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 



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