The Grave of Pierre Lamont
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Thirty three short stories and an autobiographic article by Harold Mercer, (1882-1952), an Australian freelance journalist and humorist. He served in WW1 on the Somme and other theatres of the Western Front, and achieved the remarkable feat of making a living during the depression of the 1930s on his free-lance writing. It wasn't until the manpower shortage of WW2 that he took a full-time wages job, working at the Australian General Post Office, presumably as a censor, After the war he continued working full time, now with an industrial company. He was still working at age 70, when he was kill

THE GRAVE OF

PIERRE LAMONT
and other stories
from  The Bulletin

Harold Mercer

1882-1852

This is the only picture I could find of Harold Mercer,
a Bulletin caricature from 1926.

A freelance Australian journalist who served in WW1 on the Western Front, worked as a union organiser (he helped found the journalists' union which later became the present day Australian Journalists' Association), and who was (as he had to be, as a freelance), enormously prolific in a wide variety of genres from leader articles, gossip paragraphs, humorous paragraphs, short stories and verse— even a novel. He used a number of pen-names, the most prolific being "Hamer". He died when struck by a car while crossing a road.

Contents

1: Doing the Right Thing

2: The Honor of the Family

3: Checkmate

4: The Work of Brother Petherick

5: The Romance of Ginger Mick

6: The Tango With the Stars (verse)

7: A Bit of 'Bacca

8: Reardon’s Rhapsodies

9: The Good Samaritan

10: The Grave of Pierre Lamont

11: The Fairy Godmother

12: Grigson With the Wind Up

13: The Tragerigal Bobgetts

14: Old Maudie

15: The Melbourne Cup Mystery

16: Biggar in a New Suit

17: Glubson— Realist (verse)

18: Disembowelled Spirits

19: Cutting a Long Story Short

20: The Fakir

21: The Climax

22: The Confession

23: Unleashing The Lease

24: The Lottery Ticket

25: Everybody Dies

26: The Man With Hair Like Mine

27: A Memory of Morbecque

28: Non-Union Ghost

29: The Crabbiness of Miss Cripps

30: Honor Among Thieves

31: Biggar and Better Times

32: Uncle Bill Comes to Light

33: Marketing our Bridge

34: “With Self-Clipped Wings"

_____________________

1: Doing the Right Thing

Bulletin, 15 Aug 1918

THE Griffins and I became acquainted in the course of one of my periodical searches for a suitable lodging. Lodgings are plentiful, while suitable lodgings are rare. But Mrs. Griffin, after finishing her business with the baker— it seemed to be the further postponement of an account— produced a room which was passable.

It was impossible to live with the Griffins and not know their business. It was quite easy to live with them and not let them know your business, as long as you let them think they knew it. Personally I have no objection to people of that sort. Their curiosity is inspired by a good-natured interest, which can only be offensive to a person of insufferable temperament.

I had only been two days at the Griffin establishment when, leaving the house in the morning, I met a man on the doorstep. His manner— you can always tell these things— would have proclaimed him rent-collector even if the rent-book in his hand had not sufficiently announced the fact; and he asked for Mrs. Griffin. I found the lady upstairs, and she hurriedly asked me to say that she was having a bath.

"Having a bath?" repeated the man with the receipt-book. "You might let her know that I want to see her particularly."

The stairs reared themselves directly in sight of the front door, and at the back of them was the bathroom. How Mrs. Griffin managed to desert her broom and get to the bathroom without being seen I do not know; but as an answer to the agent's request the bath shower gave a noisy verification of my statement. Perhaps she did not desert her broom. The agent closed his receipt-book with a discontented snap and went. I also went away pondering that other people owed rent besides myself.

Before the week was up I knew a great deal more of the Griffins' domestic lack of economy. Next week the landlord would be paid— not in full perhaps, but paid. The grocer, the butcher and the milkman would as a consequence, have a further wait; but it was the baker's turn next. As I understood it, it was the grocer, at that time, who had the longest time to run, and when he was satisfied— with something on account— the landlord would again be restive. The Griffins, in fact, lived like a great number of citizens, and had lived that way in the same place for eight years, and were likely to live that way till the end of the chapter. They could always get credit because it was known that they would pay some time.

To reach my room it was necessary to pass through what was known as the Griffins' dining-room. It was not a dining-room at all of course. The Griffins breakfasted and dined and smoked the after-dinner pipe (at least Griffin did) and lived through the various details of their life in the kitchen. The dining-room was a sacred repository where the artificial flowers in their glass cover, a stuffed bird with one eye and an inclination to moult, the Family Bible, two or three books by Nat Gould, and other family treasures were placed.

About the fourth day of my sojourn in the Griffin establishment I was bailed up in this room by the male Griffin with a question as to whether my evening paper contained the sweep results. From that day the Griffins' dining-room attained a new usefulness. It was the place where my evening paper was searched by Mrs. Griffin and Mr. Griffin and the whole Griffin family for a number to correspond with the little paper ticket which represented the potentiality of a prize in a sweep consultation. The pastime was an exciting one. First of all the voice of Alicia Griffin would be lifted.

"Here it is! Here it is!" she would scream. "1274929— we've got an 'orse!"

"My!" Mrs. Griffin would exclaim. "It's there all right! We've got a prize at last!"

And there would be a babble of excitement until some pessimist suggested an examination of the ticket, which probably was number 1374928. Afterwards, as the search went through the diminishing prizes, shouts of victory would be aroused by the discovery of number 1276921 in the hundred-pound prizes and 1276953 in the twenty-pound prizes.

Then, after an hour's pleasurable excitement, the Griffins would retire again to the kitchen and unaffluent existence and yield me my paper. The only thing in a paper that interested the Griffin family was the sweep result— unless there happened to be a report of a big prize-fight or a fine exciting murder.

And even a murder was not particularly interesting unless a photograph showed the Scene of the Crime, with the spot (X) where the body was found.

The Griffins' false alarms were so frequent that I was not particularly interested when Mrs. Griffin called from the foot of the stairs: "Mr. Hamer ! Mr. Hamer! Come down quickly— quick!" Mrs. Griffin always did want me to come quickly on these occasions, as if the figures might run away.

Still, since it was expected of me, I went down and found Mr. Griffin with the sweep ticket in one hand and his horny forefinger fixed on the paper, as if he had captured an elusive figure and was holding it down.

"It's right this time— all right," I said. "About three hundred at least, I suppose. Congratulations."

The Griffins had been in a state of spell-bound expectancy until my verdict verified their best hopes. Then they went mad. Mrs. Griffin kissed Griffin and her single sister. Miss Jones, and all the family— and me before I could escape; and then started all over again at such a rate that I only just had time to dodge to the other side of Griffin to avoid my share; and Miss Jones and the whole family kissed one another; and Griffin shook my hand for about ten minutes, repeating dazedly:

"Thank you; the same to you, sir; and many of 'em."

"I hope you'll excuse me," said Mrs. Griffin. "But it's the first win we've had."

And then she wept hysterically.

About two hours later my presence was requested in the kitchen. There weye several bottles of beer on the table, and some cold meat and cheese and pigs' trotters; and the Griffin children, who on other nights would have been cuffed and put to bed hours before, were engaging in a vigorous competition to see who could make himself or herself most sticky with the lollies provided. I was given a chair and the information that my assistance was desired at a family council, which included the discussion of refreshments.

"You see, Mr. Hamer," said Mrs. Griffin, "having come into this wealth, we want to use it to the best advantage, and we thought you might not mind helping us to decide."

"What about a pub?" said Griffin, thoughtFully, rubbing tobacco between his palms.

"If you thought of that—" I began.

"We won't talk about a pub," said Mrs. Griffin decidedly.

The family listened to my suggestions with respect, but turned them all down. The suggestion to cut out the landlord by securing a home of their own created discussion, but was objected to by Griffin because it would mean his living away from his work, and by Mrs. Griffin because they had lived eight years in one place and the tradespeople knew them— substantial objections which, with the additional "then there'll be fares," prevailed. A boarding-house proposal brought the obstacle of too many children. Mrs. Griffin considered that the keeping of a shop would involve worry in regard to people owing money.

"But what we must do now we've got the money," said Mrs. Griffin suddenly, "is to do the right thing in regard to poor old Dad and Mum."

"The right thing?" queried Griffin.

"Yes. It was all very well to bury them quietly, when it was all we could afford, but with this money I feel as if I could not face 'em again unless we did something for them. Why, there's not even a stone on their graves."

"Um— ah; yes, that's right." said Griffin. "And there's my mother, too."

"And your Aunt Jennie." said Mrs. Griffin, waxing enthusiastic. "Dead three years, and a dear old thing for all her nasty temper, and not a stone to comfort her. And my Uncle Harry."

"And my brother Charlie," put, in Griffin.

"Charlie was a drunken good-for-nothing, and he never paid you back that five shillings.And he broke that jug in the tea-set the time he tried to hit you on the head with the bottle," said Mrs. Griffin sharply.

The implication of a higher value on a piece of china than on his head did not upset Griffin.

"Speak no evil of the dead," he said sententiously.

Even Mrs. Griffin accepted this admonition as deserved, and seemingly assented to the correctness of posthumous reverence being accorded brother Charlie.

"We haven't even had an ad in the paper about any of them," said Mrs. Griffin.

That, of course, was an idea. It would be a disgrace if the Griffins, now that they had the money, failed to advertise the posthumous virtues of their relations. My advice against it was swept away. Even if dear Mum had been dead these seven years, it was better late than never, and it was time something was done. "In Memoriam" ads. Were absolutely essential to the Griffin peace of mind— and long ones too. My suggestion that a plain notice was most effective, was flouted. Nothing but a real good ad "with poetry to it" would satisfy the Griffins. And I was required to do the writing.

My deficiencies as a writer were never so apparent to me as when I tried to satisfy the tastes of the Griffin family. I soon gave up the attempt. My one success was a quotation of Gray's line, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave," which was appropriated for Mrs. Griffin's father, who had once been a corporal in a volunteer regiment.

"But that's too short," said Mrs. Griffin. "We must have something else too. There was a simply lovely verse in the 'Erald the other day, about a bud in Heaven."

As a bud Mr. Jones, who was eighty-four when he died, seemed about the limit. I had by this time retired from the field. I realised that I was no match for the average "In Memoriam" poet, and commended his efforts to their consideration.

On Saturday, at Mrs. Griffin's request, I brought home twelve copies of that day's Herald. It contained all the glory of the Griffin family— fully a column of it— set forth in the "In Memoriam" notice as Mrs. Griffin put it, "regardless." The Griffin mother was "a picture engraved on our heart" when the whole Griffin family combined to have one heart over the matter (the thing had to rhyme with "the grave doth us part"); and was informed publicly, by Mr. and Mrs. Griffin separately, that in spite of the dreadful blow, the shocking pain, they hoped to meet in Heaven again. Father Griffin was told the distress of the family at the fact that no more he would rise in the morning as to hiis work he doth go, and no more they would hear his footsteps when the sun was sinking low. Even the disreputable brother Charles was described as a family treasure in Heaven; and by the family expressing its sentiments together, and then in lesser groups the Griffin relatives were made to go a long way round.

But still the wise disposition of the main portion of the Griffin fortune had not been decided. The whole neighborhood knew of their good fortune the day after the family had learnt it. I nodded to the postman the morning following the night of excitement, and he stopped to talk.

"Hear the people up at your house have struck luck," he said. "A nice little bit of money might be made out of a sum like that, backing 'orses, if you 'ave the right system. I'll put it to Mrs. Griffin when I sees 'er."

But for the time being, in spite of all the schemes put before them, the Griffins were abundantly occupied in "doing the right thing." Within a week the whole family was in what Mrs. Griffin termed "decent mourning" ; and one Saturday afternoon as I entered the house I heard a tapping inside which betokened industry.

Griffin was hammering nails into the wall of the sacred dining-room and hanging pictures thereon. A frequent reference in their "In Memoriam" notices to "your picture that's turned to the wall" and other sorts of pictures had reminded the Griffins of a painful lack, and they had paid expensively to have ugly enlargements of ugly photographs made and framed inartistically. The many large enlargements made the small room a dismal place. When I came home late the faces, with all their distortions, glared at me through the darkness and followed me upstairs and haunted my sleep. I was glad to leave the Griffins.

IT WAS months afterwards that I met Griffin in the city, coming sweat-soiled from work, his empty lunch-tin in his hand, and his wages rattling in his pockets. We adjourned to have a drink together.

With a melancholy pride, Griffin produced a photograph from his pocket. It depicted an elaborate stone in a cemetery.

"That's old Aunt Jennie's." he said. "But you should see what' we did for the old people! You must come out and see them. The missus will be glad."

"Got 'em framed?" I asked.

"My oath, yes; all in black ebony. The missus says we must get a droring-room for them— when we can afford it."

"Why!" I exclaimed, and stopped.

"Well," said Griffin, "I must be getting along or the grocer'll be shut. I promised the missus when I got me wages to drop in and pay the bill. It's been owing three weeks. So I can't stay."

"What?" I said. "You don't mean to say you've spent all that cash on these things for your dead relatives?"

"Yes," said Griffin, slowly. "We did the right thing by all on 'em— blarst them!"

________________

2: The Honor of the Family

Bulletin, 12 July 1917

A NAUSEATING sense of disappointment gripped Tom Poynter's heart. He was a man who pulsated with human emotions, and his cold, passionless wife had been a continuing disappointment; yet he had gone from hope to hope, until he had reached the end of the pathway and was faced by an abyss from which arose, instead of further hopes, magnified by his own expectations, only the horrors of apprehension.

When he had wooed and won the stately, unbending Isabel, her reticence had been cold water on the fire of his human ardor; but he gave himself delightful anticipations of rapture in the idea that the warmth of his devotion would melt away the icy barriers with which she surrounded herself. Yet he married an icicle, and the springtime of early matrimony brought no thaw. Then, looking forward to the coming of the child that might stir passion's fires in her heart, the months became a weariness of disappointment, of hope deferred.

Even when this hope reached a prospect of realisation, the method by which the information came to him was bitterly discomforting. He had imagined his wife, whispering with a delightful, bashful tenderness, giving him the glad tidings; but instead it was his mother-in-law— warm, plump, full-blooded, vivacious, and everything that her daughter was not, and seemingly very little her own child's senior— who first intimated to him the imminent likelihood of an heir. She mentioned it, too, in connection with a suggestion that, to preserve his wife's health, a little travelling would be beneficial.

To him it seemed, momentarily, a strange proposition ; but he forgot that altogether in the glow of the intelligence she had given; and when his wife entered the room immediately afterwards, he sprang towards her with outstretched hands, drew her towards him, and with extreme tenderness put his arm about her.

Yet the prevailing unresponsiveness of this strange woman to whom he was married struck a chill into his hot heart.

"But why did you not let me know before— long before?" he asked. "Why keep me in the dark?"

"I didn't like to tell you," she answered; "and I thought you might guess."

"But you knew I would be glad! And you will, too," he said warmly. "I'll do everything to make you happy!"

"I've just been telling Tom," said his mother-in-law, "about the idea of your travelling a little to maintain your health."

The reminder struck him coldly.

"You don't want to go?" he protested.

"I can't get away with you— that's impossible— and I want to be able to look after you."

"Oh, mother could look after me better than any man," she said evenly. "But you're very good, Tom."

Even that was some consolation to him, so seldom did she show anything but a calm, unemotional acceptance of all the matters of life.

