We slept in the waggon, or rather tried to, and as we turned in Ransson commented on the extraordinary monotony and lifelessness of the country so far. “No life,” said he, “no game, nothing to shoot at, neither buck nor bird, no snakes, no insects even!” He was still grumbling when I fell asleep--but he was wrong! I have a sleeping-bag, and usually, when I am once inside it, it needs a cyclone to wake me before daybreak; but that night the paucity of insect life in the surrounding country was accounted for by the fact that they had all got inside my bed, and appeared, moreover, to resent my presence. For a few minutes I dreamed that I was being used as a garden roller over a bed of stinging-nettles, then I woke to find myself squirming and writhing in an absolute bagful of fleas; not the decent educated variety, mind, but Namaqualand fleas, belonging to a land of famine and bent on making up for it while the chance lasted. I was out of that bag in quick time, but the whole waggon was phosphorescent with fleas, and through it all the other chap snored. He afterwards said that I was the best man he’d ever been out with; whilst I was around every flea in the vicinity left their homes to follow me, and he could sleep in peace, but personally I think they knew what they were up to when they left him alone.... I finished the night outside, my only idea in sleeping in the waggon having been to avoid the dew, which on the coast-belt is often extremely heavy, and which accounts for the dense belt of low bush. A tramp through it in the early morning on the lookout for a shot means being saturated, every bush and plant being soaked with brilliant dew-drops. Doubtless this helps the animals that feed there to exist so long without water, sheep in particular; indeed, I have been assured that in certain parts of the veldt thereabouts lambs often go for the first six months of their lives without ever seeing water, and have no notion as to how to drink it when first brought to a pool. The end of the second day’s wearisome trek brought us to Daberass, where, in a wild, rocky ravine amongst rugged kopjes, we hoped to find water for the oxen; but the deep hole scooped in the sand was scarcely damp at the bottom, and we thanked our lucky stars that our own water-barrels were holding out well. The hills bordering the ravine (which is the dry bed of the Halghat River) were soon passed, and another wide expanse of bush-covered plain came in sight, on the far side of which, as far as the eye could reach, extended a range of bold and fantastic peaks.