Twenty miles more, another spell for
the horses (the Fizzer never seems to need a spell for himself), and then
the last lap of thirty, the run into Anthony's Lagoon, "punching the poor
beggars along somehow." "Keep 'em going all night," the Fizzer says;
"and if you should happen to be at Anthony's on the day I'm due there you
can set your watch for eleven in the morning when you see me coming
along." I have heard somewhere of the Pride of Harness.
Sixteen days is the time-limit for those five-hundred miles, and yet the
Fizzer is expected because the Fizzer is due; and to a man who loves his
harness no praise could be sweeter than that. Perhaps one of the
brightest thoughts for the Fizzer as he "punches" along those desolate
Downs is the knowledge that a little before eleven o'clock in the morning
Anthony's will come out, and, standing with shaded eyes, will look
through the quivering heat, away into the Downs for that tiny moving
speck. When the Fizzer is late there, death will have won at the
dice-throwing.
I suppose he got a salary. No one ever troubled to ask. He was
expected, and he came, and in our selfishness we did not concern
ourselves beyond that.
It is men like the Fizzer who, "keeping the roads open," lay the
foundation-stones of great cities; and yet when cities creep into the
Never-Never along the Fizzer's mail route, in all probability they will
be called after Members of Parliament and the Prime Ministers of that
day, grandsons, perhaps, of the men who forgot to keep the old well in
repair, while our Fizzer and the mail-man who perished will be forgotten;
for townsfolk are apt to forget the beginnings of things.
