Bogan's face was more the result of free speech than
anything else.

The Army was about to pray when the Pretty Girl stepped forward, her
eyes shining with indignation and enthusiasm. She had arrived by the
evening train, and had been standing shrinkingly behind an Army lass of
fifty Australian summers, who was about six feet high, flat and broad,
and had a square face, and a mouth like a joint in boiler plates.

The Pretty Girl stamped her pretty foot on the gravel, and her eyes
flashed in the torchlight.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," she said. "Great big men like
you to be going on the way you are. If you were ignorant or poor, as
I've seen people, there might be some excuse for you. Haven't you got
any mothers, or sisters, or wives to think of? What sort of a life is
this you lead? Drinking, and gambling, and fighting, and swearing
your lives away! Do you ever think of God and the time when you were
children? Why don't you make homes? Look at that man's face!" (she
pointed suddenly at Bogan, who collapsed and sidled behind his mates out
of the light). "Look at that man's face! Is it a face for a Christian?
And you help and encourage him to fight. You're worse than he is. Oh,
it's brutal. It's--it's wicked. Great big men like you, you ought to be
ashamed of yourselves."

Long Bob Brothers--about six-foot-four--the longest and most innocent
there, shrunk down by the wall and got his inquiring face out of the
light. The Pretty Girl fluttered on for a few moments longer, greatly
excited, and then stepped back, seemingly much upset, and was taken
under the wing of the woman with the boiler-plate mouth.

It was a surprise, and very sudden. Bogan slipped round to the backyard,
and was seen bathing his battered features at the pump. The rest wore
the expression of men who knew that something unusual has happened, but
don't know what, and are waiting vacantly for developments.--Except Tom
Hall, who had recovered and returned. He stood looking over the head of
the ring of bushmen, and apparently taking the same critical interest in
the girl as he would in a fight--his expression was such as a journalist
might wear who is getting exciting copy.

The Army had it all their own way for the rest of the evening, and made
a good collection. The Pretty Girl stood smiling round with shining eyes
as the bobs and tanners dropped in, and then, being shoved forward by
the flat woman, she thanked us sweetly, and said we w