I was at this time beginning to have some thought of a couple of days’ expedition into the unexplored country to the west of the Daly Waters, and I had hinted as much to Jack. And I thought that the present was a good opportunity to find how far Gioro might be depended on as a guide. So I filled his pipe with my own tobacco (he was quite able to distinguish and prefer the flavour), and then I gave Jack a look to bespeak his attention, and began to put my questions. “When would Sir Gioro see his own people again?” Several slow puffs, a keen, eager, honest look, yet, withal, a cautious look, and then, “May be one two months.” Then I said, “No water out west—die of thirst?” “Now,” said Gioro, nodding his head affirmatively, “but in one two months, no, no.” I saw that he meant either that after three months there would be wet weather, or that within three months we should have a better-watered country westward. So I said, pointing west, “What’s out there?” “No water, no grass, no duck, no black fellow.” “But,” said I, looking northward, “we go on one two months, and then?” making a half-turn to face the west. “Then,” said he, “plenty grass, plenty fish, plenty duck, plenty black fellow.” “Everywhere?” said I, sweeping my arm all round the horizon. “No, no, here, there, there. Gioro know the way, Bomero know the way, find Bomero, find water.” “What,” said I, not understanding him, “Bomero make rain?” But he replied with great contempt, “Bomero make rain! No, no. Bomero not witchfellow. No fear. Bomero make witchfellow make rain.” I think it was on this occasion that we ascertained that Gioro fully intended to go away westward in search of his tribe, who, as he expected, would be found in about three months at a point with which he was familiar at some uncertain distance from the Daly Waters. They kept a great feast every year. It seemed to have some connection with the Pleiades and Aldebaran, for it was always celebrated when these stars were in conjunction with the sun. Several kindred tribes kept it, each in his own place westward, and every three years all the tribes who kept the feast celebrated it all together in a place farther west still. The triennial celebration was approaching, and Gioro intended to be there. He knew the way by which Bomero and his people would be travelling; he would cross their course, meet them, and go with them to the trysting-place. Jack suggested that he and I and Gioro should all go together and visit his tribe. Gioro hesitated for a little while, but after some apparently careful thought he said yes, he thought we could go.