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At that moment I perceived in the sand the tracks of some large animal, unlike the footprints of any beast known to me. Nelson examined the tracks with interest.

“I think I can name the beast,” he said; “Mr. Gore, Captain Cook’s lieutenant, shot one at Endeavour River, south of here. It was as great as a man, mouse-coloured, and ran hopping on its hind legs. The Indians called it kanguroo.”

“How could it have come here?” I asked. “Do they swim?”

“That I don’t know. Perhaps; or it may be that the Indians stock these islands with young ones, where they may be easily caught when required.”

“Is the flesh fit for food?”

“Cook thought it was good as the best mutton. The beasts are said to be timid, and to run faster than a horse.”

As we approached the rocky shore on the east side of the island, Nelson chose himself a long, wide palm frond, and sat down, Indian fashion, to plait a basket. I admired the deftness of his fingers as they wove the leaflets swiftly this way and that; in ten minutes he had completed a stout basket, handle and all, fit to hold a full bushel.