Have to be tied up, and watered one at a
time; and so parched with thirst that it takes three hours' drawing
before they are satisfied - three hours' steady drawing, on top of
twenty-three hours out of twenty-seven spent in the saddle, and half that
time "punching" jaded beasts along; and yet they speak of the "Fizzer's
luck."
"Real fine old water too," the Fizzer shouts in delight, as he tells his
tale. "Kept in the cellar for our special use. Don't indulge in it much
myself. Might spoil my palate for newer stuff, so I carry enough for the
whole trip from Renner's."
If the Downs have left deep lines on the Fizzer's face, they have left
none in his heart. Yet at that well the dice-throwing goes on just the
same.
Maybe the Fizzer feels "a bit knocked out with the sun," and the water
for his perishing horses ninety feet below the surface; or "things go
wrong" with the old windlass, and everything depends on the Fizzer's
ingenuity. The odds are very uneven when this happens - a man's ingenuity
against a man's life, and death playing with loaded dice. And every
letter the Fizzer carries past that well costs the public just twopence.
A drink at the well, an all-night's spell, another drink, and then away
at midday, to face the tightest pinch of all - the pinch where death won
with the other mail-man.
