All Evening He Followed Where They
Led, Enduring And Suffering, And Mourning With Them And Rejoicing Over
Their Final Victory With A Ringing "You Can't Beat The Scots," As The
Little Volume, Coming To With A Bang, Roused The Quarters At Midnight.
"You can't beat the Scots, missus!" he repeated, coming over in the
morning for "more of that sort," all
Unconscious how true he was to type,
as he stood there, flushed with the victories of his forefathers, a
strong, young Scot, with a newly conquered world of his own at his feet.
As we hunted for "more of that sort," through a medley of odds and ends,
the Quiet Stockman scanned titles and dipped here and there into unknown
worlds, and Dan coming by, stared open-eyed.
"You don't say he's got the whole mob mouthed and reined and schooled in
all the paces?" he gasped; but Jack put aside the word of praise.
"There's writing and spelling yet," he said, and Dan, with his interest
in booklearning reviving, watched the square chin setting squarer, and
was bewildered. "Seems to have struck a mob of brumbies," he commented.
But before Jack could "get properly going" with the brumbies, two
travellers rode into the homestead, supporting between them a third
rider, a man picked up off the track delirious with fever, and foodless;
and at the sight of his ghastly face our hearts stood still with fear.
But the man was one of the Scots another Mac of the race that loves a
good fight, and his plucky heart stood by him so well that within
twenty-four hours he was Iying contentedly in the shade of the Quarters,
looking on, while the homestead shared the Fizzer's welcome with Mac and
Tam and a traveller or two.
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