We stood for a minute entranced at the fine sight, then, as they cantered off, I said, “Well, boys, here’s the pan at last!” “Yes,” croaked Du Toit, “but not the Salt Pan!” Nor was it. The white sand which I had first seen, and taken for granted as salt, only extended round the slopes of the dunes encircling the pan, which was mainly composed of hard-baked greenish mud, covered with a glaze and as smooth as a billiard-table. Here and there lay a few pebbles of jasper and quartz similar to those found all over the north-west, but there was nothing at all approaching the “indications” we were in search of, and we had evidently stumbled upon quite a different pan from any of those described by Old Gert. Meanwhile it was rapidly growing dark, and Du Toit very sensibly suggested that, whilst there was yet a little light, we should separate and search the pan as much as possible, to see if by great luck there might be a little water in any of the slight hollows. But nothing but a little still moist mud rewarded us, and we wearily sought a nook in the dunes and threw ourselves down to sleep. We had biltong and _roster-kook_ enough, but scarcely a gill of water between the three of us, and our mouths and throats were already so parched and dry that it was difficult to sleep. “Straight back over our spoors, as soon as it’s light enough to see them,” said Gert du Toit as we discussed the situation. We were a full day from water, and although in no danger, we could afford to run no risks.