r a load of shearers from
a shed which was cutting out; and first it was necessary to tie up in
the river and discharge the greater portion of the cargo in order that
the boat might safely negotiate the shallow waters. A local fisherman,
who volunteered to act as pilot, was taken aboard, and after he was
outside about a pint of whisky he seemed to have the greatest confidence
in his ability to take us to hell, or anywhere else--at least, he said
so. A man was sent ashore with blankets and tucker to mind the wool, and
we crossed the river, butted into the anabranch, and started out back.
Only the Lord and the pilot know how we got there. We travelled over the
bush, through its branches sometimes, and sometimes through grass and
mud, and every now and then we struck something that felt and sounded
like a collision. The boat slid down one hill, and "fetched" a stump at
the bottom with a force that made every mother's son bite his tongue or
break a tooth.

The shearers came aboard next morning, with their swags and two
cartloads of boiled mutton, bread, "brownie", and tea and sugar. They
numbered about fifty, including the rouseabouts. This load of sin sank
the steamer deeper into the mud; but the passengers crowded over to
port, by request of the captain, and the crew poked the bank away with
long poles. When we began to move the shearers gave a howl like the
yell of a legion of lost souls escaping from down below. They gave three
cheers for the rouseabouts' cook, who stayed behind; then they cursed
the station with a mighty curse. They cleared a space on deck, had
a jig, and afterwards a fight between the shearers' cook and his
assistant. They gave a mighty bush whoop for the Darling when the boat
swung into that grand old gutter, and in the evening they had a general
all-round time. We got back, and the crew had to reload the wool without
assistance, for it bore the accursed brand of a "freedom-of-contract"
shed.

We slept, or tried to sleep, that night on the ridge of two wool bales
laid with the narrow sides up, having first been obliged to get ashore
and fight six rounds with a shearer for the privilege of roosting there.
The live cinders from the firebox went up the chimney all night, and
fell in showers on deck. Every now and again a spark would burn through
the "Wagga rug" of a sleeping shearer, and he'd wake suddenly and get up
and curse. It was no use shifting round, for the wind was all ways,
and the boat stee