Adelaide threw a short railway across the border before Sydney had time to arrange for a long one; it was not worth while for Sydney to arrange at all.

The whole vast trade-profit of Broken Hill fell into Adelaide's hands, irrevocably.

New South Wales furnishes for Broken Hill and sends her Judges 2,000 miles--mainly through alien countries--to administer it, but Adelaide takes the dividends and makes no moan.
We started at 4.20 in the afternoon, and moved across level until night.
In the morning we had a stretch of "scrub" country--the kind of thing which is so useful to the Australian novelist.

In the scrub the hostile aboriginal lurks, and flits mysteriously about, slipping out from time to time to surprise and slaughter the settler; then slipping back again, and leaving no track that the white man can follow.

In the scrub the novelist's heroine gets lost, search fails of result; she wanders here and there, and finally sinks down exhausted and unconscious, and the searchers pass within a yard or two of her, not suspecting that she is near, and by and by some rambler finds her bones and the pathetic diary which she had scribbled with her failing hand and left behind.