The matter was discussed at the dinner table. The Oracle swore that it was a cruel, mean way to treat a 'pore afflicted chap,' and cursed the boss. Tom's admirers cursed in sympathy, and trouble seemed threatening, when the voice of Mitchell was heard to rise in slow deliberate tones over the clatter of cutlery and tin plates.
'I wonder,' said the voice, 'I wonder whether Smith forgot his cheque?'
It was ascertained that Smith hadn't.
There was some eating and thinking done.
Soon Mitchell's voice was heard again, directed at The Oracle. It said:
'Do you keep any vallabels about your bunk, Oracle?'
Tom looked hard at Mitchell. 'Why?'
'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
