boy arrived very shortly after we camped. He had made excellent time but his horses looked jaded and he had driven them hard. But he had lost at least one en route - and we are trying to find out the facts. He, like crows and most abbos, cannot count beyond three, and states that he started with five, lost one, and arrived with three. He describes in detail the horse he lost, but we cannot find out yet if he started with four and lost one, the one he described, or started with five and lost two. The solid remaining fact is that he came into camp only with three. I have other things in my notes to write about but want to get out with my light and also to turn in at a decent hour, decent here meaning about 9 P.M. I shall stop therefore and do more tomorrow. I shall not be going up to the Scrub on the date shown on the time table. Wednesday, 11 August 1943. George and Len returned this evening about 5 P.M., with the opinion that while it will be a tough sort of trip, we shall be able somehow to get in to the Scrub. Fearfe, Don and one boy, Willie, will form the advance party going up tomorrow and Van will be left down here to keep the mammal collecting going during the trail- cutting period. I don't know when my turn comes but if there is an attempt to follow the old schedule, I shall be next up. The trick is that the horses can go only every other day as the trip cannot be made to the Scrub and back in one day. I shall write more on the Scrub and its approach after I have arrived there. Looking at my note-book I find that I have touched on most of the things I had listed for entry here. I have intended to write about the Coen people but find that I am not familiar enough with them to do much but tell their names and occupations. There is Walter Rose, representative of the press who is responsible for the fantastic things that have been printed in connection with the expedition. He is elderly and seems rather quiet on first acquaint- ance, but there is a shrill, mysterious quality about his laugh which might explain some of his press contributions. There is Herb Thompson, our agent, who has been mentioned. Herb is seventy-two, has been in New Guinea and Cape York all his life, has stock valued at somewhere about a hundred thousand pounds and drinks gin; his years are telling on him a bit and his memory is not what it used to be. Mrs. Armbrust is an important woman in the community, having been the first child, white, to be born in Coen. She, a widow now, and probably around sixty, is a competitor of Herb's and the place is split up into factions, about twenty persons to a faction. The blacks are fairly numerous and are given rough treatment; their pay, for instance, is consider- ably less that our own boys receive. Most of them have their masters surname, Armbrust, Thompson, etc., and any first name anybody cares to apply to them. Most are known as Moonlight, Sunlight or something else concerned with the luminosity of the planets. I think all hands slept soundly last night but I woke once or twice, roused by the clangor of the gorse bells. We have, including riding and pack animals, eight of them, I think, and perhaps three are belled; they sound rather like the peddlars' wagons, as I recall them years ago. During our journey of yesterday the load on the wagon slipped; I asked that it be released but it was not. As a result a box containing two lamps, one of them mine, was thrown out. The lamp did not break but something in its internal works was damaged. It went dim last night and is going so now. I shall have to stop this now, and try to fix the lamp by daylight. Thursday, 12 August 1943. Before starting on what passes for current events these days, I had better clean up the odds and ends in my note-book. There is not much. Van wishes me to record that the dog, a