Chapter Twenty Three.
A Bivouac.
“Oh, I say, Griggs, isn’t this a lovely place!” said Ned that evening just before sundown, as they sat beside a glowing wood fire, waiting for the sufficient cooking of the bread-cakes that had been made. Griggs was combining the duties of watch and cook; the animals were grazing contentedly; the rest of the party were sleeping just where they had wearily thrown themselves down after their long journey—all save Ned. He had woke up a few minutes before, to sit staring about him, wondering where he was, and with a vague notion in his head that the setting sun, whose horizontal rays were searching the gully to its deepest depth and staining the sky with the most glorious tints wherever they could rest upon a fleecy cloud, was rising, and that the odour that saluted his nostrils was given off by the breakfast cakes.
Griggs was busy raking the glowing ashes over one of those cakes, and as he did not seem to hear, Ned glanced at where Chris lay with his head upon a doubled-up blanket, and repeated his question, which this time brought forth a reply.
“Yes; it’s beautiful enough, my lad, but not the place we want.”
“You haven’t had a good look round yet,” said Ned.
“Quite good enough to satisfy me that the map was not made here.”
Ned was silent for a few minutes, and then he said suddenly—