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 their eggs there, leaving their legs sticking out, and if the victim fails to extract all portions of them they produce a sore and painful scar.

Thursday Island has an interesting church—the "Quetta" Memorial Church. It stands in a green enclosure, with a blooming frangipani tree, and commemorates the loss of the S.S. "Quetta" of Glasgow, which some years ago sank on an uncharted rock one moonlight night, with the loss of nearly all hands. We went into the quiet and airy place. Just inside the door hangs in a frame, what seems to be a collection of coral and shells, but closer inspection showed it to be a porthole, that sixteen years later had been recovered, after having "suffered a sea change," and become so encrusted with the beautiful growth of the sea floor that it was hardly any longer recognisable.

Returning to the ship, glad to escape from the blinding heat, we found an oil boat moored alongside. On her some Japanese were eating their rice with chop sticks, while a brown boy of unknown nationality, and a picturesque absence of clothes, cleaned cooking pots.

We now had to cross the wide mouth of the Gulf of Carpentaria, and round the westerly headland, behind which is the bay, that shelters Port Darwin in the Northern Territory, our last