious landlord, made him completely acquainted with the actual state of affairs, but he never breathed a word to any one. When supper was over, though, and Lady Glenarvon and Mary and Robert had retired, the major detained his companions a little, and said, They have found out the perpetrators of the crime on the Santa's railroad. And are they arrested? asked Ierton eagerly. No, replied McNabs, without apparently noticing the impressment of the quartermaster, an impressment which, moreover, was reasonable enough under the circumstances. So much the worse, replied Ierton. Well, said Glenarvon, who are the authors of the crime? Read, replied the major, offering Glenarvon a copy of the Australian and New Zealand gazette. And you will see that the inspector of the police was not mistaken. Glenarvon read aloud the following message. Sydney, January 2, 1866. It will be remembered that on the night of the 29th or 30th of last December there was an accident at Camden Bridge, five miles beyond the station at Castle Main, on the railway from Melbourne to Santhurst. The night express, 1145, dashing along at full speed, was precipitated into the Lawden River. Camden Bridge had been left open. The numerous robberies committed after the accident, the body of the guard, picked up about half a mile from Camden Bridge, proved that this catastrophe was the result of a crime. Indeed the coroner's inquest decided that the crime must be attributed to the band of convicts which escaped six months ago from the penitentiary at Perth, Western Australia, just as they were about to be transferred to Norfolk Island. The gang numbers, 29 men, they are under the command of a certain Ben Joyce, a criminal of the most dangerous class who arrived in Australia a few months ago, by what ship is not known, and who has hitherto succeeded in evading the hands of justice. The inhabitants of towns, colonists, and squatters at stations are hereby cautioned to be on their guard, and to communicate to the surveyor-general any information that may aid his search, J.P. Mitchell, S.G. When Glenarvon had finished reading this article, McNabs turned to the geographer and said, �You see, Paganel, there can be convicts in Australia�. �Escaped convicts, that is evident�, replied Paganel, but not regularly transported criminals, those fellows have no business here. �Well, they are here at any rate�, said Glenarvon, �but I don't suppose the fact need materially alter our arrangements, what do you think, John?� John Mangels did not reply immediately. He hesitated between the sorrow it would cause the two children to give up the search, and the fear of compromising the expedition. �If Lady Glenarvon and Miss Grant were not with us,� he said, �I should not give myself much concern about these riches�. Glenarvon understood him and added, �Of course, I need not say that it is not a question of giving up our task, but would it perhaps be prudent, for the sake of our companions, to rejoin the Duncan at Melbourne, and proceed with our search for traces of the Hennew Grant on the eastern side?� �What do you think of it, McNabs?� �Before I give my opinion�, replied the Major, �I should like to hear irritants�. At this direct appeal the quartermaster looked at Glenarvon and said, �I think we are two hundred miles from Melbourne, and that the danger, if it exists, is as great on the route to the south as on the route to the east, both are little frequented and both will serve us. Besides, I do not think that thirty scoundrels can frighten eight well-armed, determined men. My advice, then, is to go forward.� �And good advice, too, Arten�, replied Paganel. �By going on we may come across the traces of Captain Grant. In returning south, on the contrary, we turn our backs to them. I think with you, then. And I don�t care a snap for these escaped fellows. A brave man wouldn�t care a bit for them. On this they agreed with one voice to follow their original program. �Just one thing, my lord�, said Arten, when they were about to separate. �Say on, Arten, wouldn�t it be advisable to send orders to the Duncan to be at the coast? What good would that be?� replied John Mangels. �When we reach Twofold Bay, it will be time enough for that. If any unexpected event should oblige us to go to Melbourne, we might be sorry not to find the Duncan there. Besides, her injuries cannot be repaired yet. For these reasons, then, I think it would be better to wait. �