up the papers.
He then said: 'Jacky, give me paper and I will write.' I gave him pencil
and paper, and he tried to write, and he then fell back and died, and I
caught him in my arms and held him; and I then turned round myself and
cried. I was crying a good while until I got well; that was about an
hour, and then I buried him.

"I digged up the ground with a tomahawk, and covered him over with logs
and grass, and my shirt and trousers. That night I left him near dark. I
would go through the scrub and the blacks threw spears at me; a great
many; and I went back into the scrub. Then I went down the creek which
runs into Escape River, and I walked along the water in the creek, very
easy, with my head only above the water, to avoid the blacks, and get out
of their way. In this way I went half-a-mile. Then I got out of the
creek, and got clear of them, and walked all night nearly, and slept in
the bush without a fire."

At the southern entrance of Albany Pass, one of the most picturesque
spots of the east coast of Australia, the schooner Ariel lay at anchor,
awaiting, day after day, some signal to indicate the arrival of the
expected Kennedy. One day the look-out man announced that there was an
aboriginal on the mainland making urgent signals to the schooner. There
was nothing unusual in this, for during the delay and tedious waiting,
the blacks had constantly been seen making gestures on the shore. An
examination through the glass, however, showed the people on the Ariel
that this blackfellow was making such vehement and persistent signals
that it was thought worth while to send the boat in to investigate
affairs.

No wonder the poor fellow's signals were urgent and vehement; he was
Jacky-Jacky, who, thirteen days after Kennedy's death, by devious
twistings and windings, occasionally climbing a tree in the hope to catch
a glimpse of the schooner, and existing on roots and vermin, had at last
reached the goal. But when he stood prominently on the shore to signal to
the schooner, his relentless pursuers sighted him, and his frantic signs
were for rescue from imminent peril. The boat's crew fortunately
recognised the emergency, and a smart race ensued between them and the
natives. The rescuers won, and Jacky-Jacky was saved to tell his
melancholy story.

There was no time lost on board the Ariel. There were three men who might
be still alive at Shelburne Bay, and eight more starving at Weymouth Bay.
Kennedy was dead; thei