"I shall feel anxious about you all the time," he said, reluctantly.

"Oh, you need feel no more anxiety than if she was at home here," said her mother, brightly. "If she was at home she might only trouble you in your work; and the change will establish her health and keep her interested. She wants to go."

Tom looked with a mute appeal towards his wife, but her attitude was an endorsement of her mother's words.

"Anything you want to do you can do, of course," he said.

So it was arranged; and, Maoriland having been chosen, Isabel and her mother left the quay a little more than a week later. It was a quiet parting, and Tom, hoping for a little waking warmth at the end, was struck by its coldness. Yet when Drummond, who had been a friend of the family when Tom first met his wife, unexpectedly joined the party, Tom found a consolation in observing that, if iciness was his wife's nature, the coldness she displayed for other men gave almost an aspect of warmth to her treatment of himself. Not that it mattered to Drummond, to whom— in spite of Tom's one-time jealousy— the plump, vivacious widow had always seemed the attraction.

In his debonair manner he kissed that lady's hand when the moment came for parting. But she drew it away quickly and gave her son-in-law a warm parting embrace that only served to accentuate the unemotionalness of his wife's farewell kiss.

The trip, which Tom had anticipated would occupy a month or two, spread itself out curiously. The tourists, finding pleasure in the sights they witnessed, dallied till the months became many. The protraction of the stay caused the waiting husband anxiety, and his letters became imperative in their tone. Then the word came that it would be inadvisable, according to the doctor, for the return voyage to be attempted; and just as Tom, in a ferment of fear, was considering the possibility of wrenching himself from the press of business that held him. The good news came that all was well, and he was the father of a boy.

FROM that until the arrival home Tom's heart beat with the joy of a new hope; yet paternal pride and pleasure was a small thing compared with the anticipation that the baby would mean a new life to that cold wife of his— a life with some human passion awakened.

It was the upsetting of this dream that left his heart with a damp load of disappointment. For Isabel came back little changed— more stately, more beautiful than before, perhaps, but with a tenderness for the baby which hardly reached the fringe of his idea of the awakening of warm womanhood. He had seen warmer-blooded women more passionate about a child that was a stranger; and to him, bearing an innate reverence for the natural emotions, the crash of his hopes was painful.

But to her strangely different mother the child was an idol and a treasure. "Just fancy me a grandmamma!" she would laugh; and her bright youthfulness made the idea a jest. Yet grandmother she was, and so devoted that the home of the prince seemed likely to become her own home. Tom, who had never known Isabel's father, but had heard of him as a lawyer with a grey, unsmiling face, wondered what sort of inhuman being he must have been to have bred such coldness as his wife from a bundle of warm vitality like her mother.

Yet in all his disappointment the thought of the child was a joy to-him, and he found pleasure in the enthusiasm of those who were interested in it. So between his mother-in-law and himself there was established a sympathy that had never before existed.

He was pleased also when, meeting him in the street, Drummond asked about the infant.

"Why, you haven't called to see it!" he said. "I thought you'd have been bound to call."

"Well, I must apologise; I meant to," returned Drummond. "But I didn't want to come too soon."

"Come out now, then," said Tom, warmly. "Come to dinner."

"I'd like to run out with you and see the new arrival," said Drummond, "but, If you'll excuse me, I can't stay to dinner. I've an early appointment."

Tom ran him out, feeling a good deal of pleasure in the companionship. Boyishly, learning that the baby had been put to sleep and his wife was engaged with a friend, he dragged Drummond upstairs and pointed to the infant lying in the cot.

"A beauty!" said Drummond, enthusiastically; and, stooping, kissed the infant's cheek.

The grandmother entered the room at that moment, stopped with a gesture of surprise at seeing Drummond, and bowing to him coldly, exclaimed : "You made so much noiseI thought you'd wake bubsie!"

"Don't be angry with Drummond for not calling," said Tom. "He's been wanting to, but he's shy."

They proceeded to descend the stairs as Isabel was farewelling her friend ; but Tom, hearing the baby waking, told Drummond to go down and himself raced back to greet the wakened infant. Later, as he was about to rejoin his friend, he paused at the stairhead at the sound of voices.

"How dare you come to this house?" said the voice of Isabel, vibrant with an unusual passion.

"I didn't intend to stay," retorted the voice of Drummond, coolly, "but I couldn't resist the temptation of seeing."

"Well, you will go now," said Isabel, imperiously.

"I am going!"

No more was said; and Tom, looking inquiringly from one to another when he joined them, could see no trace of confusion in either— only a cold restraint, which affected himself. Drummond went; but he left behind him a suspicion, vague yet all the more tormenting because of its vagueness. To suspect, even mentally, his haughty wife of an intrigue seemed grotesque ; yet the thought of the frequency with which he had seen Drummond in the society of Isabel and her mother, the remembrance of Drummond's attitude of something like proprietorship, hurt him. He felt a hot surge of anger at the idea that the woman who was so cold to him might have yielded warmly to another man with no right to claim her; and although the grotesque idea was dismissed quickly, it left him restless.

"Belle," he said. "I'm sorry, but I overheard you speaking to Drummond; you seemed angry with him."

"I don't like the man," she said, shortly.

"But, why?" he persisted. "He was an old friend of yours!"

"I don't like the man— l never did," she repeated.

Yet, though he remembered that her natural coldness had always seemed accentuated towards the man who ignored it in his careless, masterful manner, that remembrance did not soothe the restlessness which aggravated the hunger of disappointment within him.

Her strange dislike seemed even a ground for suspicion. He had observed something of the queer ways of women, in his younger days, before he was married; and his own bachelor experiences had given him an insight into the subtlety of their emotions, the dishonesty to which the nature of a woman who had once placed herself in the wrong inclines, and the strange fashion in which a passion develops into a dislike. As a matter of fact, the emotional part of him was sick, and therefore ripe for the breeding of disease; and while his mind revolted from suspicions that seemed ludicrous, Isabel's dislike, her mother's strange coldness at that meeting upstairs, and many other things, were all inexplicable.

Once, gazing on the baby as it slept, he traced in the immature features a resemblance to Drummond; and although he mentally trampled upon the thought, and bending over the child with a feeling of self-reproach for an imagined wrong kissed it, the idea haunted him in a ghostly fashion.

So Drummond's persistent inquiries about the child irritated, instead of pleasing, him. He felt that there was a mystery about the changed relations towards Drummond, who now never came to his house, and avoided the invitations he formerly extended; yet about it all he could make no inquiries. The restlessness of his mind bred in him a strange sickness; and so it was that one afternoon he stole home to nurse a headache, and was lying upon a bed, with the door open, when he heard Drummond's voice below.

Involuntarily he sprang from the bed and went cautiously to the landing in time to hear his wife's voice, ringing coldly and haughtily.

"You asked for my mother," she said, "She will not see you."

"Then I must see you," he said. "Let us leave the hall, and talk."

"I have asked you not to come here." She said. "Will you be good enough to go?"

"It's the child. I don't know how it is, but I've developed a fondness for that child; and I want to see it."

Tom gripped the balustrade, and his heart surged with horrible emotions.

"You are behaving like a cad in coming here like this," spoke the cold anger of his wife. "You have behaved like a cad all through. My husband is worth a hundred of you; and he loves the baby."

"It is not his child!" said Drummond.

Tom was at the foot of the stairs facing him before he knew what he was doing.

"Go, you blackguard, quickly!" he said.

The next instant he was alone with Isabel. Taking her with a savage grip by the wrist he drew her into the nearest room and closing the door turned fiercely upon her.

"As you said, I love the child!" he cried. "Not my child— what does it mean?"

For the first time in his life he saw her distraught with emotion, and, somehow, even if the emotion was only terror, that fact satisfied his fury. And yet it did not seem only terror.

"Oh, Tom !" she exclaimed. "I am sorry!"

"Sorry!" he echoed. "What is the use of sorrow! I know that I have never possessed you. but I thought the child was mine! It shall be mine! Whatever happens, the child shall love me. I will exact my revenge from Drummond in that. And you, whatever you deserve, I will protect you from scandal, for the honor of the family."

His voice sank from fury into contempt. She had fallen, no longer a haughty woman, but frightened and quivering, upon a couch.

"Tom, dear!" she cried, in a sudden appeal. "Will you listen while I explain?"

"There is no need for explanation," he said, bitterly. "I understand things now."

She rose in her old haughtiness suddenly.

"What do you think of me?" she demanded. "What do you dare think of me?" Then, just as suddenly, she unbended, laid her hands upon his arms with a grasp that his disdainful gesture could not release, and looked at him with an imperative appeal. "Tom! Tom, dear! Will you listen? You are unjust to me!"

"The child is not mine!" he said.

"Yes, but, Tom, it is not mine!" she added, eagerly.

"What?" he exclaimed.

"Listen, Tom, listen," she said, in a frenzied hurry. "I know I was wrong— l have deceived you. But it was all for the honor of the family. I had to shield her— it seemed a way out; and so I agreed. The baby is my mother's!"

Her words staggered him, but in his astonishment was contemptuous disbelief.

"It's truth, Tom: truth! Drummond behaved like a cad all through, and would not marry her, though now he wants to. She did not know what to do to avoid disgrace, and she suggested— what we did. Oh. I have deceived you, but do not think I am worse than I am; it was all to save my mother. Over there she passed as Isabel Poynter; the child is registered as yours and mine."

"As yours and mine!" he exclaimed with a certain tinge of exultation in his voice.

"Is this the truth, Isabel?"

"Come with me to mother's," she begged eagerly. "She will confess— she must confess! Even if you disown the child, and there is a scandal, she must confess it."

"The child is ours," he said, steadily.

Then, suddenly, he put his arms about her: and the old coldness seemed to have thawed as her arms went over his shoulders, and her lips went up to his.

______________

3: Checkmate

Bulletin, 22 Oct 1924

The Australian Woman's Mirror, 30 Dec 1924

Harold Mercer served with the Australian forces on the Western Front in WW1, and at one time was stationed near Kemmel.

ANYONE who remembers the Y.M.C.A. in the Town Hall of Kemmel will recall its chronic shortage of candles. The boarded and sand bagged windows and most of the other features were common to other front-line Y.M.C.A.'s, but the candle difficulty was peculiar to Kemmel. Anyone who managed to get one candle was certain to find, on application for a second, that he had exhausted the stock.

From Rossignol Camp, where we were in reserves, Boyd and I voyaged to the Y.M.C.A. under the battered little hill, had coffee when the light-duty Digger who did the washing-up was able to find us clean condensed-milk tins and, the coffee finished, cast round for diversion. It seemed the right place and time to initiate Boyd into the mysteries of chess. An attendant produced a set of chess men, and we climbed the ricketty stairs, with the damp of trodden snow upon them, to the long room above, where half a dozen candle stumps threw grotesque shadows about the walls.

The "Don't Forget that Letter Home" signs were dimmed by the smoke above the men's heads; but a dozen or so were obeying the in junction by scrawling messages that were to mean a lot on the other side of the world. Others bent over draughts, dominoes or cards; and one sat alone. As we looked for a space to pitch our game, he rose and said indifferently that we might as well have his table: he had no light to write by. I placed in position the stump of candle which I had brought, and a little group gathered around to watch. My candle was a very little stump. Even propped on an improvised platform made by a jam-tin it threw misshapen shadows over the pieces on the board, so that the colors were hard to distinguish.

"If I lend you my candle perhaps you will see better," said one of the group, and lighted a beautiful fat new one. "And perhaps your friend could get the grip of the game better if I was to play— if you don't mind playing me. I don't often get a chance to play chess."

Boyd didn't mind; in fact he was glad to escape. My new opponent was a slight, thin man, with a strained, fine face, and the hair turning slightly grey about his ears. He told me he was Sanderson. He was a good player, and a keen one; the strain on his face yielded to a sort of enthralment as he played. He gave a sigh when we finished our last game, and insisted on shouting cocoa, which we drank together in the room below.

"Can you be here to-morrow night?" he asked eagerly. "I get hungry for a game of chess. Will be moving in shortly, I suppose and there won't be a chance. If you don't mind—"

"It'll suit me well," I said "I haven't been able to get a game myself for weeks. But I'm for guard to-morrow, I think."

"Lord, I'm sorry," Sanderson began; but Boyd cut in.

"It's all right, we can fix it for me to take your place. You'll do as much for me some time."

It was one of those little things which make a man look back upon the incidents of the war with a quickening of the heart. There was never a healthy Digger who did not hate guard duty, and Boyd was a rough customer. But he had marked the note of disappointment in the voice of Sanderson, and he leapt in to do his little kindness. In this way our chess became a feature of the evenings, and so did our little yarn over the warm cocoa afterwards.

In the swift way that friendships ripened under war influences, we became intimate. We became intimate even in the silences of the game. It was queer, sitting there playing a game usually associated with all that is peaceful, and looking round now and then on the shadow forms about us with the knowledge that in a few days some at least would be dead or lying mutilated on a bed of pain. We were sheepfolded by Death, and He had already marked those who were for the killing.

"I wonder when we are going in?" I remarked carelessly one night. Sanderson looked up with a start and shuddered, that odd white strain back on his face.

"I hate to think of it!" he said. "It's not death that matters. Everything is horrible! Mud, and mutilation, and dirt, and disease! And rotting carcases and destruction!" His hand shook as he made a move, and it was a bad one. "I wonder," he said, "what makes a man like yourself come into a quagmire of horror like this?"

"Much the same," I retorted, with a laugh, "as the thing that made you come."

"I hope not," he said quickly.

"Some sort of a feeling that it is necessary," I suggested, "and still more, perhap curiosity."

"It's all chess," he said; and then, dismissing the subject: "It's my move, isn't it?"

Later, as we had our cocoa, a memory of what he had said came back to him.

"It's all chess," he repeated, "and there's game within game. Simultaneous games for some of the players. We are the pawns but we are the players, too. A battalion is a pawn to the High Command —they will sacrifice it bodily for the minutest advantage they think may be secured. And they may be mistaken. And you and I are pawns to our battalion-commanders. To be sacrificed— that's what we're here for."

"Oh, well, some of us will get back," I said, lamely.

"But we are players, too," he said. "That's why I came. It was a game to me. I had pawms and pieces to sacrifice, and I sacrificed them all— my comfort, my ease my natural abhorrence to all the filthiness of war, to win my game."

I had noticed him taking out his pay book cover as he was speaking, and he suddenly produced and held in front of my eyes a photograph; it was of a woman, certainly more than thirty, but with a sweet, winsome and comforting face, and eyes of a rare attractiveness.

The action surprised me. I had thought him beyond the age of young romance, and the idea which instantly suggested itself, that he had been driven into khaki like a lovesick youth by the taunting of a girl, or the desire to win favor with her, seemed ridiculous.

"The woman you— care about?" I asked.

"The woman I love," he said, sincerely. "My wife. It's because of her that I am here. That is my game."

"That's a queer reason for being here,"

I objected. "I could understand if—"

"Let's get out," he said, putting the photograph away, and looking around as if he felt that the atmosphere was desecrating his memories. "I can walk along to the camp with you."

We exchanged the close atmosphere of the Y-Emma for the crisp frostiness of the air outside; the uproar of boots scraping on the bare floors and the babbling voices for the sound of the rumbling guns, which snarled unceasingly over the ground won at Passchendaele. Sanderson had his arm in mine, and his voice was emotional as he spoke.

