The horse hoofs stopped just inside a thick bit of scrub, just outside the open ground on which the hut stood.

After a few seconds we heard the cry of the mopoke.

It's not a cheerful sound at the dead of night, and now, for some reason or other, it affected Jim and me in much the same manner.

I remembered the last time I had heard the bird at home, just before we started over for Terrible Hollow, and it seemed unlucky.

Perhaps we were both a little nervous; we hadn't drunk anything but tea for weeks.