After supper, as we went for our evening stroll, we stayed for a little
while where the men were lounging, and after a general interchange of
news the Fizzer's turn came.
News! He had said he had stacks of it, and he now bubbled over with it.
The horse teams were "just behind," and the Macs almost at the front
gate. The Sanguine Scot? Of course he was all right: always was, but
reckoned bullock-punching wasn't all it was cracked up to be; thought his
troubles were over when he got out of the sandy country, but hadn't
reckoned on the black soil flats. "Wouldn't be surprised if he took to
punching something else besides bullocks before he's through with it,"
the Fizzer shouted, roaring with delight at the recollection of the
Sanguine Scot in a tight place. On and on he went with his news, and for
two hours afterwards, as we sat chewing the cud of our mail-matter, we
could hear him laughing and shouting and "chiacking."
At daybreak he was at it again, shouting among his horses, as he culled
his team of "done-ups," and soon after breakfast was at the head of the
south track with all aboard.
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