On the morning of the fourth day I started on what I thought to be a hopeless line nearly due north, as I expected to be shut off quickly by a deep valley I had noticed on the previous day; still it was the right game to play and I played it. Strange as it may appear, I was not shut off as I had expected, but continued on till I came to a couple of large trees growing so close together that they seemed to spring from the same root. These attracted my attention, and although they were out of my line I went to them. I seemed to remember them in a dim sort of way, and I examined the ground carefully, going on my hands and knees to do so. I also took a good steady look at the country I had just passed over, to see if any glimmer of remembrance would dawn on me; and it did, but so faint that I feared the wish was father to the thought. But yet, those trees! A certainty came to me that I had seen them before, and I crawled round to the other side of them, scanning every foot of ground, and found what might be the spoor of one of my boots.
At once I began to feel elated, and again the mad impulse to run came on; but I crushed it back, marked the spoor and forced myself to sit down and smoke a pipe. When I was quite cool I again examined the spoor, determined to restart my line from there and use the trees as a base.
I started a new line and had not gone very far when under a tree I saw a lot of pigeon feathers. I at once went on my hands and knees and after a few minutes' search found undoubted spoor; so I knew I was on the right track; and again the desire to run came on, but I squashed it and, blazing the tree well, had a good look round, but could get no certainty as to my route, so went on with my line and during the afternoon found myself blocked, and had to turn back. That evening I shot three birds, and camped at the tree where I had found the feathers.
Next morning I was off, after a good breakfast, taking a new line west of north, thinking it would only be a short one; but yet I got on farther than I expected, and with my eyes glancing everywhere, all of a sudden I spotted something in the stunted fern, and going up to it found a dead pigeon. Looking up, I noticed a fork in the tree close by and recognised it, as the one in which my bird had lodged. I at once tore the feathers off the bird. Yes, there could be no doubt, it had been killed by No. 4 shot; and now I was certain I was more than half-way out of the fix. Again the crazy desire to run, this time crushed with more difficulty and requiring a pipe. Then more blazing, until I began to think I must again be wrong and found myself unduly hastening my steps, and had to use the curb of my will to rein in. I had reached a place where I was thinking seriously of turning back, as I was convinced I had gone wrong, and had in fact halted when I noticed something waving in the wind about 150 yards away to the south. I could only now and then catch a glimmer of it through the trees, but I went towards it. I lost sight of it in the bush, then saw it again, and in a few minutes was standing in front of a blazed rata-tree with six pigeons hanging on it.