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 by camping in the scrub without a fire, but they again made their presence known by hurling the deadly spear. Jacky made a rush to rally the horses, which, frantic with their wounds, had begun to dash through the scrub, and, on returning, found his master had been speared, surrounded, and robbed. A feeble resistance was offered to the assault of the savages, but it had little effect, and was soon over. Jacky thought Kennedy was dying fast, and asked if he was now going to leave him. He said he was fatally wounded, and, having given a brief order concerning his papers, breathed his last in the arms of his faithful attendant. Such was the end of Mr. E. B. Kennedy, a man who has left his mark on our history, and will be honoured by posterity as one of the most heroic, if not the most judicious, and certainly the least fortunate, of the Australian explorers.

Jacky, being now alone, and more dead than alive, made his way as best he could to Port Albany. His progress was sometimes less than a mile per day, but he struggled on in the hope of finding the promised vessel. Almost six months had passed away since the party of thirteen disembarked at Rockingham Bay. It was within two days of Christmas, and those in charge of the ship were debating with themselves whether it was worth while waiting any longer, when a poor emaciated creature was observed to drag himself from the forest and make signs to the vessel. Being conveyed on board, his tale of woe was soon told, in such words as he could use. The gravity of