"I have to tell you now, lest you should make a mistake," he said. "It seems good to talk to someone. My wife and I were happy enough till the war came— even afterwards. The war didn't seem to matter much to me at first. I gave what I could to the war funds, and was glad of victories when they came; and my wife helped as best she could. But, generally speaking, it didn't make any difference to me. I went in my old way— until I suddenly noticed that my wife was not the same to me. I had to see it. And I traced the reason. One of our friends had gone early in the war. He was five years younger than myself— a dashing young fellow— big, buoyant, the sort you could imagine laughing at danger, riding it as a swimmer rides a wave, and glorying in his strength.

"He had once been a sweetheart of my wife's— before we married. We gave him a farewell, and afterwards she sent him parcels, and wrote to him. Presently I began to be jealous, and then to almost hate him for the increasing devotion she showed."

He was silent for so long that I felt I ought to say something, and began awkwardly: "But you didn't suspect—"

"I never suspected my wife!" he said quietly "Only it began to appear to me as natural that she should love someone else— although she would never be unfaithful to me, she would love someone else. It was natural! He, upstanding laughing, debonair, stalwart, going to fight for the cause I only cheered: winning distinction for his bravery; then his commission; then distinction again. And there was I, quiet and tame, hugging my ease, and my books and my chess. Only fit to let others fight for me."

For a long time he said nothing.

"Well, there it is," he said at last. "A game of chess. I decided to sacrifice my pieces— my ease and all that— to win a position— a position in her heart that I had lost in the eclipse of war. Of course, there was no need for me to enlist. We've got two children; but when I asked her to let me she was so pleased, though reluctant to let me go, that I knew I had scored. But, now ... I don't know. I have done nothing. Tomlin has a bar to his MC."

Now that he had explained, there was nothing ridiculous in it; in fact, there was something very fine and chivalrous in it. A knight of forty, trained only to comfort, going out valorously because he wanted to hold the love of his lady by something more than mere legal right! But with it there was something terribly pathetic. Undoubtedly he had failed. Not all his khaki could make him look a soldier.

"You must win your game!" I cried, cheerfully, my hand on his shoulder. "After, all, distinction is merely a matter of luck; but it is surely a finer thing for a man like you to go out and face the dangers of war than for one to whom by nature they are nothing."

"But I'm playing another game as well," he said. "My opponent in that one is Fear. I'm trying to beat him, but I feel all the time he is destroying my resistance. The war is a nightmare to me. When I think of going back to the line I feel that I could run away and hide— and lose both games, I hate it all. The idea of going in and coming back— lousy! Ugh! Even that fills me with dread. I shrink from every shell that comes near me. To see men hurt makes me feel sick. And the idea of killing anybody makes my heart stand still. Yet all those things have to be faced. To kill myself to escape from it all would be easy."

"But you won't do that, I said, gripping his hand. "You're not going to lose your game."

"No," he said, and returned the grip.

When I went along to the Y.M.C.A. next night he was not there. Looking round I noticed that the white and red— his battalion's— were absent, and remarked upon the fact.

"They've moved in," said someone. I expect we're for it too to-morrow."

We were. Throughout our own stunt I wondered about Sanderson, and later tried to find him, but failed. Later still I took some chess-men— midgets— in with me, but they were blown off the parados shortly after I had put them there, and they be came a cause of nightmare later on. The nightmare was a blend of chess and war, in which I would discover that I had a good attack with my bishops only to find that it was useless because they could not get past the barbed-wire, or that it was impossible to move the knight with which the game might be won until the camouflage for its hop-over arrived.

My dreams passed and I awoke in hospital in England to find a member of Sanderson's battalion in the next bed.

"Sanderson? Windy Sanderson!" he repeated. "Poor cow! Yes, I knew him."

"Dead?" I asked.

"Well, he should be. He was a nice bloke, but why do they want to send beggars like that to the war?"

"When did he die?"

"Well, look ... I oughtn't to have said that about Sanderson. Of course, the poor cow was windy— there's no mistake about that; and he shouldn't ever have been sent over. It was like asking a pony to pull a tip-dray. But he stuck it out, if he did shiver. And the end of him was good."

"It was, was it?"

"We had a Fritz machine-gun possie before our post, and orders were out to clean it up. That's all right in its way, but we didn't know much about the lie of the land; so a patrol goes out to inspect. Our pip-artist put Sanderson on it first of all, and he don't make no objection, but he's so white and shivery that the officer cuts him off.

"Well the patrol goes out and skelters back, having raised particular Cain— every machine-gun in the place binging at them, and Verey lights going up like a fireworks display. But before they stirred Fritz they saw all they wanted. The place was strongly wired and the wire would have to be cut. And, shortly, we hear that we've got to cut it ourselves. 'We want one volunteer,' says our pip-artist; and every one of us is expecting he'll be made the hero when, blow me! if Sanderson doesn't offer.

"He's very white, but not shaking at all, and his voice speaks very clear, but strained, and what he said was queer.

"Why are you volunteering, Sanderson," says Pips, hardly able to believe it.

"Fear has nearly got me down," he says, "but I'm going for a checkmate."

"We'd got one of them things— you know: a plugged length of pipe, chockful of amonyl, enough to blow a Government out of offis. Over he goes with it, and for such pluck, in one we didn't think had any, we gave him a whispered cheer.

"All the time Fritz is still nervous, and the bullets are zipping every now and again. We seen him becoming a faint shadow in the mist when, all of a sudden he staggers and falls, and a groan comes back to us. But, just as someone's going over after him, he's up again, and away he staggers into the mist.

"'He'll never do it,' says Pips, "he's wounded. We'll have to go over, and when we find him Judkins will go on with the iron, while we wait. Move softly. Forward.'

"Cripes, we do move softly, spread out so that we shouldn't miss Sanderson, and our progress is slow. All of a sudden there's a sharp 'Cran-nk crash! and a chorus of clinking wires in it. Sanderson had done the job!

"We found him lying not far from the wire, a horrible mess, and between the nastiness we managed to him back. 'Checkmate!' is all he says."

"Did he die?" I demanded.

"I reckon that a man with a better stomach for fighting— in general, I mean— wouldn't live with a bullet through it, and all the rest he got," said my neighbor, callously. "Still, after all, he was pretty plucky, poor cow!"

BUT to prove that he did not die, Sanderson met me the first day I had leave from hospital. He was in blues; his face looked radiant, and there was a lady with him— the lady of the photograph.

"My wife," he said. "Wasn't she plucky? Put the children to school and came across in spite of the submarines to do war-work."

She patted his arm.

"I felt that he would be wounded, and came over to be near him," she said, smiling. "I hadn't the heart to keep him back when I knew he wanted to go though there was no real need for him to have enlisted. Still, it's very much finer for a man in his position to do it than for one to whom going away means nothing. And Harry has something to show for his sacrifice."

It was then I noticed the ribbon of the M.M.

______________

4: The Work of Brother Petherick

Bulletin, 16 Dec 1931

OUT here in the open spaces there was great work to be done, thought John Petherick, with the lust in his veins for activity which other men might have turned to the loose pleasures of life. A strong religious training had turned Petherick's life into different channels; admitted to the Brotherhood, he brought a youthful enthusiasm to the cause, which explained why he was out further than ever the Brotherhood had reached before.

Probably confusing the gladness with which the Great Outback greeted any visitors, he had taken the warmness of the hospitality extended to him as a criterion of the eagerness with which the arrival of religion was welcomed. Coming away from the Caseys, who, apart from emphasising the fact that they were staunch "Cahtholics," had hailed him with approval and reverence— setting aside the prejudices of his training he had even "confessed" the members of the family, seeing that they desired it— he felt an exaltation in the work he was doing.

To go away feeling that he had been able to stir the religious feelings of the Caseys, members of an alien flock, was an achievement.

Getting wind of his advent, the Berrimans had invited him to come to their homestead, and thither he was bound now.

There was joy in the sun-languid air as his horse paced along the track upon which he had been set. Petherick almost dozed in the saddle with the tranquillity of the day. He was roused by a stir of dust on the horizon, the cause of which he made out to be a horse, hard-ridden, coming in a direction which would head him off on his path. He jogged his steed moderately to meet the stranger.

"You're the parson, ain't you?" asked the rider, when nearly a mile further on they met. "Glad ter meet yer, parson. Me name's Egbert— one of old Jacob Holden's sons. They sent me out to meet yer, hearing you were coming to the Caseys an' goin' on to th' Berrimans. The old man'd be glad if you c'd give us a call."

"I'll only be too glad, Mr. Holden," said Petherick. "When I leave the Berrimans—"

"Our place is about sixty miles south-west of the Berrimans," said the boy. He was already dismounted, standing by the parson's saddle; and, stooping down, he started to make a plan of directions in the sand which seemed confusing to the Brother, although the details burnt themselves into his mind.

"Y'see," said Egbert, "'Arold an' Mildred 'as been thinkin' of gettin' married fer three or four years, an' Dad says you might come along an' get it over. Apart from that, we'd all be glad ter see you— at least that's what Dad says."

Petherick sensed a lack of enthusiasm in the boy's manner and resolved to overcome his suspicions.

"I'll come along, Egbert," he said, mindful of the value of familiarity.

"They call me Eg," said the lad.

"Right-oh, Eg!" said Petherick heartily. "I'll be along and do the marrying. Harold's your brother, eh?"

"Yairs," said Eg.

"And Mildred?"

"Millie? Oh, Millie was ole Parkham's daughter. Parkham tried to run Bineroo, but it broke him; an' when he died he just left Millie, 'oo was only a kid of nine. She came to live with us."

"Ah.A boy-and-girl affair!She and Harold have grown up together?" suggested Petherick.

"Yairs, that's about it," said Eg, as if embarrassed, and he changed the subject quickly. "You'll prob'ly wanter stay three days at the Berrimans. If Dad calls the weddin' fer Monday, will that do?"

"I'll be there," said the Brother, heartily.

"Now, are you coming along in my direction? If so—"

"I'll be goin' to the Caseys ter give them an invite," said Eg. "You might tell the Berrimans ter come along."

It was in this manner that Petherick received his invitation to the Holden homestead; and when he arrived there on Monday he was accompanied by the Berriman people in sulkies and on horseback. For all that it had struck him that the Berrimans, who had treated him royally, had shown some reticence in talking about the Holdens, as if there was a coolness between the families. Holden, he learned, was a man who had pushed out into the wilderness and had never gone back on his tracks further than the nearest township. His first wife, who had shared his early battling, had died; the woman-friend who had come out to nurse her in her illness had remained, and was the present Mrs. Holden.

Any coolness that prevailed notwithstanding, it was something like a cavalcade that had set off to the Holden holding, quite satisfied that the informal invitation was a comprehensive one.

Petherick was astonished, on his arrival, to find the homestead surrounded by parked vehicles. Spread out as it was, it looked quite a considerable concourse, and Petherick wondered where in these unpeopled wastes the people came from. The Caseys were there, and others he had met; so apparently the invitations had been broadcast on a wide range. As the Berriman party added its numbers to the crowd, a bearded giant, his face-whiskers slightly greyed, but vigorous in bearing, detached himself and approached.

"'Ow do, Jake?" said Berriman. "This is Mr. Holden, Brother Petherick." After effecting the introduction he turned away to let the pair transact their business.

"Pleased ter meet you, Mister," said the bearded giant, grasping Petherick's hand in a tremendous and powerful paw. "We're all ready, ye see, an' waitin'. The beer arrived just before you did," he said, jerking his thumb over to where men were rolling kegs from a light waggon, "so there ain't no reason to wait. You might want a wash-up an' a rest first; but 'ow long will it be, d'you think, before you can get to this 'itching?"

"Well"—began Petherick; but a big, youngish man, in many ways like the bearded giant but not so matured, who had been lurking irresolutely in the background, stepped forward with an interruption.

"As long as it don't 'ang over another night," he said. "I ain't goin' to 'ave it 'angin' over another night."

"Mind yer own blarsted business, 'Arold!" cried Holden..

Hearing the name, Petherick turned and extended his hand. "So this is the bridegroom?" he said. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Yes, I'm the bridegroom," said Harold, "an' I reckon this is my business. Ever since it was arranged that me an' Mildred sh'd get married, they reckoned it wasn't right that we should sleep together till the job was done."

"Shut up, 'Arold!" roared Holden.

"I ain't goin' ter shut up," retorted Harold, sullenly. "Mildred gits nervous sleepin' alone, an' that shake-down on the verandah ain't no blinkin' good ter me."

"Mister Petherick," said Holden, " 'Arold 'as give the show away ; but we was goin' ter make you wise to it, anyway. These young people grew fond of each other, as young people will. When we found out what was goin' on, we made up our mind ter git them married at the first opportunity— an' you was the first opportunity. Now you know the position: the pair'd 'ave been married before, legal, if there d been a parson to marry them. Bein' young they didn't wait fer a parson. Does it make any difference to you?"

A good deal shocked, but quite realising the position, Petherick murmured that in taking the right course it was better late than never. He assured both Holden and Harold that he would lose no time in getting to business, and was taken within the homestead, meeting and shaking hands with many people on the way, to be introduced to Mrs. Holden. She was a large and genial lady who was busy on the preparations for a big-scale festivity; and she had to wipe floured hands to shake the one Petherick extended.

"Mister Petherick says 'e can get movin' straight away, missus," said Holden; "so directly you've got the tucker fixed, you'd better get dolled up an' give us the word."

"I'm so glad!" cried Mrs. Holden. "I was so afraid there would be trouble about the bands. We haven't got any band 'ere, though old Solly plays the concertina. '

"You mean, reading the banns?" said Petherick, with a smile. "Oh, I think that is quite unnecessary under the circumstances."

"Well, 'ow about 'oldin' the wedding on the verandah where the people can stand down below an' look on?" asked Holden.

"If we 'old it in the 'ouse there's not more 'n a dozen can get a good look in."

"That will do admirably." said Petherick.

"And 'ow about the water?" asked Holden. "Will it do in a tin basin?"

"The water?"

"Yes, you know— fer sprinkling."

Petherick, with a tendency to laugh, realised the mistake. "Oh, water is only required for a christening!" he said. We won't want it for the wedding.

"There! I told 'im, but 'e would 'ave 'is way!" said Mrs. Holden. " 'E's forgot just what does take place at a wedding."

"Even clergymen do that sometimes,"said Petherick smoothly.

An hour later he found himself, arrayed in the surplice he carried with his few belongings, standing on the weather-beaten and sun-dried verandah facing a queer concourse The white garment was the sole religious touch to a picture wholly pastoral, even down to the horses and poddy calves that took a curious interest on the outposts of the gathering. Harold stood stiffly uncomfortable beside the small table provided from the household furniture as an altar, and decorated, with an idea that that was appropriate, with a decanter of water and a glass; but his father, obviously much out of the habit of wearing a coat, from which he bulged wherever it was possible to bulge, looked even more uncomfortable. There really was a considerable prettiness about the bride, Mildred, which not even the out-of-dateness of her simple frock could mar. The normally comfortable Mrs. Holden was in a "best" dress that had no doubt fitted her once.

As Petherick prepared to open the service the crying of a baby which had for some time provided a monotonous annoyance burst out more furiously. Petherick, concerned at a tendency amongst the junior members of the congregation to giggle at the interruption, wondered why the mother did not quiet her offspring or remove it out of hearing. The interlude held up the proceedings, and Millie looked anxiously back towards the house whence the sound came.

