"Oh, nothin': only I think it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to look
at your bunk and see whether Smith forgot."

The chaps grew awfully interested. They fixed their eyes on Tom, and
he looked with feeling from one face to another; then he pushed his
plate back, and slowly extracted his long legs from between the stool
and the table. He climbed to his bunk, and carefully reviewed the
ingredients of his swag. Smith hadn't forgot.

When The Oracle's face came round again there was in it a strange
expression which a close study would have revealed to be more of anger
than of sorrow, but that was not all. It was an expression such as a
man might wear who is undergoing a terrible operation, without
chloroform, but is determined not to let a whimper escape him. Tom
didn't swear, and by that token they guessed how mad he was. 'Twas a
rough shed, with a free and lurid vocabulary, but had they all sworn
in chorus, with One-eyed Bogan as lead, it would not have done justice
to Tom's feelings--and they realized this.

The Oracle took down his bridle from its peg, and started for the door
amid a respectful and sympathetic silence, which was only partly
broken once by the voice of Mitchell, which asked in an awed whisper:

"Going ter ketch yer horse, Tom?" The Oracle nodded, and passed on;
he spake no word--he was too full for words.

Five minutes passed, and then the voice of Mitchell was heard again,
uninterrupted by the clatter of tinware. It said in impressive tones: