Our
Fizzer was always the Fizzer. "Managed to escape without help?" he
shouted in welcome as he came to the camp fire, alluding to his promise
"to do a rescue"; and then he surveyed our supper. "Struck it lucky, as
usual," he declared, helping himself to a couple of fish from the fire
and breaking open one of the crisp Johnny cakes. "Can't beat grilled fish
and hot rolls by much, to say nothin' of tea." The Fizzer was one of
those happy, natural people who always find the supply exactly suited to
the demand.
But if our Fizzer was just our Fizzer, the Quiet Stockman was changing
every day. He was still the Quiet Stockman, and always would be,
speaking only when he had something to say, but he was learning that he
had much to say that was worth saying, or, rather, much that others found
worth listening to; and that knowledge was squaring his shoulders and
bringing a new ring into his voice.
Around the camp fires we touched on any subject that suggested itself,
but at the Stirling that night, four of us being Scotch, we found
Scotland and Scotchmen an inexhaustible topic, and before we turned in
were all of Jack's opinion, that "you can't beat the Scots.
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