A moment it lulled, and Millie turned again towards the Brother; but immediately the yells restarted with a doubled energy.

"It's not a bit of use," Mrs. Holden spoke suddenly. "Millie, I told you that you would have to give the baby what it wanted before the ceremony if you wished it to keep quiet; and I'm sure now the reverend gentleman won't mind waiting a bit whilst you attend to it. It's hungry, poor thing. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

In a dazed way Petherick heard Harold mutter an appeal to "get the thing over and done with" first; he knew that his face was a flaming scarlet as he nodded his assent to a delay, and Millie hurried away to her maternal duties. Petherick Avas little more than a boy; it was natural for him to be embarrassed. In any case he had never heard of another occasion in which a wedding had been delayed in order to allow the bride to nurse her baby.

"I— l didn't know there was a child," he stammered.

"We were going to tell you, of course," said Holden aAvkwardly, "but we thought it best to wait until 'Arold and Millie were fixed up reg'lar."

"I will have to christen the child."

"We were goin' to ask you— after— to christen the 'ole three of 'em," said Mrs. Holden.

"Three! There are three?"

"The eldest is four," said Mrs. Holden with grandmotherly pride, "an' all fine children, too!"

Petherick was suddenly ashamed of being shocked. It was not for him to judge, these people. He could not estimate the difficulties that stood in their way in getting to the religious aid which had hitherto found it impossible to get to them. Enough for him that they had taken the first opportunity to level their affairs with the religious conventions.

The infant's cries had died down, and shortly Millie returned, and without hitch, but with much bashfulness on the part of the couple and some scarcely suppressed tittering amongst the onlookers, the ceremony went forward. Brother Petherick subsequently went right on with the business of the christening, and found it a bigger one than anticipated; for there were many children present who had not been formally admitted to holy church.

Some of the children, filled with the terrors of the mysterious, Avere anything but passive resisters, and had to be caught and pacified before they were sprinkled and given their names in a Christian fashion. There was a hitch in the case of the Wolton two, Mrs. Wolton considering that this was a splendid opportunity for substituting names which had struck her fancy in a recently-read story for the old ones, whilst Wolton objected on the score of the confusion likely to arise. Only Holden's whispered counsel that "It's not likely to make any damned difference; they'll still be called Dan and Bill," induced him to withdraw his objection.

"It's as bad as branding a lot of young colts," commented Holden. " 'Ere, Parson, catch 'old. Y' throat must be dry after all that; a mug of this beer won't 'urt you."

Normally Brother Petherick did not drink, but he took the liquor gratefully, and became aware that beer had become general. The congregation had dwindled during the last of the christenings; he found that the men had commenced a procession to the shed in which the liquor had been stored. Now trays of glasses and tin pannikins were being brought to the women, and eatables to stay appetites until the real feast was handed round.

The Brother, feeling that some work had been done that day, was warmed by the spirit of fraternity that prevailed amongst these people of the wide spaces who were making a festivity of the rare meeting-time. There might be an under-current of petty envies and jealousies, but they were submerged in the general feeling of neighborliness. The events of the day had supplied a reason for the reticence the Berrimans had shown in speaking of the Holdens; but Petherick liked to remember they had said no word that might prejudice the Holdens in his eyes,

In the big shed, where the feast was spread on improvised tables, and where the now-boisterous crowd was waited on by a
party of women volunteers who helped Mrs. Holden and Millie, merriment prevailed, and grew when the speech-making started. There was rough banter, but a surprising delicacy was shown in important matters— for instance, Berriman insisted upon referring to Harold and Millie as facing new experiences. The first speeches were made in an embarrassed fashion; but shortly everybody wanted to say a few words; and Holden himself, inspired by the praise of someone who, after his first effort, had declared that be "oughter be a member of Parlyment " rose time after time to propose some new health and offer a few words. He was enjoying himself properly.

The crash of a portion of the improvised tables as someone leaned against it and the nodding of heads heavy with food, excitement, and beer, at length presaged the finish of the feast. Once more Holden rose to his feet.

"I wan' your 'tension, all of yous!" he roared with an urgency that wakened the sleepers. "I think everyone'll adsmit thish weddin' party'sh been a great sussesh."

A hearty roar of approval endorsed the statement; but his hand was held up for silence.

"We gotter thank the parshon fer bringin' us together like thish"— there was a salvo of approval— "an' fer doin' things to ush which should be done." There was more noisy assent.

"Everyshing's been so sussesshful that I gotter importan' announshment ter make. Me an' the missus wants you all not to 'urry away 'ome" (loud applause— there was a general knowledge that there was at least a cask of beer still unbroached) "We want y'll to sthay for a nuzzer sheremony."

The announcement was so portentous that a hush fell on the gathering, all intensely interested. Brother Petherick felt the interest himself, and leaned forward to hear the next words. When they came they brought the worst shock he had received in a ministry he now fully realised was liable to be full of shocks.

"Yes," said Holden earnestly, "the sheremony havin' proved such a shussessh the missus an' I have decided ter get married too."

_____________

5: The Romance of Ginger Mick.

Bulletin, 5 Aug 1915

In the working class vernacular of early 1900s Sydney

"I KNOWS a bloke who knows a bloke," was the commencement of one of Ginger Mick's anecdotes to me. I didn't understand at first what he meant, but discovered that the reference was to a confidence man the man who knows of a man with a job, or of an uncle with rich possessions in Fiji. Owing to the prevalence of idiom of the sort conversation with Ginger Mick was at first difficult; but his history, when he condescended to make his language plainer, was interesting.

"The police never give a man a chance, complained Mick. "Once you get up agin them you can't get away from their feelers. Six years of my last ten I've spent in gaol.

"An', first of all, I was a 'ard working young feller, an' I didn't want any truck with the law at all; but one night, when I 'ad a few in, a couple of Johns got on to a cobber of mine, an' I stuck fer 'im and stoushed one of the cops. Never you stoush a cop, young feller."

I hastily assured him I wouldn t.

"No, don't," he said; "because if you do, the Johns have a derry on yer ever after. When I come out they landed me m again quick-en-lively. They charged me with stealin'; but they knew I 'ad nothin to do with it. I did know who done it— he was a mate of mine ; and what they wanted was to get my evidence ag'in' him. Of course, when I wouldn't give them the straight chat I went up with the other chap as a cobber of his, though he swore I had nothing to do with it.

"Out at quod their idea is to keep the numbers apart, so as they won't contaminate each other. But there's heaps of chanst for one bloke to chat another; an' before you come out you've fixed it up to work some job with fellers who are in with you. The system gives you over a dozen hours each night in yer cell with nothin' to think of but planning what yer going ter do when yer out. I used to read er lot one time, but the time I spent inside got me outer the habit.

"I'm out a couple of days, an back I goes again. The police don t give a man a show. I was coming out of a Dago joint picking me teeth, when Big Thompson comes erlong an' says, 'Yer doing it well,' says he. 'Well,' says I, 'a man must feed is face sometimes.' Then 'e says: 'What yer doing it on?' The cow knew I wasn't workin'. So I goes erlong. An' I didn't steal the money at all; all I 'ad was ten bob that Steel Chiller 'ad parsed me, but I wasn't goin' to put Chiller away by mentioning it.

"I was only keeping nit on the corner," he added, explaining things.

"That's 'ow I got into the habit, pursued Ginger Mick, "and they got to know me so well in quod that if I wasn I there fer a month or so they'd tell me they was thinkin' I must be dead. Mostly, I was never caught fer ther things I did, but went up fer the things other blokes did. You know what ther police do? They nab a bloke they think knows all erbout a job, and try an' get him to*squeal. If he won't, they'll put the job'on him if they can. A man won't squeal, not often. He's liable fer stoush it he does.

"Last, I met a bosker little cliner, who made me hate gaol. I met her old 'un in quod, and we was going into some jobs together; but after I'd seen the tart a few days I fergot the jobs, and hunted up hard graft an' settled down to it. We'd have rybuck chats on the verandah while the old 'un and his missus threw plates in the kitchen.

"She was the squarest little tart ever, and a neat piece, too; but Gawd knows where she got her squareness from. 'E spent 'alf 'is life in clinky, an' th' other 'alf fightin' 'er; an' sometimes 'e would say ther girl wasn't 'is; an' other times the old bird would tell him the same was a fact— the girl wasn't 'is. Yet this muslin was as nice a bit of goods as you could fancy.

"She worked as a waitress, and kept 'erself well. I think she must 'ave got to 'ate the life 'er mother lived, and that idea kep' me straight; fer it was a fixed thing that she should be my mutton.

"One of the chaps as useter hang round was Bill Wilson, but he had no chanst with the diner, although he got thick with the old man. One day the old bloke suggests a job for the three of us; but, of course, I turns it down. Next night I was working late, which meant that, after I had changed me clobber, it was after eight before I got along to May's. On me way I pars Bill Wilson scooting along quick, lookin' disturbed. 'Oh,' I says to myself, 'they've done ther job.'

"Then I met Snowy Peterson— not a bad chap fer a John 'Op—and he passes the day, pleasant, and remarks that I seem to be keeping out well.

" 'Never, no more inside fer me, I says. 'l'm workin', living square, and goin' to get married,' says I.

" 'Good luck to you !' says 'e, and passes on.

"While I'm chatting May on the verandah Sergeant Robertson passes, words us for a minute, and then goes on.

"You see how it happens, sometimes. A robbery takes place within a hundred yards from the spot where I meets Snowy a few minutes later; and after that Robbo sees me at the 'ouse where the goods are found. May's old 'un told 'em I wasn't in the business ; but, of course, he didn't say who was, an' I don't blame 'im. An' Bill Wilson kep' dark. An', of course, I didn't blow the gaff on 'im— a man can't do that. So I goes up as an example of 'ow a criminal can't nohow get the criminal impulse outer him.

"But I comes out at last.

"You know how bashful er bloke gets erbout er tart'e's square shook on? I goes to May's place an' starts gaffing to the old 'un erbout things, an' never mentioning May, 'oping she'll look in. But she doesn't. So at larst I arsks, casual: 'Where's the cliner?'

" 'Oh. she's hitched it with Bill Wilson, seys the old 'un.

"I can tell yer that druv me fair balmy, an' I don't know 'ow I left the place or 'ow I gotter know the place where they was livin'. All I know is I sails up to their bloomin' roost, and there's May, a sight fer sore eyes, sewin' clobber on the verandah. But my eyes 'ad somethin' wrong erbout 'em that day, an' I seemed to 'ate 'er.

" 'Oh, Mick!' she says, in greetin'.

"But I goes right up to 'er an' don't take any kind o' notice of 'er 'and.

" 'I thort you wus my fair dinkum tart, an' ther chanst o' ther other pebble wus Buckley's,' says I. 'You made me think so. says I, 'an' I always thort you a square piece. I've a good mind ter wollop you.'

" 'That's no way fer a gentleman ter speak ter a lady,' says May, on 'er dig. at once.

" 'Did yer treat me like a lady?' says I bitterly. 'And did Bill?'

" 'Mick,' she says, 'it was yer own fault.

I cried me eyes out when I 'eard of what yer'd done, but I wasn't takin' any risks on that kinder life. I wants a man who keeps away from gaol an' the things what plants 'im there. So when Bill arsks me, I marries 'im.'

"That fair knocks me.

"'Bill!' I says; an' I wus goin' to say as 'ow it was Bill's fault that 'ad landed me in quod, but I thinks ter rneself that's not the game. 'Bill! I'll deal Bill all the stoush that's coming to 'im,' I says.

" 'Mick,' she answers, an' there's a sort of pleadin' in 'er voice, 'you're a bigger man than Bill, an' you was always plucky. You ain't goin' ter be a coward, Mick,' says she, ' 'itting a smaller man then yerself? Besides, what's ther use? I couldn't 'ave never married you.'

"Of course, she didn't know about things.

" 'You're fond of 'im, are yer?' I says. 'An' only six months ergo you said you was fond of me!'

" 'Promise me you won't touch Bill.' She says. I don't know whether she done it purposely or by accident, but just then she 'olds up the clothes she's been rnakin' —an' I tumbles.

"So I promises 'er erbout Bill, an' I promises 'er never to arsk 'im to 'ave any drinks, which made me think, when she arsks me, that there's trouble a'ready in the caboose. An' I sits waitin' fer Bill, watchin' 'er as she's sewing; an' although I'm feelin' lonely an' miserable, there's a sort of soft feelin' all over me.

"When Bill comes in 'e looks as if he knows what's due to 'im ; but when all goes along smooth 'e gets over that, and we 'ave tea together. Bli'me, it made me sick to see May handing out the fodder and to think it wasn't my table but Bill's! .Afterwards, when Bill suggests beer, I says I've chucked it, an' I goes out and gets soft tack.

"It seemed to me, all the evenin', that Bill had something on his mind— something quite different from the frightenness he showed when 'e first saw me. When I was going 'e says 'e'll walk down the street with me. 'E says nothin' fer a while, but, suddenly, 'e pulls up.

" 'Look 'ere,' 'e says. "There, in 'e's 'and, was some rings an' other hangings of a flash cliner. Good stuff it was. too!

"'What d'yer been up to?' I says; an' I was feeling madder'n a mad bull.

" 'Arf's yours if you'll pass 'em for me,' he says.

" 'What yer been doing?' I repeats.

"'I was forced to this,' he says. 'I mortgaged me week's money playin' two-up, an' when I found the chanst of takin' these, I grabbed 'em. I want to give the missus 'er quids, and you can 'ave orl the balance if yer like.'

"Fer a moment I was full to me 'ead with rage. I wanted ter tell 'im that I didn't want to 'ave anything to do with any more thieves' business, that 'e 'ad got my cliner by a fraud, an' lots of things. But orl of a sudden I don't see 'im an' 'e's 'andful of joolry any more, but a woman sitting down sewing baby clothes, an' 'umming an' 'appy, an' thinkin' that 'er 'usband was a sight different from a chap who'd 'ad the gaol-sacks on 'im. So I takes the joolry from 'im, an' goes off without a word.

"Next day I passes the goods, and meets Bill near where 'e works to give 'im the spondulix. I puts my hand on 'is shoulder.

" 'Bill,' says I, 'l've stood er lot from you; but this ends it. I don't want none o' ther money— keep it fer the kid when it comes erlong. I've done gaol for you, and, likely, I'll do it again; an' you've got my cliner because she thinks you a saint. But she's my cliner still, in a way. You've got to cut this business and ther two-ups and ther beer, and settle down to look after 'er. She's a square, good tart, an' deserves it. By the rules of the game, I ought to stoush yer now, good an' 'ard, fer ther ways you've played on me, but the stoush won't be any ther less fer waiting, if I find you haven't played the game to her!'

"Then I left 'im. Fat O'Reilly, when he nabbed me, knew well enough I 'adn't stole the things, but I'd pawned 'em; and, as I wouldnt blow the gaff, of course I went up. When I comes out I goes erlong to see May and Bill ergain."

"How were they getting on?" I asked.

"Tip-top. A brand-new baby, and everything running smooth, and Bill a member of a Rechabite lodge. But I was sort of froze out. May thinks, you see, that I'm not a fit cobber for Bill!'

_________________

6: The Tango With the Stars

Bulletin, 19 June 1915

The author wrote a great deal of veerse for the Bulletin, before, during and after his service on the Western Front during World War I. This is a random example.

THE hour had grown amazing late,

And Jones had gone to bed,

And, leaning on my garden gate,

I on a crayfish fed.

