But already the Fizzer's shoulders were setting square, for the last trip
of the "dry" was before him - the trip that perished the last mailman - and
his horses were none too good.
"Good luck!" we called after him. "Early showers!" and there was a note
in our voices brought there by the thought of that gaunt figure at the
well - rattling its dicebox as it waited for one more round with our
Fizzer: a note that brought a bright look into the Fizzer's face, as with
an answering shout of farewell he rode on into the forest. And watching
the sturdy figure, and knowing the luck of our Fizzer - that luck that
had given him his fearless judgment and steadfast, courageous spirit - we
felt his cheery "Half-past eleven four weeks" must be prophetic, in spite
of those long dry stages, with their beating heat and parching dust
eddies - stages eked out now at each end with other stages of "bad going."
"Half-past eleven four weeks," the Fizzer had said; and as we returned to
our mail-matter, knowing what it meant to our Fizzer, we looked anxiously
to the northwest, and "hoped the showers" would come before the "return
trip of the Downs."
In addition to the fifty letters for the house, the Fizzer had left two
others at the homestead to be called for - one being addressed to Victoria
Downs (over two hundred miles to our west), and the other to -
F. BROWN, Esq.,
IN CHARGE OF STUD BULLS GOING WEST
VIA NORTHERN TERRITORY.
