We arrived at Sydney on a Friday night early in January, 1876. John Dean required a rig out, and being a man of 21 stone weight could not buy a ready-made shirt, so had to be measured. We stayed at the Occidental Hotel, in Wynyard Square, and hearing that "Our Boys" was being played at the Theatre Royal, took seats in the orchestra stalls, which consisted of wooden spring seats. We arrived when all was quiet and the play in progress. As John sat down every screw came out of the seat, and he plumped on the floor to the amusement of the audience. The fun was greater when he was seen slowly, but successfully, to lower himself into another seat.

After the performance, thinking we had sufficient bump of locality to find our hotel without inquiry, we walked, and continued walking until we found ourselves down at the wharves, which, we had been told, was an undesirable quarter at any time, but especially late at night. From a passer-by, we learnt that the hotel was a long distance off. After receiving instructions, we reached our lodging just as the bar was being closed at midnight. Dean suggested a drink, which we ordered at a side window, and asked the barmaid to bring the liquor into an adjoining room. A man calling himself Count Bismarck, and who was greatly excited about something, was in the bar. He said to Dean, "Aren't you going to shout for me." Dean replied, "No," at which the Count remarked, "Oh, never mind, I have plenty of money." Dean replied, "You must be a mean blooming beggar, then, to ask me to shout." Dean and I sat at a small table discussing the play, when a revolver shot rang out and something seemed to strike us. We immediately rushed for a green baize door, but saw no one. On returning to the room, the barmaid, who was quite pale, asked "Are you dead?" I answered, "No." At the moment I did not realise the absurdity of the question, or that the answer was unnecessary.

We failed to find the German, who had disappeared. Mr. Yeo, the landlord, ran in to inquire what the trouble was. When we returned to the room I found a bullet under the chair I was sitting on. It had struck the ceiling, and brought down the plaster. Later, in Melbourne, John Dean heard that Count Bismarck had been sentenced to two years' imprisonment for shooting a man.

After a very pleasant time in Sydney, I found the rheumatism had left me, so I deemed it desirable to return north, and to work. On my arrival in Townsville I found the wet season was not yet over. Many friends prevailed upon me to stay back in Townsville, where I put in a most enjoyable fortnight with some of my old pals.

At the end of the fortnight, the s.s. "Banshee," a boat of about 100 tons, was advertised to sail for Cooktown, via the Hinchinbrook Channel. I booked my passage by her, and was informed she would sail at 5 a.m. on a certain day.

I was staying at the Criterion Hotel, on the beach, where the evening previous to my intended departure, I was given a send-off, which lasted into well-advanced morning. Owing to this I missed the boat.

A few hours afterwards it was blowing a cyclone. Spray came over the hotel. It was thought the "Banshee" could not live through the blow, and we were not surprised when we learnt very quickly that she was wrecked about 3 p.m. the same afternoon. It was ascertained later that, finding her engines were not powerful enough to make headway against the wind, the captain tried to weather a rocky point on Hinchinbrook Island, so that he might beach her in a sandy bay beyond. She failed to get around the point, and lifted by a wave over the rocks, became fixed in a cleft, where she soon bumped a hole in her hull. Such of her crew and passengers who were not lucky enough to be thrown far inland were drowned, or crushed to death. One passenger, named Burstall, crawled out on a boom, from which the waves swept him high on to the rocks. A following wave put him out of danger, but left him considerably bruised. Out of thirty-seven on board, sixteen were saved, one a stowaway, who, it was said, walked out of the hole made in the ship's hull by the rocks.

A few days afterwards I returned to Cooktown by the s.s. "Singapore," and saw what was left of the "Banshee" in the distance. In February, 1877, the "Singapore" ran ashore on L. Island, off Port Mackay, and became a total wreck.

I had left my riding horses in Cooktown, and a day or so after my arrival, I went on to Palmerville to send my teams down to the Port. Having done this, and started them two days ahead, Mrs. Jackson, whom I have mentioned as having met some years previously in the Peak Downs district, asked me to take 200 ounces of gold down to the bank. I agreed to do so, carrying it in my valise on the saddle. I was very glad when I reached the waggons to get rid of the gold, as it proved a very dead weight on my legs.

