Sunday, 7th July, West Sandy Table Land. Started at 8 a.m. on the same course. At 3 p.m. we got into dense scrub, and, as I could see some distance on before, being on one of the slight undulations, I felt there was not the slightest hope of obtaining water; there was no change, no rising ground visible. It would be hopeless to continue such sandy country, as it can never hold water on the surface. We dug five feet, in one of the small plains, but came to the clay without finding water, or even moisture. There is not a mouthful of grass for the horses to eat; the whole of the journey, with the exception of the small grassy plains, is spinifex, gums, and scrub. I shall have to retreat to the last plain we passed through to get feed for the horses, which are looking very bad. The travelling has been heavy tearing through thick scrub, which in some places has been burned: this makes it very rough for them. I must now give up all hope of reaching the Victoria, and am unwillingly forced to return, my horses being nearly worn out. Wind, variable. Distance, twenty-five miles.