The brother drew back. He had been known in the northwest in his
sinful days as "Man-without-a-Shirt," alias "Shirty," or "The
Dirty Man," and was flabbergasted at being recognized in speech.
Also, he had been in a shearing-shed and in a shanty orgy with
One-eyed Bogan, and knew the man.

Now most of the chaps respected the Army, and, indeed, anything that
looked like religion, but the Bogan's face, as representing
free-thought, was a bit too sudden for them. There were sounds on the
opposite side of the ring as from men being smitten repeatedly and
rapidly below the belt, and long Tom Hall and one or two others got
away into the darkness in the background, where Tom rolled helplessly
on the grass and sobbed.

It struck me that Bogan's face was more the result of free speech than
anything else.

The Army was about to pray when the Pretty Girl stepped forward, her
eyes shining with indignation and enthusiasm. She had arrived by the
evening train, and had been standing shrinkingly behind an Army lass
of fifty Australian summers, who was about six feet high, flat and
broad, and had a square face, and a mouth like a joint in boiler
plates.

The Pretty Girl stamped her pretty foot on the gravel, and her eyes
flashed in the torchlight.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," she said. "Great big men
like you to be going on the way you are. If you were ignorant or