My soul was full of gladness got

From many merry bars;

I watched from my cool, earthly spot

The dancing of the stars.

Gay music, breathing in the air

In concert to the fun,

Beat to the heav'nly ballroom where

The giddy planets spun.

I watched how Venus skipped with Mars

In careless revelry,

The dizzy jigs of many stars

Not introduced to me.

And as I gazed the old Earth stirred

(It had before been quiet);

Up to the heights of Heaven we whirred,

And mingled in the riot.

Moons, planets, meteors and suns

Swept by in one long gleam.

As in the glow of evening runs

A sunset-lighted stream.

We whirled around, and up and down

As through the dance we sped:

For gone were laws of old renown,

And gravity was dead.

We met strange stars, and others chased

Whose eyes enticing shone;

Then with an arm around a waist

In mirth we tangoed on.

But, reckless in our joy's glad spell,

And trusting to the wings

That raised us where we willed, we fell

Beyond the edge of things.

I hurtled, laughing still, through space

That of all stars seemed bare:

For years and years I flew apace,

And reached not anywhere.

At muddy clothes my wife may snort,

And talk of "filthy bars";

What knows she of the splendid sport

Of tangoes with the stars?

______________

7: A Bit of 'Bacca

Bulletin 30 Oct 1919

THE prison bell in the centre-yard clanged sharply for a second time, and the lines of drab-clothed prisoners shuffled from their various employments and fell in. The many who had been lurking in the lavatories to enjoy a whiff of "weed" furtively acquired, had previously, at the first clang, hurried back to their working stations. It was a dull performance, which many of the prisoners would have to go through hundreds of times before they got their release, but it was a preliminary to dinner, and though that was a bare enough thing, it was the most interesting in the gaol routine. Over dinner it is possible to wake a little sporting excitement by having a bet with yourself as to whether there are one or two mouthfuls of real meat with the fat and bone.

"From th' look of Tusks," whispered my neighbor in the rank, hoarsely, "there's something doing."

"Tusks," the tall, square-shouldered deputy-governor, arrogant of appearance and manner, earned his nickname from the droop of his grey moustache. He was speaking to the tubby, jolly-faced chief warder, who looked as unlike a chief warder, or a warder of any. kind, as it is possible to imagine, while the lowlier warders leaned on the atmosphere, and the lines of prisoners shuffled their feet. It was a sign of nervousness : no one knew where the penalty for whatever breach of discipline had been noticed was going to fall.

"Cleaners in Ranges 2, 4 and 5 two paces forward," came the command suddenly. "Sharply, now! Here, aren't you a cleaner? Thought so— get forward! Mahoney, search that fellow very carefully."

"Gorstruth!" whispered my neighbor, "they're going to search 'em for weed. It'll mean three days' dark cells for all of 'em."

"Some of them might not have any," I answered, in the same sort of aside.

"What's the good of them being cleaners if they haven't?" he retorted.

Cell doors are left wide open to air the cells while their occupants are away; and the cleaners, who hang about the various ranges all day, pretending to be polishing the bolts and brasswork, rusted by sea air, have every opportunity of collaring weed from the cells where the description card at the door advertises the "indulgence." Only that morning, in my own range, I had heard one indulgence man swearing vengeance for the disappearance of half his week's supply of tobacco. To rook a man of half a week's supply was over the odds.

Although several moments had passed, the suspects were still standing in the odd rank they had formed. Tusks and the Chief Warder were talking, and' had called up two other warders.

"I believe," whispered my neighbor, hoarsely, "they're going to call up some more. I don't want any dark cells! Here, look after this for me, mate."

"Stop talking there!" The attention of the officials was turned again on the ranks, and I could not have forced back the stuff that my neighbor had suddenly pressed into my hand without exposing him— and perhaps earning suspicion myself. I slipped the weed into the pocket which my jacket, differing from most gaol jackets, possessed.

"Cleaners in Ranges 6 and 7. two paces forward," came the order. With the alacrity of one who has a clear conscience my neighbor stepped out, easily the first.

That tobacco weighed heavily upon me during the time of dinner in the cell and the period of exercise, that followed. I had more reason to dread the penalty for being found with the forbidden stuff than the other man, who at all events had his fixed term to serve; for having foolishly gone into Long Bay with the idea that release was a simple matter, and not the affair of days that I found it, I did not want a punishment for misdemeanor to defer my departure when the order for release came. For a moment I felt inclined to renounce the risk and act the informer, but, though I cursed the man who passed his danger on to me, I could not do that. I levied my commission for risk on the stuff in a smoke I did not particularly enjoy, and then secreted the balance in that portion of my clothes most approved as a hiding-place. I am giving away no secrets about that hiding-place, although the prison authorities ought long ago to have guessed it.

When we fell in again to ranks after the post-dinner exercise the owner of the weed was not present, so I had to continue to bear my burden. It carried with it a double apprehension; for above the ordinary risk there was the chance of what might happen if the order for release should come that afternoon. Prisoners are searched before leaving, and that search is the most rigorous of all. The gaol authorities are afraid of losing some of their valuable silver and cutlery.

But the afternoon passed on with its usual monotony. The "privilege" of not having to work had made me nearly frantic, and after many poundings at the cell door I had induced my range-warder to secure for me the occupation I craved. It was a barren sort of job— unpicking canvas hammocks in preparation for the laundry; chopping up wood for fuel (fine pieces of cedar and other valuable timber going in with the faggots) ; picking oakum that seemed to have been picked many times; sorting out the number-labels that had been discarded by departed prisoners and placing them in order, or making new numbers— all apologies for work, but better than doing nothing.

For one comparatively glorious forenoon I had the job of cleaning the extremely dusty house where their legal advisers are allowed to interview prisoners. That job established lor me a reputation as "the best worker in the place"— not a very high commendation— and caused me to be regarded as a curiosity by those warders and prisoners who knew of it; but the toil passed one of the shortest mornings I knew at Long Bay. Still, such jobs are scarce, and I had to live through the weary minutes doing nothing slowly— the warder did not want the pretence-work used up too quickly— helping to pad out my job by watching a half-caste sailorman try to slaughter mosquitoes (he was in for deserting his ship, a similar offence to that of half a dozen others, who considered "doing a month" a cheap price for liberty), and envying the bootmaker, who, having a trade, was engaged in the comparatively interesting job of half-soleing and heeling.

"He's got a temper." whispered the oakum-picker near me. indicating the bootmaker. "and sometimes they won't trust him with knives. But he's going out in a day or two now."

"One hundred and five!"

The call for which I had been waiting with eager anticipation gave me a tremor now, weighted with the knowledge of that illicit tobacco. But the call was not my release. My reputation had earned me a job in A hall, and there I went, listening to the instructions of my new warder as to the sanctity of tobacco and the penalty for sacrilegious theft.

The opportunity for work was a pleasant change, but I found, as I did not now fall into ranks, that the chance of returning that tobacco to the man who gave it to me was remote. I was tempted to get rid of the thing; but for several reasons I hesitated. One was that for some queer reason I felt an obligation to restore it, if possible; another that it might be discovered in my receptacles that left the hall, whereupon inquiries would be made; and, anyway, one would be loth to throw away gold, even with a guilty knowledge that if had been stolen, and tobacco is prison gold. So I continued with the weed and my apprehensions.

"There's more trouble over thieving tobacco," remarked Warder Kelly. "Keep off it, hundred and five, however much you want a smoke. The chief's coming round in a minute or so about it."

Pleasant news! But Warder Kelly was good enough to leave his cap on his desk and go upstairs to a cell at the furthest end of the hall. I made up my mind promptly. When Kelly put on his cap to meet the deputy-governor the tobacco was comfortably placed within it, between the leather and the lining.

"One of the appeal men's been complaining that he's been losing his tobacco and sugar," said Tusks. "We're going to put down this tobacco-stealing."

"Hundred and five's new," said Kelly. "The man before him we caught; he's in cells now. But I don't think you'll find any stolen tobacco anywhere about here, sir."

And he moved his cap on his head.

"Who's the other man? Oh, fifty-eight. They'll both be searched."

"Cell, hundred and five; cell, fifty-eight."

So we were searched— an operation for which the officials gave an unexpected apology; and Warder Kelly visited all the cells with Tusks, inquiring about tobacco losses, and all the time that weed was pressing against his forehead.

I found an opportunity of removing it shortly afterwards— there was danger in leaving it; and. later, having a message from the hall to the warder of Range 6, who had books, I passed it back to its owner by right of theft.

"You're a blanky good bloke, mister." he said; "and if ever— 'Ere. 'ave 'alf!"

"Not for me!" I answered. "It's given me enough worry already."

"Well, I'll pay yer for it. mister, someday," he said and held out his hand.

When I got back to the Hall the release had arrived.

______________

8: Reardon’s Rhapsodies.

Bulletin, 15 May 1919

LAST week an old friend of mine burst out of France as if he was soda from a bottle and poured his enthusiasm over me.

“Glad to meet you, old fellow!” he cried. “Couldn’t run across you anywhere in France. And we’ve been busy! I’ve been in twenty-nine hop-overs in five months.”

I knew him at once ; but it was when he said this that I remembered, also, his idiosyncrasies. One of the best fellows in the world, he likes to talk to an audience ; and he does things worth talking about, too. It was just as well the hotels were open, because he obviously wanted something to mix with his soda.

“A tankard, please, miss,” he said. “I’ve had twenty-nine hop-overs in five months.”

He spoke as though he had forgotten to refresh himself between the acts, and had just arrived from the last exploit with a large thirst.

I forget what it was that caused the civilian to join in the conversation ; but it was a glorious opportunity.

“My dear sir,” said Reardon, “I’ve been in twenty-nine hop-overs during the last five months”

The civilian was so impressed that he ordered drinks— twice. Then a friend of the civilian came in.

“My friend here, if I may call him so,” said the First Citizen, “has just come over from France.”

“Twenty-nine hop-overs in five months,” said Reardon.

I thought he had done very well there and might like a new stage-setting for his masterpiece ; so shortly I drew him away.

Reardon thought of a hostelry of his own, but had grown hazy about its location. At least he said he had; but, as he took the opportunity to tell the policeman about what had happened in France during the last five months, and then went his way without listening to the policeman’s directions, I have some doubts.

The landlady evidently knew him.

“You said you were going to write,” she remarked coldly.

“My dear lady, I’ve had twenty-nine hop-overs in the last five months,” began Reardon; and was completely forgiven. Subsequently he gave the tally to different people —until I lost count. I was not annoyed for a long time. I love my friends’ peculiarities because I like to laugh at them. But when he bumped into a set of statuary and apologised by saying that he had only just come from France, and had had twenty-nine hop-overs in five months, I got tired.

He tried to be good. We visited a tavern which has historical associations, and I Was quite pleased with him. A board mentioning some of the associations caught his eye.

“Boswell and Johnson used to dine here,” he said. “It’s very interesting to come to these old places.”

I liked this.

“I wonder,” he said, musingly—“l wonder what these old beggars would think of twenty-nine hop-overs in five months!”

I firmly took him to his train. And, anyway, the hotels were closing. Reardon had a little trouble over his change.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s my fault— it’s all right.” he said, hastily; and turned apologetically to the girl ticket-seller. “You see, I’ve been used to counting in francs. I’ve just come from France; and I’ve been in—”

He was inclined to resent the push, until I explained that the crowd was shoving behind me.

His compartment had other occupants, mostly women ; but he secured a corner seat.

“Well, good-bye, old man.” he said. “It was good to have met you. When a man—”

“Yes, I know,” I said quickly. “You needn’t mention it.”

“Of course you do!” he said, heartily.

“You know what it is like in France; but you have never—”

“I haven’t!” I chipped in. “But all the same. I can understand what it’s been like.”

“Twenty—” he began.

“No; sixteen minutes to,” I interrupted.

He sighed in a baffled manner, and became grave.

“You remember that grey-haired lady we passed?” he said sentimentally. “She reminded me of my mother.”

“We all think of home sometimes,” I said sympathetically.

“Yes.” he mused. “I wonder what she would think of me being in twenty-nine hop-overs in five months.”

The train steamed out. But I fancied I detected a smile of triumph in a corner of it.

_______________

9: The Good Samaritan

Bulletin, 9 March 1916

Reprinted as "The Good Sir Mariton", Weekly Times (Vic), 26 Jan 1944

"FATHER JOLLY called 'im 'ther good 'Sir Mariton'; an' I reckon that if Sir Mariton was anything like 'im 'e wasn't er bad sort of a bloke, although a bit of a trick."

All the same, in spite of the eloquence of Keene, the solicitor, on his behalf, the Law, taking no notice of his virtues, had sent him up for six months, with some hard remarks about his many appearances. Incidentally, on the observations made by the Court, the shadow of prosecution for perjury lay over "Scrooger" Simpson, who gave him a testimonial.

"You done yer best, o' course," said Scrooger to Keene. "I suppose when a chap does things 'e's bound to go up sometimes. Still I was ready to tell any blanky lie ter get 'im off, knowin' what a fine bloke 'e 'is. Will yer friend 'ave a whisky, Mr. Keene?"

We would, an' we did.

"Smiler was always a rum sort a cove— we always called Jack Davis Smiler. He was too good-natured fer anything. That's what got 'im inter trouble mostly. 'E useter lose 'is work through it. Coming inter toil one day 'e sees Bill Jenkins putting up a shed in 'is place an' stops ter word 'im. 'What's the lurk. Bill?' says 'e— 'fowls or lodgers?' 'The old 'un's knocked off work an's gotter pension, an's coming ter stop,' says Bill, 'an' as 'e don't like sleepin' in the kitching I've gotter put up a place of some sort.' 'Going ter do it by y'rself?' asks Smiler. 'Gotter,' grunts Bill. 'Ain't got no dough for anybody else.' 'Want an 'and?' says Smiler; and 'e offs with 'is coat, an' does most of the work, and, of course, does in 'is job. And then, after all, the 'ealth inspector comes erlong in a week or so, an' won't let the old 'un sleep there.

"You know Soldier Haynes?" asked Scrooger, after a pause, during which the glasses were refilled.

"Soldier Haynes?" said Keene, reflectively. "Oh, yes! Stealing from the person; eight convictions; six months hard!— I remember him."

"That's him," returned Scrooger, checking off the description with nods at each item. "Well, when Soldier comes out 'e's pretty well stumped after spendin' 'is gaol money makin' 'is thirst good ; an' meetin' Smiler 'e says: 'No more quod fer me, if I can 'elp it,' says 'e. 'lf I only 'ad an 'orse an' cart,' 'e says, 'l'd be able ter get right down ter work.' Now, Smiler ain't the sort of bloke ter let a pal o' 'is go short fer an 'orse-sn'-cart, so 'e tells Soldier that 'e'll get 'im one. An' 'e does: only it turns out that Smiler —'oo owing to 'is 'abit of giving things away never 'as anything of 'is own ter give— 'as borrered the turnout from a yard where there didn't seem to be anyone in charge.

"Still Soldier didn't know that until afterwards. But though it gave 'im a start, 'e was quite sore with Smiler when 'e 'ad ter part about three times what it'd 'ave cost 'im ter 'ire it so as ter square ther thing. A reg'lar screw was old Gilligan, 'oo owned it. After 'e'd got at Soldier like that 'e gets at Smiler with a tale that 'e's a pore man an' 'is 'arness is rooined. It wasn't much ter rooin, being a good bit string 'eld tergether with pieces of leather, but Smiler 'e says, 'I ain't ther bloke ter let anybody suffer fer what I done, 'e says; 'l'll get you some new 'arness.' Which he does.

