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. What ho, Cheon!" as Cheon
appeared and greeted him as an old friend. "Heard you were here. You're
the boy for my money. You BALLY ass! Keep 'em back from the water
there." This last was for the black boy. It took discrimination to fit
the Fizzer's remarks on to the right person. Then, as a pack-bag dropped
at the Maluka's feet, he added: "That's the station lot, boss. Full
bags, missus! Two on 'em. You'll be doing the disappearing trick in half
a mo'."
In "half a mo'" the seals were broken, and the mail-matter shaken out on
the ground. A cascade of papers, magazines, and books, with a fat, firm
little packet of letters among them: forty letters in all - thirty of them
falling to my lot - thirty fat, bursting envelopes, and in another "half
mo'" we had all slipped away in different directions - each with our
precious mail matter - doing the "disappearing trick" even to the Fizzer's
satisfaction.
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