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.

Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the station
for a bit of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time when
the manager is likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a "good
cook," from a traveller's point of view; too good to keep his place
long.

Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene-tin and washes
a shirt or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks--or
foot-rags--(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some of
the stiffness out of these articles.

Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed on
the table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were only
a custom of theirs, a matter of form--a habit which could be left off if
it were worth while.

The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he'll give
all he has for a square meal.

"An' ye'd get it cheap, begod!" says a big Irish shearer. "Come and have
dinner with us; there's plenty there."

But the Exception only eats a few mouthfuls, and his appetite is gone;
his stomach has become contracted, perhaps.

The Wreck cannot eat at all, and seems internally disturbed by the sight
of others eating.

One of the men is a cook, and this morning he volunteered good-naturedly
to bake bread for the rest. His mates amuse themselves by chyacking him.

"I've heard he's a dirty and slow cook," says one, addressing Eternity.

"Ah!"