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164 arm of his sleeping companion, a grumpy old "Cockie" whose team had been beaten in the tug-of-war the day before.

"Hold to it, boys! All together now. Bend your backs," responded the sleeper.

"Wake up, man," cried Tom, "some one's dying! Hearken to the terrible moan."

The champion of the team at length leaped up, growling—

"What the deuce do you want?"

"Some one's dying, I say."

The champion listened a moment, cast a pitying, withering glance at the little man shivering in his pyjamas, and flung himself back into his nest of blankets, exclaiming—" Pity you're not dying. Don't yer know a native bear when yer hear it snore?"

"A bear!" cried Tom, seeking his revolver; "black or white? Are they large, or ferocious, hereabouts, sir?"

"By Jove, arn't they! Eat you up, soon as look at you!" This was the only information the little man could elicit.

Reconnoitring for himself, expecting to encounter some huge creature intent on a deadly embrace, Tom was disappointed to trace the gruesome sounds to a rounded mass suggestive of an overgrown 'possum.

"Is that their native bear?" exclaimed the Englishman, disdaining to fire. "Everything's disappointing in this country, even its beasts and adventures. Now I thought I'd something to write home about," and he wrapped himself in his rug, and hoped that no snakes had taken possession of it in his absence. While pondering as to the proper mode of procedure, if one discovered itself coiled coquettish on his breast, he fell asleep.