was turned over to him and Bert Connell sent a bottle of Scotch ashore so the party probably is still going on at this minute. I had a nip of White Horse and returned to camp to finish off my packing, Doug returning with me, and we proceeded to load up all our stuff. There were two trucks, one running well and the other not so well. Doug was driving the not-so-well one with Len, Van, Vernon, Willie Somerset and me as passengers. Doug's step-son, Barrie, a very nice lad, drove the other with George, Moreton and Roy on board. We broke down and Len, Van and Willie joined the other truck, promising to return with food and means of towing us later. That was the psychological thing - the not-so-good truck sprang into life and we reached Iron Range before they had finished unloading. Our quarters at this camp, our main and longest base for the whole trip, are good and again we inherit the things the army did four or five years ago. Our hut is not quite so commodious as at Portland Roads but the roof has no leaks, which is on the asset side. Water is plentiful and rains frequent, replacing almost immediately what we consume from the tanks. If they fail, theClaudie River and its creeks are almost at our door. By the time we were settled in it was 4 P.M. George and Van set a small line of traps, Vernon shot a few birds and that about closed the day for us. About two miles east of us is Gordon's original claim, which started the Iron Range gold rush, and in the same vicinity is one of Mrs. Fisher's mines, the Scarlet Pimpernel. It is a singularly ill-chosen name - if I remember my Orczy correctly, the tag went, "That damned illusive Pimpernel." I shall not go out tonight, but tomorrow, after I learn my directions a bit better, I can give more of an impression of the country around. Sunday, 6 June 1943. Up to now, when there has been nothing much to say about our affairs I have manufactured things but I seem to have run completely dry. I said yesterday that I would give impressions of the country but I do not have any. It is just like any other part of the country. I feel very tired tonight, which may have something to do with my lack of inspiration, and shall not try to force any words onto this paper. Monday, 7 June 1943. Today, being a repetition of yesterday, rates no more of a description, except that I made my way up to one of the gold mines and peered down the shaft. The mine, owned by a man named Sharp, who is away sick, consists simply of the shaft and nothing more except a tin shack with roof but no sides, and another similar shack containing an anvil, which must have been his workshop. The ore, after being dug, has to be hauled by windlass to the surface, carted somehow to Portland Roads and shipped elsewhere for crushing, the complete operation leaving little profit for the miner, after herculean efforts. Jack Gordon, without whom all the miners would be completely silent, for he is featured in every conversation, is reputed to have dug and produced over a hundred thousand pounds-worth of fine gold, but he imported crushing machinery, employed about thirty miners and in general put almost everything he made back into the mine, which then fizzled out. He probably cleared about ten thousand pounds. A few days ago we found out that mail sent per Stan Holland on May 16th at Red Island was not delivered in Iron Range until last Thursday, June 3rd. I do not know if he forgot or neglected aby other packets of mail but in any event those letters addressed to the U.S. will be very much delayed. It is very annoying be-