All evening he followed where they
led, enduring and suffering, and mourning with them and rejoicing over
their final victory with a ringing "You can't beat the Scots," as the
little volume, coming to with a bang, roused the Quarters at midnight.
"You can't beat the Scots, missus!" he repeated, coming over in the
morning for "more of that sort," all unconscious how true he was to type,
as he stood there, flushed with the victories of his forefathers, a
strong, young Scot, with a newly conquered world of his own at his feet.
As we hunted for "more of that sort," through a medley of odds and ends,
the Quiet Stockman scanned titles and dipped here and there into unknown
worlds, and Dan coming by, stared open-eyed.
"You don't say he's got the whole mob mouthed and reined and schooled in
all the paces?" he gasped; but Jack put aside the word of praise.
"There's writing and spelling yet," he said, and Dan, with his interest
in booklearning reviving, watched the square chin setting squarer, and
was bewildered. "Seems to have struck a mob of brumbies," he commented.
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