The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
of cord which was passed through the cartilage 
of the beast’s nose, and was travelling at quite 
a good pace too, at least seven miles an hour. I 
took several photos of him, one of which I re- 
produce. Unfortunately one of the plates I 
took, and which the oxman (to coin a new name) 
was good enough to aid me in by trotting back- 
wards and forwards to show off his mount’s 
paces, was broken on my arrival at Salisbury. 
This man told me that he rode in from the 
Penhalonga Gold Mines, eight miles off, once or 
twice a week, to get the local letters. 
On resuming our journey next day on a con- 
veyance that was in every respect superior to 
the waggon—it was a Yankee stage-coach (like 
the famous Deadwood coach that appeared in 
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in London some 
years ago), well swung on leathern straps, drawn 
by six mules, and driven by a nigger—we got on 
famously over the ground, considering the sandy 
and desperate nature of the road, and swung 
and bumped all over the place. But, as I have 
said, it was a distinct move in the right direction 
as to comfort. At length Salisbury was reached. 
We pulled up with a flourish at the hotel and 
stretched our aching limbs. Food and drink at 
this place seemed to be at famine prices, Bass’s 
beer being twelve shillings a bottle and fresh 
eggs twenty-four shillings a dozen, whilst other 
things were correspondingly expensive. In the 
88 
