time. The burial took place exactly at midday.

The dead bushman's name was Jim, apparently; but they found no
portraits, nor locks of hair, nor any love letters, nor anything of
that kind in his swag--not even a reference to his mother; only some
papers relating to Union matters. Most of us didn't know the name
till we saw it on the coffin; we knew him as "that poor chap that got
drowned yesterday."

"So his name's James Tyson," said my drover acquaintance, looking at
the plate.

"Why! Didn't you know that before?" I asked.

"No; but I knew he was a Union man."

It turned out, afterwards, that J.T. wasn't his real name--only "the
name he went by." Anyhow he was buried by it, and most of the
"Great Australian Dailies" have mentioned in their brevity columns
that a young man named James John Tyson was drowned in a billabong of
the Darling last Sunday.

We did hear, later on,
what his real name was; but if we ever chance to read it in the
"Missing Friends Column," we shall not be able to give any
information to heart-broken mother or sister or wife, nor to anyone
who could let him hear something to his advantage--for we have already
forgotten the name.