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'It's curious, Sir George mused, 'how we remember trifles of the long ago with preciseness, when often bigger events are blurred. I recollect, very well, a slight incident of the scene on the island of Dorre, off the north-west coast of Australia, when a storm caught us. In turn, I caught an old cormorant by the neck, and the bird was all we had for breakfast next morning.

The next day they landed at Dorre Island, and that night both their boats were driven ashore by a violent storm. Two or three days were occupied repairing damages, and then they made the mainland and obtained a supply of fresh water. They landed near the mouth of a river, which, however, was dry above tidal influence, and Grey christened it the Gascoyne.

This will account for all the bitter and ill-natured things I said of the Germans in some of my sketches, every word of which I now retract. But to come to the point of the narrative. In the due course of a vagabond life, after visiting Russia and Sweden, I found myself one day on the road from Lillehammer to the Dorre Fjeld in Norway. I sat in a little cariole an old peasant behind.

Having recruited from his earlier sufferings, he had gone by Perth, up the coast to Shark's Bay in an American whaler. He arranged to make a depot of Bernier Island, in the region of Shark's Bay, and there, on a lovely day, he landed his stores, burying them for safety in the soil. Up blew this storm, three nights later, when the explorers laid hands upon the solitary cormorant of Dorre.