"That's ther time Smiler went up fer stealin' 'arness," he added, to Keene, who nodded.

"Was that why Father Jolly called him a good Samaritan?" I asked, motioning the barmaid to put the bottle down again, because the story of Smiler interested me.

"No; Sir Mariton don't come in there." said Scrooger. "That was another time— over a tart named Eva Kelly 'e was shook on.

"There was a seven-p'ny meal joint where a lot of the blokes useter go; an' nearly orl of 'em was shook on Eva. She comes from the country, or else she'd 'ave 'ad the savvy 'ter get inter a better joint, 'cos she was an A1 looking tart.

"She could 'ave married orl right; but she turned every bloke down. She'd been useter living in a dull sort er loose-box way in the country, an' she didn't like 'er place in the city. She wanted somethin' better, bad. But she wasn't fer settling down an' marrying, an' 'aving the same thing as she'd 'ad all 'er life.

"She puts up at the Young Women s Christian, an' no one 'as a word to say about the way she behaves. I reckon it was the bloomin' skite she 'ears erbout the gilded ways of sin what done it. It's ter blame fer a lot. The gilded ways of sin!" snorted Scrooger disgustedly. "There ain't no gilded ways. .

"Well, we could all see Eva gettin' more discontenteder and more discontenteder every day, an' 'ating 'er work, an' not able ter get away from it fer the reason that it ain't no recommendation in tonier places to 'ave 'ad experience in shoving round food in a sevenpenny joint, where the people mostly do their own stretchin' fer things; an' yer c'd see the impression of the girls as ain't careful of their morals seemin' ter get on very well, an' 'ave a good time, and the ideas of the gilded ways of sin soakin' in. An' one day she comes out with paint on 'er lips, where it wasn't wanted.

"Well, Smiler, 'oo's shook on 'er, sees it all, and gets wild erbout it; until one day 'e waits for 'er an' threatens to 'ammer sense inter 'er —though 'e- ain't that sort of bloke really, being the sorter feller who wouldn't 'it anyone fer fear 'e'd 'urt 'em; and she tells 'im: 'What's the use of being virtuous, anyway,' she says— 'it only gets a 'usband like you !' she says.

"It was a low-down cur of a motor-car driver done it, doing the grand on the strength of 'is boss's car. 'E took 'er up the mountains a week-end, an' she loses 'er job at the sevenpenny through not being there when she's wanted.

"That decided 'er, I s'pose. Anyway, she takes to the gilded path, at the worst time of the year, an' finds it ain't gilded; and seein' the 'ole thing's a fraud makes 'er careless erbout drinkin' when there's drinks erbout. So she goes to the bad so much that Smiler meets 'er one wet night, 'ardly able ter stand, an' with a cough as would 'ack a tree.

"The gilded ways of sin!" Scrooger snorted again. "They're not so bad fer them as takes to them natural and knows the way erbout; but they're 'ell to them as goes be the wrong directions.

"Anyway, Smiler, seeing she's ill, gets 'er decent lodgings and puts 'er in 'em; an' in the morning the doctor says she's too ill to be moved. It's pleurisy, starvation, careless-living an' all sorts of things.

"So Smiler parts up, an' 'e done it cheerful. Don't arsk me 'ow 'e done it —I don't know! But 'e done it. An' 'e gets 'er jellies an' things, an' flowers; an', when she might be shifted, 'e keeps 'er where she is, findin' all the needful an' cheerin' 'er up by kidding that when she's better they'll be married, spite of everything. An' all the time 'e knows on the doctor's word that there's only a chance of 'er gettin' better if she keeps cheerful; so 'e's with 'er most of the day an' of course loses er lot of work. God knows 'ow 'e managed to keep things goin'—without bein' caught.

" 'You're a good man, Smiler,' she says to him; "you're the best man I've ever known— overlooking everything, like you have. You're a saint!'

"Smiler tells me this one day as I meets him just as 'e's leaving, and he adds, 'Me! Blime!' And I hears him say, twice, before he's too far away, 'Blime!' as if what she said was sticking in 'is nut.

"Smiler don't 'ave much religion, but he reckoned a parson of some sort was wanted, an' he brings along Father Jolly—you might know him; useter swagger erlong the pavement, noddin' an' smilin' at everybody, an' one of the whitest coves ever wore a black coat. 'Give 'er a chance, Father,' 'e says. 'Fix 'er up as well as you can'; and Father Jolly comes erlong, sees what Smiler's doin' an' says he's the good Sir Mariton.

"Father Jolly has a ivory stick, and one day after he misses it he corners Smiler.

' 'Ad ter do it, Father,' says Smiler. 'She wants things, an' I ain't got no money.

'Ere's the ticket.'

"Last was Fatty Thomson— the plain-clothes— as arsks me one day where me mate Smiler is, an' if 'e doesn't go to a 'ouse in Goodwell-street— the 'ouse where Eva is— every day. Then I knew Smiler's game was up, an' I waits to tell 'im and warn 'im off.

" ' 'Twas bound ter come,' says Smiler, quite cheerful. 'Anyway, I 'ave ter go. Eva's dying.' And 'e goes."

Scrooger went to the window.

"They arrested him?" I said.

"I went to make the d.'s wise to the case when they came— which they did soon after he went in. I'll say this fer Fatty Thomson, he waited there outside the room till it was all over.

"An' afterwards when they've taken him away and Eva is gone, Father Jolly comes out, an' says: 'Whatever 'e done.' 'e says, ' 'e's the good Sir Mariton,' 'e says."

We had a last drink.

" 'Oo d'yer think is findin' the cash I'm payin' for the defence?" he asked, and blinked his eyes in a way that suggested he felt something besides cheerfulness.

_______________

10: The Grave of Pierre Lamont

Bulletin, 13 Jun 1918

IT lay beside the uneven mounds of red bricks, with here and there a fragment of wall still standing, in what had been a garden but was how merely rough ground broken with shell-holes and cumbered with debris. It bore a simple cross with an inscription that it was the resting place of Pierre Lamont, died of wounds, September, 1914. The cross was decorated, as usual, with one of the tricolor cockades which mark the graves of French soldiers. There are many such graves; but this, isolated in the wilderness of the deserted village, was conspicuous.

Not that the village was empty. Cavalcades of horse- and motor-transports passed through it daily, and its shattered streets were full of soldiers, from the neighboring camps, or the billets improvised in the least broken houses. In an estaminet, with boarded window-places, its roof patched with strips of corrugated-iron and tarpaulin, the Y.M.C.A. served them with tea at 10 centimes a jam- or milk-tin, and assured its customers that there were no more candles, but some were expected to-morrow; while upstairs, in the crowded writing-room, letters tor home were being written by the hundred.

The Hotel de Ville, buttressed with sand-bags, held a canteen in one doorway, and was disposed otherwise, as far as its reduced condition would allow, in military offices. At its front, where a fountain may have played formerly, was a. water-tank with its notice that the water must be boiled or chlorinated and required an unmentioned quantity of bleaching powder to 100 gallons; and there were always some horses or mules at the water-trough hard by.

And now the inhabitants were returning to the village. Some of them came unnoticed, like the man who hung the sign "Barber Done Here" outside his shop, and who, apparently, had formerly been a butcher ; like the little woman in black, with two children looking much too young to be anything but her grandchildren, whose presence was made known by the unexpected opening of shutters which showed a window with glass in it, and, behind, a few packets of cigarettes and tobacco, some tinned goods and an assortment of violent-hued gelatine postcards. One egg, placed adroitly in the centre of the confusion of other goods, gave indication that fried eggs and coffee might be obtained within— an assurance that was received with enthusiasm, restrained somewhat until pay-day, when a packed doorway testified to popular approval. The growing congestion was relieved by the intimation that another shop where fried eggs were cultivated had burst into flower in another quarter.

Some, however, came heralded. There were strange carts bearing loads of furniture, now and then with a coop of fowls showing amongst them; and a handcart or so, laboriously propelled over the muddy roads. Sandbag embrasures and boarded windows began to disappear, and glass, with wonderful clean little window-curtains, and plants in pots, to take their place. Unsightly structures, erected for military exigencies, vanished. The military were moving out to new camps ahead. Children appeared in the streets, splashing their wooden shoes in the mud by the roadside. They were at home again— with, the stray mongrels and the cats that had arrived from nowhere to do or shirk their duty regarding the rat nuisance.

It was the barber who noticed my interest in the grave of Pierre Lamont. Something in its solitariness, I suppose, appealed to me, for I scarcely ever passed without pausing to look at it and speculate.

"The people are returning; but it will be more better when the war is over," he said— his usual preface to all remarks. "Old Pierre Lamont he come to-day; but he went away again, some more, I think."

"Pierre Lamont?" I asked, momentarily puzzled.

"I saw you look at the grave, M'sieur; the grave of his son."

I nodded understanding.

"So the old man has returned— to visit the grave, I suppose? A sad visit!"

"But, yes ! More sad for him! Old Pierre was— what you call? — a miser. He and his son were— were — not friends."

Butcher that he was, he had the barber's trick of talking. He asked if the razor was all right, M'sieur, and then, regarding it as a courtesy question that made no real difference, went on talking.

"Young Pierre he was debonair; but old Pierre— no! The father of the old man, he, too, was of the money too fond; but with him it was a fondness for making riches, and when his son became old enough, he showed him how to make the money also, and they worked together. But with old Pierre it became a madness. Of nothing else could he think; no, not of the boy, even, who had no mother, for Madame died. That was for the boy good, perhaps. A little— what you call?— wild lie became, perhaps, running about with the holes in his clothes and nobody caring; but he grew a bon young man, who spent a franc when he got it, and had not the money-sickness; handsome and brave and strong. With him I played when a boy, though I was much more old; but no shame have I in saying that we fought, and it was not I that won, M'sieur. But, he getting a franc, we spent it together, M'sieur.

"Old Pierre, he went on counting his money, and young Pierre he went on being happy. It is said that the old man spent his time making schemes for more money, and preparing his deeds of mortgage and reading them again and again ; and, that being done, he would count up his money for the love of it. At least once in the day. he counted it; at sometimes, more. And, because it pleased him so much, he got the love of having the money itself, besides the deeds, just to count it, centime by centime."

He shook the cloth from beneath my chin, and indicated to me the hanging towel, that I might rub over my face if I desired; but went on talking as he lathered another customer, and I lingered, listening.

"Young Pierre, he became 17, 18, 19. Nobody know what will become of young Pierre; least of all he know himself. Certainly sometimes he did wring money from the old man, but not enough, and spent it; but tiring of little money and poor clothes, he took work— all sorts of work; on the farms, in shops, and sometimes clerk— to clothe himself and have the money to spend. He did spend it free: what you call chuck it about; drinking wine, and singing songs, and making love. But, still, old Pierre he seemed to not notice.

"Only when Pierre, as a young man will, fell in love, did Pierre pere notice. It was Marie Duboisin at the Estaminet du Nord that Pierre loved. She was petite and good; what you call bonsare. But no; old Pierre meant not for Pierre to marry her. For what of the dot? The Duboisins had money very little, and old Pierre, who thought of nothing but money, meant his son to marry a dot. He stormed and he swore; and that, of course, made Pierre love Marie very much. So Peirre pere and Pierre fils they quarrel; and Madame Duboisin she say no daughter of hers will sweetheart with a man whose father likes her not; and Pierre says the devil! he will do as he likes, and he likes Marie; and Marie she says she will always love him; and old Pierre says to his son, in a great fury, at last, that he could go to the Devil. So he went to Paris. But Marie he kiss before he go away.

"I saw him," he added, with pride. "And she weeping about him, too, and crying that she loved him. That is all, M'sieur," he concluded abruptly.

To me it seemed but the beginning.

"But the grave?" I hinted.

"Oh— ah, the grave!" he cried, as if he had found a new subject. "Young Pierre he was buried there. The towel, m'sieur. Tuppence, please. Thank you very much, please!"

This to his customer; but I lingered as he tucked his cloth under the chin of a new client.

"He came back to die, fighting, about here?" I asked.

"But yes! The war he come— ah, that was very bad. At first the people stay; but not after the Uhlans came riding in, and go away again; then more come, patrols only. Then come our army— patrols too— only afterwards the British ; and with them, when they come, the shells commence to fall, fall, fall, until the people run away. Only some stayed, hoping it would pass; but no, and then the whole of us that remained we went also. Ah, but —to leave your home, M'sieur! All you have!....And the sights, M'sieur!"

"How about Marie?" I inquired.

"Ah, she was of the lucky ones! Some scandal was made because of Pierre, and, therefore it was thought more better she should go to a convent and become a nun. So she was there, though not a nun— not yet. And the people of the Estaminet du Nord were all killed, and the house ruined. Ah, there has been much people killed: it will be more better when the war is over!"

"But how did Pierre—" I began.

"Ah, yes! Pierre, M'sieur! It was that I would tell you! Old Pierre did not go; perhaps he knew that Pierre was with the French army, and hoped, if he was near, he would come home; for old Pierre had aged, and he fretted sometimes about his son, though nothing said. His home was shelled, and caught fire, but he remained: we were here between the armies, M'sieur. Then, one night came a soldier, much wounded, stealing through the village; and we who knew him knew it was Pierre. Yet he had no words for any, only 'Where is my father? Has he not gone? How dare you let him stay?' "

He paused to steady himself.

"For he had come back, he whom his father had disowned, in his fear for him. Brave, M'sieur; for he risked much from his own army, too, adventuring here; and he had come with cost of sore wounds. Scarce could he reach his father's house; and-in the morning was this grave that you know of, M'sieur. And old Pierre that day went.

"He was as one mad; for when a German patrol came in the town, he cursed at them and threw money at them, crying: 'Dirty dogs! That is all you want.' Money that he so much loved! The Germans said it was not much money, but hearing of his son and seeing the new grave, they took some pity and left him; but they came back at night, the dogs.

"For the Germans knew, even when they came, of old Pierre and his money. The first patrols would stop, and bully him, trying to make him yield them bribes for peace and security; and later they would search his house and demand his money openly. But old Pierre was shrewd; he must have sent it away; but even many of us thought he had hidden it in his cellars. Did I not, myself, catch Peter Bascelle searching for it with pick and hammer, hardly had old Pierre left the village."

"And the Germans caught you?" I suggested, shrewdly.

"I did but think that, knowing the Germans would search, it would be a pity if old Pierre had left it where a seeker could find," said the barber, unabashed. "Had I found it and the old man wanted it— why, it was his! But the Boches ordered me away from the town; yet not before I knew that they could never find the money, for old Pierre had beaten them. And there are now many holes, besides those the shells have made. It was Jean Nicolas who first returned, and I know that his hurry was to search, too."

Another man took the chair.

"Look here," I commenced; but the barber had commenced an entirely new conversation with his latest patient. I went out.

It was late when I thought of returning to camp. Passing what had been the residence of old Pierre Lamont I came upon a unique crowd grotesquely illuminated by a pair of lanterns. An old man stood in the group, and facing him were some excited figures standing out from a background of soldiers, late wanderers like myself, amongst whom I recognised the barber. Between them was a man in uniform.

"He has the permission of the town commandant," said the man in uniform, decisively. The old man, ignoring the excited people round him, opened what seemed like a box, and taking out a paper held it to the flame of one of the lanterns. He dropped it to the ground as it flared and poured more papers upon it.

