The Oracle had Uncle Bob, of course, and long Dave Regan, the drover -- a good-hearted, sawny kind of chap that'd break the devil's own buck-jumper, or smash him, or get smashed himself -- and little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, and one or two of the old, better-class diggers that were left on the field.
"There's a clear space among the saplings in Specimen Gully, where they used to pitch circuses; and here, in the cool of a summer evening, the two men stood face to face. Redmond was a rough, roaring, foul-mouthed man; he stripped to his shirt, and roared like a bull, and swore, and sneered, and wanted to take the whole of Tom's crowd while he was at it, and make one clean job of 'em. Couldn't waste time fighting them all one after the other, because he wanted to get away to the new rush at Cattle Creek next day. The fool had been drinking shanty-whisky.
"Tom stood up in his clean, white moles and white flannel shirt -- one of those sort with no sleeves, that give the arms play.
He had a sort of set expression and a look in his eyes that Uncle Bob -- nor none of them -- had ever seen there before.
`Give us plenty of ---- room!' roared Redmond; `one of us is going to hell, now! This is going to be a fight to a ---- finish, and a ---- short one!' And it was!" Joe paused.
"Go on," said Mitchell -- "go on!"
Joe drew a long breath.
"The Oracle never got a mark! He was top-dog right from the start.
Perhaps it was his strength that Redmond had underrated, or his want of science that puzzled him, or the awful silence of the man that frightened him (it made even Uncle Bob uneasy). Or, perhaps, it was Providence (it was a glorious chance for Providence), but, anyway, as I say, the Oracle never got a mark, except on his knuckles.
After a few rounds Redmond funked and wanted to give in, but the chaps wouldn't let him -- not even his own mates -- except Duigan.
They made him take it as long as he could stand on his feet.
He even shammed to be knocked out, and roared out something about having broken his ---- ankle -- but it was no use. And the Oracle!
The chaps that knew thought that he'd refuse to fight, and never hit a man that had given in. But he did. He just stood there with that quiet look in his eyes and waited, and, when he did hit, there wasn't any necessity for Redmond to PRETEND to be knocked down.
You'll see a glint of that old light in the Oracle's eyes even now, once in a while; and when you do it's a sign that you or someone are going too far, and had better pull up, for it's a red light on the line, old as he is.
"Now, Jimmy Nowlett was a nuggety little fellow, hard as cast iron, good-hearted, but very excitable; and when the bashed Redmond was being carted off (poor Uncle Bob was always pretty high-strung, and was sitting on a log sobbing like a great child from the reaction), Duigan made some sneering remark that only Jimmy Nowlett caught, and in an instant he was up and at Duigan.
"Perhaps Duigan was demoralised by his mate's defeat, or by the suddenness of the attack; but, at all events, he got a hiding, too.
Uncle Bob used to say that it was the funniest thing he ever saw in his life.
Jimmy kept yelling: `Let me get at him! By the Lord, let me get at him!'
And nobody was attempting to stop him, he WAS getting at him all the time -- and properly, too; and, when he'd knocked Duigan down, he'd dance round him and call on him to get up; and every time he jumped or bounced, he'd squeak like an india-rubber ball, Uncle Bob said, and he would nearly burst his boiler trying to lug the big man on to his feet so's he could knock him down again. It took two of Jimmy's mates all their time to lam him down into a comparatively reasonable state of mind after the fight was over.
"The Oracle left for Sydney next day, and Uncle Bob went with him.
He stayed at Uncle Bob's place for some time. He got very quiet, they said, and gentle; he used to play with the children, and they got mighty fond of him. The old folks thought his heart was broken, but it went through a deeper sorrow still after that and it ain't broken yet.
It takes a lot to break the heart of a man."
"And his wife," asked Mitchell -- "what became of her?"
"I don't think he ever saw her again. She dropped down pretty low after he left her -- I've heard she's living somewhere quietly.
The Oracle's been sending someone money ever since I knew him, and I know it's a woman. I suppose it's she. He isn't the sort of a man to see a woman starve -- especially a woman he had ever had anything to do with."
"And the Gippsland girl?" asked Mitchell.
"That's the worst part of it all, I think. The Oracle went up North somewhere. In the course of a year or two his affair got over Gippsland way through a mate of his who lived over there, and at last the story got to the ears of this girl, Bertha Bredt.
She must have written a dozen letters to him, Aunt Bob said.
She knew what was in 'em, but, of course, she'd never tell us.
The Oracle only wrote one in reply. Then, what must the girl do but clear out from home and make her way over to Sydney -- to Aunt Bob's place, looking for Tom. She never got any further.
She took ill -- brain-fever, or broken heart, or something of that sort.
All the time she was down her cry was -- `I want to see him!
I want to find Tom! I only want to see Tom!'
"When they saw she was dying, Aunt Bob wired to the Oracle to come -- and he came. When the girl saw it was Tom sitting by the bed, she just gave one long look in his face, put her arms round his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder -- and died. . . . Here comes the Oracle now."
Mitchell lifted the tea-billy on to the coals.
