"Like to see one of 'em doing it
'emselves," says the Fizzer. Yet never a day late, and rarely an hour,
he does it eight times a year, with a "So long, chaps," and a "Here we
are again."
The Fizzer was due at sundown, and at sundown a puff of dust rose on the
track, and as a cry of "Mail oh !" went up all round the homestead, the
Fizzer rode out of the dust.
"Hullo! What ho! boys," he shouted in welcome, and the next moment we
were in the midst of his clattering team of pack-horses.
For five minutes everything was in confusion; horse bells and hobbles
jingling and clanging, harness rattling, as horses shook themselves free,
and pack-bags, swags, and saddles came to the ground with loud, creaking
flops. Every one was lending a hand, and the Fizzer, moving in and out
among the horses, shouted a medley of news and instructions and welcome.
"News? Stacks of it" he shouted. The Fizzer always shouted. "The gay
time we had at the Katherine! Here, steady with that pack-bag. It's
breakables! How's the raisin market? Eh, lads!" with many chuckles.
"Sore back here, fetch along the balsam.
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