the joints were never closed, and small articles used to fall down into the cracks. We made our door frame of axed wood and covered it with thick canvas. We had also to build our collecting verandah, which we placed on the edge of a precipice not far from the house. It had a 20–foot frontage, and was 12 feet wide, with a division down the centre at the ridge-pole of the roof, which made it, properly speaking, two verandahs placed back to back, so that when the wind was unfavourable on one side, we could find shelter on the other. The whole of the structure was raised off the ground on poles, and the boys had their quarters beneath. Such was our establishment at Dinawa. When we had finished it we began to settle down, and were able to organise the camp for work. A native boy called Doboi, from near Dinawa village, was engaged as cook, and we had also a water-boy, Matu, whose duty was to go down the hill, a tramp of three-quarters of an hour, to a beautiful spring whence we derived our supply. It was lovely water, for the declivity gave no opportunity for decomposing vegetable matter to collect. The well always ran clear, and, even at the worst part of the drought, did not fail us altogether, although its trickle had sunk to the size of an ordinary lead-pencil, and the boy had to wait quite a long time before he could fill the billies. We built our fire outside the house in the open space, gipsy fashion, and hung the billy, in which we did all our cooking, on a stick resting on two forked upright sticks. Gradually our working day fell into a regular routine. We awoke with the dawn, but had always to trust to ourselves to make the first start, as your Papuan will not wake a sleeping man. He has indeed a superstitious awe of the slumberer. If one must be awakened, it must not be by a shake, and when Doboi had advanced far enough to bring us a cup of tea in the morning, he would tread very warily.