During this wet season (1876), the Government had sent a boat to the Laura River to carry travellers across. These were very few. The boatman was very much alone, and I found that the blacks had taken the opportunity of eating him. While driving the leading team up the bank, I saw numbers of blacks' tracks all around the boat. We drew up a short distance from the bank, and after unyoking, I made my customary visit to water, with towel and bucket, which latter was filled for the cook. The water in the river was running in a channel on the opposite side, and when I was close to it, I heard a chuckle such as the blacks make. Looking towards the crossing I saw a mob of blacks bathing, and one running towards the bank. Without a second look, I dropped the bucket, and sprinting across the sand and up the bank to the waggons, I called out, "Get the rifles ready! The blacks are at the crossing." After waiting some little time we saw Sub-Inspector Townsend and his black troopers riding towards us. He stayed for dinner, and from mutual explanations I learnt it was his troopers' tracks I had seen. They were returning from an inspection down the river, and had camped at the crossing over night. They decided to have a bogey before dinner, and the boy I saw running, went to get his uniform cap to denote a trooper. Had I taken a second look, I should have seen Mr. Townsend with them. He laughingly described me racing, hidden with sand which my feet were scooping up, in my haste to get the firearms.

Up to now, carrying had been so remunerative that one would have seen one-time station managers, ex-inspectors of police, old naval men, and all sorts and conditions of other men wielding the bullock-whip and making good earnings, but as competition became keener, carriage fell much lower and more difficult to obtain. The goldfield was falling off, and more in the hands of the Chinese. I had a very hard time to keep my three teams in employment during the year.

In December, 1877, I again suffered severely from malaria, and having previously sold one of my teams, I decided to make another trip to Sydney, leaving the driver to bring down the two teams to the Laura, and camp there until my return. The wet season was setting in, consequently we could not procure any loading. I had an uneventful trip down to Sydney, and again met with John Dean at Mona House, in Wynyard Square.

I returned to Queensland about the beginning of March, 1878, the malaria having left me.

Passing through Townsville, I met Fitzmaurice, who told me that carrying had fallen away between Cooktown and the Palmer, and that he had left that district. He suggested that I should join with him in carrying to the western country, and added that he had been informed by a squatter that there was a good opening for a store at the Conn Waterhole, on the Diamantina River. This is about forty miles down the Western River, from where Winton now is.

The suggestion appealed to me, and it was agreed that I should go on to Cooktown, start my two teams overland to Townsville, then return and drive one of his three teams on our western trip without loss of time.

On my arrival in Cooktown, I went to the Laura, where the teams were still camped. Everything was in order, and my bullocks fat. I started them on their long trip overland to Townsville, where Fitzmaurice and I had purchased sixteen tons of assorted merchandise from Clifton and Aplin. Arriving in Townsville in a few days by steamer, we loaded up for the far and, to most Queenslanders, what was then unknown country.

Both Fitzmaurice and myself were well known to the firm through our carrying for them from the Port to the several diggings. They generously gave us the goods without our paying any cash, and without giving even the scratch of a pen. When I returned to Townsville at the end of 1879 to purchase more supplies, I signed a promissory note for the cost of all the goods at four months. Practically, Messrs. Clifton and Aplin generously gave us the sixteen tons of goods on a credit which extended over twelve months, and which were only paid for when the note matured.

It was my fortune to have now met in Townsville a man who was then bearing a high reputation in North Queensland, but who was soon to become famous farther afield. By some reason I cannot even now understand, the diggers very seldom put their confidence or trust in the wrong man, and in John Murtagh Macrossan, they found their idol. Mentally big, physically small, his eloquence, ability and courage brought him, on their behalf, into conflict with strong and powerful influences.

I met him later in the Parliament of 1888. In this were many able men, but none, not even the great chiefs McIlwraith and Griffith, could overshadow Macrossan.

In his private life, which was most exemplary, I found Macrossan—although it was said he was otherwise—to be most tolerant to all who might differ from him in social and religious matters. Like most of his countrymen, he was, however, in politics, a strong, bitter partisan. Once a question became political, if one did not agree with Macrossan, he made an enemy. Between him and McIlwraith a close, personal friendship existed for years, but towards the end of Macrossan's life they became estranged. This was due to the strong, independent stand Macrossan took on a political matter which gave McIlwraith offence.

In a conversation I had with McIlwraith just prior to his leaving Queensland, as it turned out to be, for ever, he spoke most feelingly of Macrossan's memory and their earlier friendship.

Although Macrossan had many chances of enriching himself, he died, in 1891, as he had lived, a man, poor in the world's goods, but rich in the esteem and respect of all, not excepting those who very widely, and strongly differed with him on political, national, or religious matters.

Had he lived in latter years, I doubt if he would have become a popular leader of what is generally designated as "The People."

He was not an opportunist, and he could not submit his independence of mind, character, or principles to any person or junta.

His breach with Sir Thomas McIlwraith proved this.

If an impartial biography of John Macrossan should ever be written, it will prove interesting and instructive reading.