In the sun’s eye a man lies in the brown dust. He is on his back, his hat off, and snoring stertorously up at a cloud of mosquitoes, sandflies, and other abominations hovering and buzzing about his face. With a look of solicitude my guide exclaims,— ‘Sure, now, that’s Tim Healy, come in from Out Back, an’ his cheque gone already! Lend a hand, will ye, sorr, wid the other ind av him. The poor devil ’ll be sthruck intirely here, so he will.’ So, one at each ‘ind,’ we bear the man from Out Back into the comparative shade of a verandah, where the constable takes off his boots, loosens his shirt collar, and props his head up, saying,— ‘There, the cratur, mebbe he’ll waken wid nothin’ worse nor a sore head, an’ a limekiln in the throttle av him.’ A fit man and a proper, this one, I reflect, to be Officer in Charge of this half-forgotten fragment of a people. So, presently, I am not surprised at hearing that, in addition to that title, he bears the important ones of Clerk of Petty Sessions, Registrar of Small Debts Court and Births, Land Bailiff, Inspector of Slaughterhouses, Curator’s Agent, and others equally pertinent to his surroundings, but which I have forgotten. Entering the parlour of the one public-house, silent and deserted but for clouds of humming flies, a drowsy landlord, booted and spurred for riding, answers our knock. ‘I was goin’ over the river an hour ago,’ he explains, rubbing his bleary eyes, ‘to run a beast in; but two or three of the boys wos here larst night, an’ they kep’ it up; so I lays down on the sofy an’ drops right off. What’ll ye have, gents?’ I ask for beer. My companion smiles and ‘takes’ rum. ‘Lor bless yer!’ exclaims the landlord, ‘there ain’t bin no beer here this twelvemonth or more! I got some, somewheres, on the teams. But, the way things is, it’ll be another twelvemonth afore they show up. Dry time, ye see, sir.’ ‘Well, then,’ I say, ‘have you any whisky?’ ‘There was a bottle or two, but the boys—’ he commenced, when,— ‘What’s the use av batin’ about the bush that way?’ puts in my companion. ‘Why don’t ye tell the gint at wanst that sorra a dhrop’ll he get in Jillibeejee, bar the rum utself. I’ve dhrunk worse in Port Mackay. Ut’s a wholesome dhrink, in moderation, an’ wid jist a suspicion o’ Trickle Trickle at the bottom av the tumbler.’ So rum it is. The Officer in Charge takes his, I notice, very nearly pure, and without winking. We help ourselves, and the price is one shilling each. It is still terribly hot. ‘It must be a long way over one hundred degrees in the shade,’ I remark. ‘Come acrost to the station,’ says the Officer in Charge, ‘an’ we’ll see. There’s no shade whatever in Jillibeejee. But there’s the best that is. Sure, ut’s weatherboard an’ lined—the only wan in the town. There’s a thermomether there as tells how big a hate’s on.’ So we go over. The place is like a furnace, and the glass registers one hundred and twenty-seven degrees.