THE MAN WHO FORGOT
'Well, I dunno,' said Tom Marshall―known as 'The Oracle'―'I've heerd o' sich cases before: they aint commin, but―I've heerd o' sich cases before,' and he screwed up the left side of his face whilst he reflectively scraped his capacious right ear with the large blade of a pocket knife.
They were sitting at the western end of the rouseabouts' hut, enjoying the breeze that came up when the sun went down, and smoking and yarning. The 'case' in question was a wretchedly forlorn looking specimen of the swag-carrying clan whom a boundary rider had found wandering about the adjacent plain, and had brought into the station. He was a small, scraggy man, painfully fair, with a big, baby-like head, vacant watery eyes, long thin hairy hands, that felt like pieces of damp seaweed, and an apologetic cringe-and-look-up-at-you manner. He professed to have forgotten who he was and all about himself.
The Oracle was deeply interested in this case, as indeed he was in anything else that 'looked curious.' He was a big, simple-minded shearer, with more heart than brains, more experience than sense, and more curiosity than either. It was a wonder that he had
