The Oracle and I were camped together. The Oracle was a bricklayer by trade, and had two or three small contracts on hand. I was "doing a bit of house-painting". There were a plasterer, a carpenter, and a plumber -- we were all T'othersiders, and old mates, and we worked things together.
It was in Westralia -- the Land of T'othersiders -- and, therefore, we were not surprised when Mitchell turned up early one morning, with his swag and an atmosphere of salt water about him.
He'd had a rough trip, he said, and would take a spell that day and take the lay of the land and have something cooked for us by the time we came home; and go to graft himself next morning.
And next morning he went to work, "labouring" for the Oracle.
The Oracle and his mates, being small contractors and not pressed for time, had dispensed with the services of a labourer, and had done their own mixing and hod-carrying in turns. They didn't want a labourer now, but the Oracle was a vague fatalist, and Mitchell a decided one.
So it passed.
The Oracle had a "Case" right under his nose -- in his own employ, in fact; but was not aware of the fact until Mitchell drew his attention to it.
The Case went by the name of Alfred O'Briar -- which hinted a mixed parentage.
He was a small, nervous working-man, of no particular colour, and no decided character, apparently. If he had a soul above bricks, he never betrayed it. He was not popular on the jobs.
There was something sly about Alf, they said.
The Oracle had taken him on in the first place as a day-labourer, but afterwards shared the pay with him as with Mitchell.
O'Briar shouted -- judiciously, but on every possible occasion -- for the Oracle; and, as he was an indifferent workman, the boys said he only did this so that the Oracle might keep him on.
If O'Briar took things easy and did no more than the rest of us, at least one of us would be sure to get it into his head that he was loafing on us; and if he grafted harder than we did, we'd be sure to feel indignant about that too, and reckon that it was done out of nastiness or crawlsomeness, and feel a contempt for him accordingly.
We found out accidentally that O'Briar was an excellent mimic and a bit of a ventriloquist, but he never entertained us with his peculiar gifts; and we set that down to churlishness.
O'Briar kept his own counsel, and his history, if he had one; and hid his hopes, joys, and sorrows, if he had any, behind a vacant grin, as Mitchell hid his behind a quizzical one. He never resented alleged satire -- perhaps he couldn't see it -- and therefore he got the name of being a cur.
As a rule, he was careful with his money, and was called mean -- not, however, by the Oracle, whose philosophy was simple, and whose sympathy could not realise a limit; nor yet by Mitchell.
Mitchell waited.
. . . . .
O'Briar occupied a small tent by himself, and lived privately of evenings.
When we began to hear two men talking at night in his tent, we were rather surprised, and wondered in a vague kind of way how any of the chaps could take sufficient interest in Alf to go in and yarn with him. In the days when he was supposed to be sociable, we had voted him a bore; even the Oracle was moved to admit that he was "a bit slow".
But late one night we distinctly heard a woman's voice in O'Briar's tent.
The Oracle suddenly became hard of hearing, and, though we heard the voice on several occasions, he remained exasperatingly deaf, yet aggressively unconscious of the fact. "I have got enough to do puzzling over me own whys and wherefores," he said. Mitchell began to take some interest in O'Briar, and treated him with greater respect.
But our camp had the name of being the best-constructed, the cleanest, and the most respectable in the vicinity.
The health officer and constable in charge had complimented us on the fact, and we were proud of it. And there were three young married couples in camp, also a Darby and Joan; therefore, when the voice of a woman began to be heard frequently and at disreputable hours of the night in O'Briar's tent, we got uneasy about it. And when the constable who was on night duty gave us a friendly hint, Mitchell and I agreed that something must be done.
"Av coorse, men will be men," said the constable, as he turned his horse's head, "but I thought I'd mention it. O'Briar is a dacent man, and he's one of yer mates. Av coorse. There's a bad lot in that camp in the scrub over yander, and -- av coorse. Good-day to ye, byes."
. . . . .
Next night we heard the voice in O'Briar's tent again, and decided to speak to Alf in a friendly way about it in the morning.
We listened outside in the dark, but could not distinguish the words, though I thought I recognised the voice.
"It's the hussy from the camp over there; she's got holt of that fool, and she'll clean him out before she's done," I said. "We're Alf's mates, any way it goes, and we ought to put a stop to it."
"What hussy?" asked Mitchell; "there's three or four there."
"The one with her hair all over her head," I answered.
"Where else should it be?" asked Mitchell. "But I'll just have a peep and see who it is. There's no harm in that."
