girl, spooning under the stars along between the hop-gardens and the Mitchell River. And, if you get holt of a fiddle or a concertina, don’t rasp or swank too much on old tunes, when he’s round, for the Oracle can’t stand it. Play something lively. He’ll be down there at that surveyor’s camp yarning till all hours, so we’ll have plenty of time for the story—but don’t you ever give him a hint that you know.
“My people knew him well; I got most of the story from them—mostly from Uncle Bob, who knew him better than any. The rest leaked out through the women—you know how things leak out amongst women?”
Mitchell dropped his head and scratched the back of it. He knew.
“It was on the Cudgegong River. My Uncle Bob was mates with him on one of those ‘rushes’ along there—the ‘Pipeclay’, I think it was, or the ‘Log Paddock’. The Oracle was a young man then, of course, and so was Uncle Bob (he was a match for most men). You see the Oracle now, and you can imagine what he was when he was a young man. Over six feet, and as straight as a sapling, Uncle Bob said, clean-limbed, and as fresh as they made men in those days; carried his hands behind him, as he does now, when he hasn’t got the swag—but his shoulders were back in those days. Of course he wasn’t the Oracle then; he was young Tom Marshall—but that doesn’t matter. Everybody liked him—especially women and children. He was a bit happy-go-lucky and careless, but he didn’t know anything about ‘this world’, and didn’t bother about it; he hadn’t ‘been
