As we settled down to supper, the Fizzer came shouting through the ant-hills, and, soon after, the Quiet Stockman rode into camp.  Our Fizzer was always the Fizzer.  “Managed to escape without help?” he shouted in welcome as he came to the camp fire, alluding to his promise “to do a rescue”; and then he surveyed our supper.  “Struck it lucky, as usual,” he declared, helping himself to a couple of fish from the fire and breaking open one of the crisp Johnny cakes.  “Can’t beat grilled fish and hot rolls by much, to say nothin’ of tea.”  The Fizzer was one of those happy, natural people who always find the supply exactly suited to the demand.

But if our Fizzer was just our Fizzer, the Quiet Stockman was changing every day.  He was still the Quiet Stockman, and always would be, speaking only when he had something to say, but he was learning that he had much to say that was worth saying, or, rather, much that others found worth listening to; and that knowledge was squaring his shoulders and bringing a new ring into his voice.

Around the camp fires we touched on any subject that suggested itself, but at the Stirling that night, four of us being Scotch, we found Scotland and Scotchmen an inexhaustible topic, and before we turned in were all of Jack’s opinion, that “you can’t beat the Scots.”  Even the Dandy and the Fizzer were converted; and Jack having realised that there are such things as Scotchwomen—­Scotch-hearted women—­a new bond was established between us.

No one had much sleep that night, and before dawn there was no doubt left in our mind about the outside cattle coming in.  It seemed as though every beast on the run must have come in to the Stirling that night for a drink.  Every water-hole out-bush is as the axis of a great circle, cattle pads narrowing into it like the spokes of a wheel, from every point of the compass, and along these pads around the Stirling mob after mob of cattle came in in single file, treading carelessly, until each old bull leader, scenting the camp, gave its low, deep, drawn-out warning call that told of danger at hand.  After that rang out, only an occasional snapping twig betrayed the presence of the cattle as they crept cautiously in for the drink that must be procured at all hazards.  But after the drink the only point to be considered was safety, and in a crashing stampede they rushed out into the timber.  Till long after midnight they were at it, and as Brown and I were convinced that every mob was coming straight over our net, we spent an uneasy night.  To make matters worse, just as the camp was settling down to a deep sleep after the cattle had finally subsided, Dan’s camp reveille rang out.

It was barely three o’clock, and the Fizzer raised an indignant protest of:  “Moonrise, you bally ass.”