the sharp edge of an outcrop of rock.

There was more breakneck riding, and they got a cart and some bedding
and carried Ben to Anderson's, which was handiest, if not nearest, and
there was more wild and reckless riding for the doctor.

One got a gun, and rode back to shoot the horse.

Ben's case was hopeless from the first. He was hurt close to that big
heart of his, as well as having a fractured skull. He talked a lot of
the selections and old John Tierney, of the old bark school; and the
Never-Never country with Jack--and, later on, of the present.
"What's Ben sayin' now, Jim?" asked one young bushman as another
came out of the room with an awestruck face.

"He's sayin' that Jack Denver's dead, killed ridin' home from the
races, an' that the funeral's to-morrow, an' we're to roll up at
Talbragar!" answered the other, with wide eyes, a blank face and in
an awed voice. "He's thinkin' to-day's yisterday."

But towards the end, under the ministrations of the doctor, Ben became
conscious. He rolled his head a little on the pillow after he woke,
and then, seeming to remember all that happened up to his stunning
fall, he asked quietly:

"What sort of a funeral did Jack have?"

They told him it was the biggest ever seen in the district.

"Muster bin more'n a mile long," said one.