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."

He crept up to the tent and cautiously moved the flap. Alf's candle
was alight; he lay on his back in his bunk with his arms under his head,
calmly smoking. We withdrew.

"They must have heard us," said Mitchell; "and she's slipped out
under the tent at the back, and through the fence into the scrub."

Mitchell's respect for Alf increased visibly.

But we began to hear ominous whispers from the young married couples,
and next Saturday night, which was pay-night, we decided to see it through.
We did not care to speak to Alf until we were sure. He stayed in camp,
as he often did, on Saturday evening, while the others went up town.
Mitchell and I returned earlier than usual, and leaned on the fence