"Deeds!" he said, as though talking to himself. "These people are beggared— why should I make their burdens more? And these— my country also will be poor." More papers went on the flames.

"Old Pierre purifying himself of his sins by fire!" I said, also to myself.

"But," vociferated the barber, "to violate his son's grave—his son, Pierre!"

"Yes, that is it!" cried several voices.

There was a grim silence. Then another box was carried into the circle of light and laid on the ground. The tall young figure that had borne it straightened itself, and advanced so that the light fell on a handsome face seared by a bullet wound.

"Pierre!"

Then Pierre explained.

"My father would not go till he had hidden his money. So I rejoined the troops, sure that he would follow."

We knew then what had been buried in the grave.

"The grave was yours, Pierre," said the old man. "So is the money"— he pointed to the heavy box— "yours and Marie's."

Behind the figure of the tall young man I saw the face of a girl, newly a woman.

________________

11: The Fairy Godmother

Bulletin, 8 April 1915

THERE were thousands, possibly millions, of women more virtuous than Mrs. Nicholls who were not half as good.

After the fashion of female relatives who consider they have a right to guide your moral footsteps, a female relative, who came to see me some little time after I had established myself in lodgings at Mrs. Nicholls's house, declared that she was an awful woman, and that I ought not to stay another hour in the place. My relative announced that, anyway, she would not come to see me again, and she kept her word.

I kept my lodgings.

From my noint of view Mrs. Nicholls was a woman with some peculiarities, but of surpassing good nature and good humor. I believe that, whatever her troubles, she would have refrained from grumbling for fear that her complaints might disturb the Almighty. A plump-figured, plain-faced woman, her countenance had no unpleasant lines, and its cheerful good nature was good to look upon.

On the morning following my; arrival she reached my room with a cup of tea and some toast. This wasn't at all in our bargain.

"Oh, it's no trouble," she said. "I was making some for myself and thought you might like some. I hope you weren't disturbed last night."

I said I wasn't; but as a matter of fact I had been. In the next room there apparently lodged the tragic-faced girl I had passed on the stairs. She had come in very late. in the night, which, anyway, was no business of mine, though my female relative might have, considered it her business. Then, shortly, I heard the sounds of restless tossing, and moans and sobbing. Soon there was a burst: "Oh, why aren't I dead too?" and "My little love! My little darling!" After that more sobbing.

"There's a girl in there, poor thing," said Mrs. Nicholls, "and I think she's had a baby and lost it, and can't get over it."

It was then that I really began to like my landlady, because a previous one, instead of having sympathy in her tone when mentioning a similar fact, had said that it was much better as it was, and she thought she must get rid of the girl.

"She's a day waitress, and gets nine shillings a week. I call that wicked," she added. "I don't think such things should be allowed."

"She may get over it in time," I said, not knowing what else to say. "She's very young yet."

"Yes; in the bright Mexico of youth there is no such word as 'Nil Desperandum! " sighed Mrs. Nicholls, as she went. That rather staggered me; but I learnt as time went on that one of my landlady's peculiarities was lengthy misquotation on every possible occasion. Where she got hold of the quotations she misused, or, how, having got them, she got them all wrong, I cannot say.

Still, the grief in the next room remained a nightly occurrence. And the tea came in the morning and the conversations. I asked her once if she had any children.

"I had one," she replied— "by my first husband."

"Oh. you've been married twice, Mrs. Nicholls?" I said.

"I've been married lots of times," was her surprising answer. "At least With my first, I was only a girl at the time. The week before we were going to be married we bought a house and furniture, and Jack said we might as well start straight off."

This rather rattled me; but Mrs. Nicholls pursued her theme with no embarrassment.

"So we stayed. You see, I thought he might be disappointed. And then I did not like to worry him by reminding him, and time went on. Then the little boy was born."

"But you were married then?" I suggested, awkwardly.

"He wouldn't have been any better if we were," she said. "It wasn't Jack's fault, anyway, but his wife turned up, and he went back to live with her. He had to— there were four children."

"Is the little boy alive?" I said, hastily, anxious to change the conversation a little.

"No, he died," she sighed, with genuine sadness.

"That's sad."

"But I had him for eight years," she said, bravely, with a return of her cheeriness; "and he was such a dear little fellow. I can always think of his little ways! Reg was awfully fond of him. Always when he got a shilling or so from me he gave him threepence, or sometimes sixpence. Reg was one of my lodgers— l married him afterwards. He was a born gentleman, and a clever man, too, but he couldn't make money, somehow ; and you couldn't expect a man brought up like he'd been to do hard work. He owed me a lot of money, but I couldn't ask liim to go, of course. Then he kept asking me to marry him, and I thought we might as well. It saved a room, anyway. And , sometimes the poor man was hungry, I know, and it saved that.

"It's a strange thing how some people can make money and others who are really clever can't. Now, I've always been able to, and I've saved, and if a lodger couldn't pay for a while I didn't have to bother about telling him to go.

"But Mark nearly got me into trouble— Mark was the man who married me after Reggie died. He was what you call a smart man; but he didn't mean no harm. He put in fifty pounds, and he got me to take a bigger place; and we did well. But Mark was fond of horse-racing, and he got into trouble. A man is likely to get desperate when he gets into trouble like that, and you can't blame him; but if it hadn't been that the people he had sold the place to were very good about it and rented the house to me cheap, I'd have had a bad time that year."

"But he couldn't sell the place without your signature," I said. "You could have fought them."

"Oh, but they treated me very nicely. One of them came and lived in the house. He was; a nice man although a Jew, and his wife had left him. He was always talking about his loneliness, almost crying over it, and he liked to be comforted. But, of course I couldn't marry him, we being both married—"

"I'm sorry about the little boy," I said hastily.

"I'd like to have him," she sighed. "And that's why I'm sorry for that poor girl. I've asked her not to worry about the rent, but to go about and enjoy herself a bit, and pick up her strength— and not to go out at night. That sort of thing's a mistake. But, as you say, it takes a child to make a woman happy."

"Some women," I said, "have many children and are not happy."

"Oh, some people go too far." she replied.

Later on I learnt about others who had imposed on her. There was a ship's captain who wept over novelettes, and explained that it was an awful thing for a man to have a wife thousands of miles away from him in England. He seemed to have lived free of board for at least a year. And there was an actor who complained that Art was unappreciated, and swore repeatedly to kill himself in despair. Mrs. Nicholls described him as a man with a heart bowed down with weighty woe.

When I left her house Mrs. Nicholls made me give her a promise that I would return.

"In spite of the proverb being about fields and pastures new from which no traveller returns, you must come," she said.

I did go back; but it was months later, the door was opened for me by a laughing, happy-faced woman whom it was difficult to recognise as the tragical girl who had sobbed in the room next to mine.

"Why, it's you!" she cried. "Mother, look who s here!"

Then, as Mrs. Nicholls came rushing out with the sort of welcome that belonged to her nature, the girl was for dashing up the stairs again.

"I'm going to show him something!" she called back gaily.

"It's her baby," said Mrs. Nicholls. "It's just what she wanted, and she's happy as the day." Then, as an afterthought:

"Fred's going to marry her next month. He's the lodger who came after you, you know. He was as miserable as anything with domestic trouble, and was drinking no end. But they made up and they're both happy now. He couldn't marry her until his divorce was absolute, you know !"

"Look at my dinky little babekins." said the girl, bursting in upon us. "Aren't I a lucky mother?"

"And you," I said to Mrs. Nicholls, after I had expressed the required enthusiasm, "are grandmother, I suppose? Or does fairy godmother suit the case better?"

BEFORE I left, I met a Captain Blake, an elderly seafaring man,. Who, in spite of an accident that had invalided him, looked very much at home, and called Mrs. Nicholls Linda. Perhaps that was the reason.

I met the proud mother with her baby in the city some months later. She refused an invitation to tea, because her husband didn't like her having tea with other men.

"Well, how's Mrs. Nicholls?" I said.

"Oh, my husband and I have taken a place out at Haberfield." she said rather stiffly: "I haven't seen Mrs. Nicholls for quite a long time."

There must have been something in the look on my face that caused her to flush with something like shame.

"You know, she's not very respectable," she said defiantly.

__________________

12: Grigson With the Wind Up

Bulletin, 29 Feb 1928

THE move-in was a rough push-off for the drafts which had been hurried up to strengthen the ranks of the First Division, always in a weak condition since the Paschendaele operations. The Diggers had had a rough time at places like Pozieres and Bullecourt and had done all that was expected of them, and more; but circumstances now, in the spring of 1918, were very different. The full-strength battalions had come to France elated with the reputation they had won for themselves, and filled with a confidence that they were to win the war. It meant another big effort worthy of supermen— a dash through in really blood-stirring fighting that would crumple the German lines and open the way for the march to Berlin.

That they had been selected as the spearhead of this history-making thrust contributed an ecstasy of ardor which silenced the fears even of any who might have been timorous.

But by 1918 the high confidence in achievement had faded; the drudgery of the deadlock fighting in France under a constant rain of shells and bombs bore heavily upon them. There was a fingerpost near Neuve Eglise which bore testimony to the feeling that had grown. A jesting Australian had found the post with a crosspiece pointing N.N.E. on which some vaunting Tommy had painted, "To Berlin, 1917." The Australian added a rearward sign which read hopefully, "To Australia, 1918." Then a sardonic Digger bad come along and, contriving a finger which pointed groundwards, added, "To Hell, 1919."

Damping the hopefulness of the grievously thinned battalions was a doubt of the quality of the men who were coming through to strengthen them. Australia's supply of manhood at once courageous, physically magnificent and young had been exhausted. A few boys who had just reached the age of eighteen and eligibility had come through; the rest of the strength was made up of recruits who in the earlier days had been enthusiastically rejected, and of lead-swingers who were at last thrust forward to do their share.

In the anxiety which some of the old hands naturally felt about how these raw drafts would behave in conditions threatening to be worse than ever faced before, it was a disaster to hear the news that an old hand like Grigson, the nonchalant, willing fighter of a dozen big engagements, "had the wind up." All the Grigsons were wanted at their best to "stiffen" the newcomers.

Stevens, the platoon officer, came along to watch his men as they tumbled themselves and their equipment out of the horse-truck. Their jesting levity heartened him; they were just the same Diggers after all!

"Did yer see the old blanker leading the donkey-cart with a load on it like a house, away back there, a quarter'n hour ago?" asked one. "When we gave him a cheer he' just waved his stick at us, shouted 'Australians!' and round the old codger turned his family wealth and went 'ome again. And the rest after 'im, bundles and all. I reckon they know us Aussies are the blokes to stop the 'Uns!"

"The platoon will line up down yonder," said Stevens, "taking line on number seven. Dump your packs behind you and get into battle order." Then his elbow nudged Grigson, and with that little touch he edged him away.

"What's up with you, Corporal, he asked jestingly. "You look down to it. Not got the wind up?"

"I have. It's hell!" said Grigson tersely.

The straightout confession, where a challenging denial was army etiquette, flabbergasted Stevens.

"That's not like you, Tom," he said protestingly. "You and I have been in a fistful of stunts together, and I wouldn't have believed anybody who said that Tom Grigson could show the white feather."

"Of course I won't!" Grigson retorted. "But it's hell, all the same. They're just using us until we're all wiped out; making up for other people's mistakes mostly. Somebody's left a hole here, and, of course, the Diggers have got to plug it. We don't even know where Fritz is; we're just going to be marched in to find him and stop him. Hold him up whilst they re-form their defences behind us, even if we are all wiped out in doing it. As likely as not there'll be nothing left of all these by the time three days are gone." His arm swept in the men who were emptying from the train and making their way to the parade field further on.

"That's about the size of it, Tom," said Stevens steadily.

"Well, by gad!" exclaimed Grigson. His exclamation conveyed the impatience of one who had wanted to be consoled with lies. His face was white and strained, as if he already saw death. But he said:

"Well, I suppose I can stand it as well as the next. I'd give my both legs to be out of it, though."

He moved along to join the others, and the platoon officer walked with him.

"You're abotit due for Blighty leave," Stevens said. "After this stunt"

"I didn't come back till nine months ago," returned Grigson. "I had marriage leave after my hospital leave. There's no need to bribe me, anyway. I wish to hell I was out. of it; but I've always done my bit, and I'll do it now."

Subsequently an idea was born in Stevens's mind as he watched Grigson sitting writing a letter with his pack as a writing-desk. He, too, felt the tragedy of the time.

It was a joyous spring day with the air like wine and the sun shining gloriously on the new green of the world; and the men, breaking from the lines they had formed, sprawled luxuriously on the ground or squatted on their packs, some of them munching their rations, some smoking, but most of them yarning and laughing. Yet they were like yarded sheep, shortly to be marched away to a shambles all the more tragic because they did not know where it would be met. Yet, with much reason for desiring to live, Stevens felt that a death bravely met was to be desired if death must come; and because Grigson had always seemed a typical representative of the Digger, his unwonted dejection worried him. Yet these others were shaping very well. They had come evenly through the rush south to Amiens; and the long bombing to which they had been subjected in the trains on the rush north again had left them unshaken.

Stevens made his way to the railside cottage which had been converted into a temporary headquarters, to see if he could glean any news about the move forward; and he shortly came back with a sprightly step signalling afar off to platoon-sergeant Hennessy.

"There's a memo come through in orders for Corporal Grigson," he said. "His wife's had a son. Tell him."

The move came quickly when it was made. The men were suddenly called to attention, formed into fours and marched off to the unknown battle scene, 150 paces between each platoon to avoid observation and artillery fire, leaving their packs just where they had dumped them. Stevens dropped back from the head of his own bunch and casually drew tip alongside Grigson. He was glad to be greeted by the old gay grin.

"Well, I'll have to give Fritz the kid's compliments now," said the corporal with a laugh. "Thanks for letting me have the news, sir."

"Why didn't you tell me you were worrying about the missus?" said Stevens. "I would have understood. We've been cobbers for a long time, Tom— you might have told me."

"It never occurred to me." returned Grigson with a laugh. "Anyway, it's all right now. When a man's a father he feels that he's got something extra to fight for!"

His laugh came unrestrained, careless, dauntless. Stevens as he went ahead again felt that it vibrated a new spirit of resolution in the platoon behind him.

And, after all, the action was less terrible than was anticipated. It had a slow introduction. The Germans had overrun themselves, getting ahead of their artillery support; and the Australian prestige was great.

Although the orders were to dig in and consolidate on contact with the enemy, the first halt, under a very sporadic long-distance resistance, was not the final. The advanced Germans fell back, and the line was advanced and formed with some degree of certainty along the railway-line before the Germans attacked again. They were beaten as much by a reputation established in a sequence of great battles as by actual fire.

It was anything but a picnic, though. The men had to lie in mere depressions in the ground, and "iron rations" —bully-beef and biscuits —had to satisfy them for food ; but the shell fire was not great, and was ill-directed. And the discomforts had their compensations. With their reserve battalions well dug in by this time, the Diggers felt they had the gap plugged.

But the machine-guns introduced a spice of the unpleasant. For a man to move from his hole to stretch, even when dark night fell, was dangerous with death-dealing bullets likely to be sprayed across at any moment. The sprays, too, chipped pieces from the ballast of the railway-line, which stung like bullets when they were flung against a recumbent man.

