up to us any more. He was a stranger to the entire show.

We walked in twos. There were three twos. It was very hot and dusty;
the heat rushed in fierce dazzling rays across every iron roof and
light-coloured wall that was turned to the sun. One or two pubs
closed respectfully until we got past. They closed their bar doors
and the patrons went in and out through some side or back entrance for
a few minutes. Bushmen seldom grumble at an inconvenience of this
sort, when it is caused by a funeral. They have too much respect for
the dead.

On the way to the cemetery we passed three shearers sitting on the
shady side of a fence. One was drunk--very drunk. The other two
covered their right ears with their hats, out of respect for the
departed--whoever he might have been--and one of them kicked the drunk
and muttered something to him.

He straightened himself up, stared, and reached helplessly for his
hat, which he shoved half off and then on again. Then he made a great
effort to pull himself together--and succeeded. He stood up, braced
his back against the fence, knocked off his hat, and remorsefully
placed his foot on it--to keep it off his head till the funeral
passed.

A tall, sentimental drover, who walked by my side, cynically quoted
Byronic verses suitable to the occasion--to death--and asked with
pathetic humour whether we thought the dead man's ticket would be
recognized "over yonder." It was a G.L.U. ticket, and the general
opinion was that it would be recognized.