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."

. . . . .