The Fizzer was due at sundown, and for the Fizzer to be due meant that
the Fizzer would arrive, and by six o'clock we had all got cricks in our
necks, with trying to go about as usual, and yet keep an expectant eye on
the north track.
The Fizzer is unlike every type of man excepting a bush mail-man. Hard,
sinewy, dauntless, and enduring, he travels day after day and month after
month, practically alone - "on me Pat Malone," he calls it - with or
without a black boy, according to circumstances, and five trips out of
his yearly eight throwing dice with death along his dry stages, and yet
at all times as merry as a grig, and as chirrupy as a young grasshopper.
With a light-hearted, "So long, chaps," he sets out from the Katherine on
his thousand-mile ride, and with a cheery "What ho, chaps! Here we are
again!" rides in again within five weeks with that journey behind him.
A thousand miles on horseback, "on me Pat Malone," into the Australian
interior and out again, travelling twice over three long dry stages and
several shorter ones, and keeping strictly within the Government
time-limit, would be a life-experience to the men who set that limit if
it wasn't a death-experience. "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.
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