of blanket rolled up and tied with pieces of rag. He has no water-
bag; carries his water in a billy; and how he manages without a bag is
known only to himself. He has read every scrap of print within reach,
and now lies on his side, with his face to the wall and one arm thrown
up over his head; the jumper is twisted back, and leaves his skin bare
from hip to arm-pit. His lower face is brutal, his eyes small and
shifty, and ugly straight lines run across his low forehead. He says
very little, but scowls most of the time--poor devil. He might be, or
at least _seem_, a totally different man under more favourable
conditions. He is probably a free labourer.

A very sick jackaroo lies in one of the bunks. A sandy,
sawney-looking Bourke native takes great interest in this wreck;
watches his every movement as though he never saw a sick man before.
The men lie about in the bunks, or the shade of the hut, and rest, and
read all the soiled and mutilated scraps of literature they can rake
out of the rubbish, and sleep, and wake up swimming in perspiration,
and growl about the heat.

It _is_ hot, and two shearers' cats--a black and a white one--sit
in one of the upper bunks with their little red tongues out, panting
like dogs. These cats live well during shearing, and take their
chances the rest of the year--just as shed rouseabouts have to do.
They seem glad to see the traveller come; he makes things more
homelike. They curl and sidle affectionately round the table-legs,
and the legs of the men,_ and purr, and carry their masts up, and
regard the cooking with feline interest and approval, and look as
cheerful as cats can--and as contented. God knows how many tired,
dusty, and sockless ankles they rub against in their time.