He threw in some more earth.
'Yer don't remember, Brummy, an' mebbe yer don't want to remember―I don't want to remember―but―well, but, yer see that's where yer got the pull on me.'
He shovelled in some more earth and paused again.
The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his master and then into the grave.
'Theer oughter be somethin' sed,' muttered the old man; ''tain't right to put 'im under like a dog. There oughter be some sort o' sarmin.' He sighed heavily in the listening silence that followed this remark and proceeded with his work. He filled the grave to the brim this time, and fashioned the mound carefully with his spade. Once or twice he muttered the words, 'I am the rassaraction.' He was evidently trying to remember, as he laid the tools quietly aside, and stood at the head of the grave, the something that ought to be said. He removed his hat, placed it carefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides and a little to the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnity that greatly disturbed Five Bob, 'Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus, Brummy,―an'―an' in hopes of a great an' gerlorious rassaraction!'
He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passed his hand wearily over his forehead―but only as one who was tired and felt the heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools and walked back to the hut.
And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush―the nurse and tutor of eccentric minds, the home of the weird, and of much that is different from things in other lands.