One of these guns annoyed Grigson particularly. He cursed it at least twenty times as the night wore on ; and then, seeing some shadows near, he lifted himself from his hole and joined them, finding, as he expected, Stevens.

"We ought to get that chap," he said.

"I was going to take a party out to see if we could," said Stevens; but he added, as Grigson eagerly volunteered: "No, don't you come. No need to take risks; you want to get back and see that kiddie."

"Oh, hang the — I mean the kiddie is an other reason for me to buck in," said Grigson.

The little party, after the word had been passed round, stole over into the black-grey night; and it was Grigson's sharp "Down!" which caused them to flatten just in time to avoid the spitting hate that stung the air above them. The agitated tut-tut-tut of the machine-gun seemed like a hint that their proximity was suspected.

"I saw a spark," whispered Grigson. "This is where we want them. I'll fire from time to time here to draw them. You detour— get round and rush them. When I hear your Millses I'll stop."

The plan was good; and stifling the inclination to waste time by protesting against Grigson's acceptance of danger in concentrating the machine gunners' fire on himself, Stevens only waited for the spasm of firing to die before he rose and led his three men to the right. They crept soft-footed through the darkness; and just when Stevens was wondering at the silence, he heard the sharp crack-crack-crack of Grigson's rifle. The machine-gun barked a quick reply, and Stevens, hearing the whistle of the fusillade to the left, pushed his men forward, crouched low down, ready to drop if the fire veered, but swift moving, until away on the left he heard the murmur of voices whispering in German, and saw dimly out- lined the dark mound where the machine-gun position should be.

The spitting violence having died into silence again, Stevens kept his men prone, waiting. The wait seemed interminable; it appeared that the oppression of the night's silence was sinking upon them, doping them into sleep. And then came the sharp crack-crack-crack of the rifle again. Right on top of the muffled German exclamation and the rattle of the machine-gun which followed, Stevens hurled his bomb. His men were at his heels as he leapt for the machine-gun position.

It was, after all, an easy job. Dazed by the fall of the bomb which had killed or so badly hurt one man that he lay unconscious, the Germans made —could make — no resistance. In the rush of fiercely whispered orders to his prisoners to carry the gun, and in getting his little party through the confused torrents of machine-gun and rifle fire which poured from every direction, Stevens did not realise that he was wounded — did not realise it until they reached the depression where they had left Grigson; then a stab in his side as he stooped and the feel of blood on his tunic warned him.

"Hit, Corp?" he whispered to the prostrate man.

"Arm ripped by a bullet," returned Grigson faintly, but cheerfully. "They hit me at the first crack. I had all I could do to lift the rifle up and fire with the left hand. It's a nice blighty, anyway."

They helped him up and back; and shortly, both being in the category of "walking wounded," Stevens and he assisted each other on that great path which led from the line. There a remembrance brought blank dismay to Stevens.

"Tom," he said, "I don't want you to think I. played the dirty on you. I thought it the best to do at the time to buck you up. There wasn't any message about your wife having a kiddie."

"I know there wasn't, Jim," said Grigson. "I thought it a good joke when you had me told that. You see I haven't got a wife!"

"But you said you had marriage leave. It was that made me think of it."

"So I did have marriage leave. But the girl's brother was killed and the marriage had to be postponed at the last moment."

"Good Lord !" ' ejaculated Stevens. "I thought it was anxiety about your wife that had made you seem windy. I—"

"I'm always windy before I go into a fight; once I know I'm definitely in for it I'm all right. It was the trapsing about, not knowing what we were going to do, got on my nerves. Once we started to move in I was Jake; and the joke of your me a missus and kid helped to jolly me. What on earth made you think so much of that stunt?"

There was an earnestness in Stevens' manner as he turned to Grigson.

"You see," he said, "I've just been through the mill. I felt a dozen times while I was waiting that I could desert and bolt back for England; but four days ago, down at Allonville, I heard our youngster had arrived, and that pulled me together."

He found Grigson's hand gripping his.

"And now I'm going back to see my son and heir," added Stevens joyfully.

"And I've got a wedding of my own to get over," said Grigson with a grin.

_________________

13: The Tragerigal Bodgetts

Bulletin, 29 Nov 1939

"EVEN if they happen to be tragy deans, which I suppose is better than the rest," said Mrs. Parsley decisively, "I don't want any of them tragerical people in my establishment.

"Experience does it; and my experience of them tragerical Bodgetts was enough for me. They had the whole place in a state of terra firma, as the saying is; a sort of diverse case of the Pyrenees of Tears it was, Mr. Slompack said, with everybody scared to death that that there Mr. Bodgett would go and be tragerical somewhere about the place, and they might be irresponsible. And him putting a dampener on the curse of true love and everything, too!

"Very nice people them Bodgetts seemed when they came into Number 8— especially the daughter, which was as pretty as that picture no artist can paint, and went about like one of them zebra breezes of the spring, always as happy as the daisy's long, as they say. I was quite inauspicious when Mrs. Bodgett said that about her husband being one of them tragerical Bodgetts. Which the way she said it she seemed quite proud, though it didn't mean a thing to me.

" 'l'm sorry,' I says, 'I never heard of them. I hardly never go to the circus.'

" 'Circus! ' she cries, quite offended. 'Oh, Mrs. Parsley, what a mistake to make! The Bodgetts are a well-known English fambly which they call the tragerical Bodgetts because of the tragedy connected with their name. From degeneration to degeneration there has always been some Bodgett who has died by his own hand.'

"It seemed a terribly silly thing for anyone to be proud about; but I merely told Mrs. Bodgett I wouldn't have people dying in that way in my establishment and thought no more of it until that fatal day when Mr. Bodgett went out on the roof.

"THE first I knew about it was when I happened to look out of my window and saw people talking all excited-like and looking and pointing; then someone came banging at my door, crying out about Mr. Bodgett being on the roof and she thought he was going to commit suicide.

"It gave me plantations of the heart when I saw him sitting there poised on the very ledge of maternity, as Mr. Slompack's nephew, which was rather a poet, said. He must have found one of them upper flats open and climbed through the attic window; and everybody in the flats seemed up there pleading with him to come back, and Mrs. Bodgett quite historical with crying.

" 'Oh, I say, come back, there's a good chap,' says Mr. Slompack. 'You're upsetting your wife.'

"But Mr. Bodgett still sat on that there ledge of maternity, which was the brick coping of the old houses before they was turned into these flats, where he might fall into the street at any moment if the bricks gave way; and he talked about being doomed by Fate, and it might as well be now as later. 'Poor Hilda, she will be better off without me,' he says.

" 'Oh, Ned, don't say that! ' wails Mrs. Bodgett.

" 'You come back at once, Mr. Bodgett!' I says, sharp-like. 'I don't permit goings-on like this in my flats— making an exhibition-building of the place.'

"But I might have talked to water on a duck's back for all the notice he took of me, or any of us, which we were all of us ajittertated— especially when he moved and we thought he was going over— and talking about how we could get him back. Young Mr. Slompack, who had come to see his uncle that afternoon, was trying to cheer up Miss Bodgett, who wasn't a bright zebra any more, and she was trying to cheer her mother. We were all on the horns of them tenterhooks; it was Confucius worse confound it, as the Chinese say, when Detective Cassidy came and talked about bringing the fire brigade with a ladder to get him down. Which he said, though, that if we made any move towards him Mr. Bodgett might throw himself into the street.

" 'Yes; and if the fire brigade brings a ladder he might do that, too,' says the Major.

"It seemed we would never deduce him from his position in a degeneration of cats, when Mrs. Bodgett, who had been speaking to Mr. Slompack and Mr. Wassail, undressed him again, as the saying is. 'Do come back, dear,' she says. 'You'll get your death of cold.'

"Which that seemed a funny thing to say, with him sitting on that ledge of maternity.

" 'Come back, darling. The rent has been all fixed up,' she says.

"Well, of all the things that ever happened! Mrs. Bodgett had spoken to me about letting the rent stand over, but never in my born life, or my unborn life either, had it concurred to me that a man would make all that fuss about being behind in his rent, which seems to come natural to some people. Of course I knew that Mr. Slompack and Mr. Wassail must have given Mrs. Bodgett the money, when she told them what it was that made her husband go on like that, as if his mind was disarranged. Even then Mr. Bodgett didn't seem inclined to come back, going on about being doomed by Fate, and it was as well now as later; and he didn't assent until Mr. Slompack said, when he had talked about only having fresh difficulties to face, that he needn't let a small amount of money worry him.

"After that, he caught the end of a rope that was thrown to him and came back, though my heart was in my mouth, the way he slipped. I thought he would slide off the roof. Which he seemed as frightened as any of us, the way he looked as pale as one of them whitened sepulchures, and panted like the heart that never rejoices. Which it served him right, frightening us all.

"But everybody was so glad that he was safe again that you would have thought he was a hero. Mr. Slompack took him down to his flat and gave him a whisky; which I was very glad when he gave me one, too, for them plantations were still going on in my heart.

" 'By rights we ought to run you up to the station, Mr. Bodgett,' says Detective Cassidy.

" 'But you won't, eh, Cassidy,' says Mr. Slompack. 'You mustn't do that sort of thing again, Bodgett.'

" 'lt's the curse of the Bodgetts— the tragerical Bodgetts,' he said, gloomy, but as if he was quite proud of it. 'We Bodgetts are doomed to meet unhappy endings. It is a dark history, ours. When I was on the roof there, I couldn't help thinking of my great-uncle, Colonel Swashwockler Bodgett, who died in the fortress of Jibel-Jibel in India.'

" 'Tell them about it, Ned,' says Mrs. Bodgett, adoring-like.

" 'My uncle,' says Mr. Bodgett, 'was an officer of Hurrahs, but he was transformed to service in India, and when his regimen was cut to pieces in a sudden insectarian amongst the Panthers he held out in the fortress. One by one the men fell, till my uncle was the only revival. The delivered ants that would have saved them did not come, and Colonel Bodgett knew that them Panthers would torture him if they captured him. So he ended his life with his own sword.

" 'And half an hour later,' said Mr. Bodgett, 'that there delivered ants arrived ; a British force, that had been delayed, scattered them Panthers. But that just shows why we are called the tragerical Bodgetts.'

"And there, especially when Mr. Slompack gave him more whisky, he went on talking about indifferent people who had cut off their own heads or stabbed themselves with resolvers; which they was all Bodgetts and they all did it by mistake. Very proud of them he seemed ; and the other people appeared most depressed about him having illustrated aunts' sisters and coming from a fambly which had somebody always committing suicide from the days when they had round heads down to this year of disgrace, as they call it.

"I DIDN'T have the time to stop to listen to all he had to say, but that seemed to be the grist to the mill of it; and it didn't appeal to me at all to have a man in the place who might jump off the roof or drown himself in one of the baths, for that matter, at any moment of the day or night, when he owed a little rent. I couldn't say that at the time, but I took the opportunity by the foresight next day.

" 'lt's not, Mr. Bodgett,' I says, 'that I have anything against you or Mrs. Bodgett, which is a very nice woman; but dead corpses are things that I will not tolerate in my establishment. I think it would be better for you to go before you make up your mind to be one.'

" 'Very well, Mrs. Parsley,' he says with a look of that there painted assignation in his eyes ; very queer it seemed to me, and it made me uncomfortable. 'lt would not be fair, I daresay, to blame you for anything that may come of this. It is the fate of the tragerical Bodgetts.'

"The way he spoke and the tragerical way he went to his flat gave me the creeps. I ran all the way up them stairs, with the plantations in my heart to see that them upper flats was all locked and he couldn't get out to the roof again; and when I came downstairs there was Mrs. Bodgett come to see me, all in tears, and Mr. Slompack and Mrs. Wassail with her.

" 'Oh, Mrs. Parsley, you shouldn't have said that to my husband! If you had spoken to me first, I could have broken it to him. But he's one of the tragerical Bodgetts. He's so sensitive to the stinging arrears of enrage us fortune that he might have gone out and thrown himself under a tram,' weeps Mrs. Bodgett.

" 'I don't think it was quite wise, Mrs. Parsley,' says Mr. Slompack. 'Mr. Bodgett has a very peculiar indisposition, and, although it may be very irritating, none of us would care to feel that we were irresponsible for his death. It is a matter of Herod ditty.'

"When Mr. Slompack brought Herod into it like that it gave me quite a scare, because everybody knows what that Herod was like, having a brazen woman doing that Alimony dance before him with the head of John the Baptist on a platter. I was quite relieved when I heard what Mrs. Bodgett said next.

" 'I took the liberty of telling Mr. Bodgett that you didn't want us to go; you had only spoken in a momentum of indication.' Which I didn't like her putting it that way, but as I didn't want to have Mr. Bodgett's death on my conscientiousness I let it go at that.

"SO there I was with a tenant in the house I daren't hardly say a word to because of him being tragerical. I was like those people who daren't say booze to a goose, though why anybody should want to mention likker to a goose I do not know.

"It wasn't that they didn't pay up their rent pretty well; Mrs. Bodgett saw to that, poor soul. Which, although I don't approve of them women as are always nagging their husbands, never seeming to have learned that motter that speech is silver but silence is impossible, I felt sorry for her, frightened almost to debt about doing anything that might make that Mr. Bodgett tragerical.

" 'lt's a sort of diverse case of Pyrenees of Tears,' says Mr. Slompack. 'lt must be awful for that poor woman, living with a man who's a libel to go off the handlebar at any time. It makes her a slave; I wouldn't like myself to feel I was irresponsible for Bodgett carrying out the urge that comes down from his aunts' sisters, so I can judge what she feels, poor thing. The money he owes me doesn't matter, thank heaven ; but I am very glad my feelings collanade with his regarding my nephew and Gwen.

" 'Not that Gwen isn't a very nice young lady,' says Mr. Slompack hastily, 'but,, you understand, Mrs. Parsley, I wouldn't like a nephew of mine to marry into a fambly which has a tendaciousness to suicide.'

"Which why he said that was that ever since that day when Mr. Bodgett had sat on the roof young Mr. Walter Slompack, who had tried such a lot to comfort Miss Bodgett, started coming regular to see his uncle, which he never had done before, and he never seemed sorry when his uncle was out if he could happen to see Miss Bodgett. Which, somehow, she always seemed to meet him accidental on the stairs, as if she been watching from the window and had seen him coming. They say that love will find a way to go to the pictures, and that's what they were doing soon, even though that Mr. Grabblewit, whom Miss Bodgett's was supposed to be going to marry, was expected to be coming to see her.

"How I learnt the way the wind was blowing no good to anybody was when Mrs. Bodgett came running after young Mr. Slompack and Miss Bodgett as they were going downstairs ; and she was all pale and ajittertated.

" 'Oh, Gwen, where are you going?' she asks. 'Your father heard you go out, and he's talking dreadfully ! I'm sure he's in a mood for something desperate. You know Mr. Grabblewit is coming to-night.'

" 'Oh, mother,' poutered Miss Bodgett, 'l'd much rather go out with Wally than stay to see Bill. Bill's such a bore!'

" 'Gwen, you mustn't say that about your— about Mr. Grabblewit. You know your father has built his hopes on your marrying him.'

" 'She won't if I can help it, Mrs. Bodgett,' says young Mr. Slompack. Mr. Walter Slompack didn't seem to have any of his uncle's diversion to getting married, the way he spoke. 'Mrs. Bodgett, Gwen and I are fond of one another'

" 'Oh, this is dreadful! ' cries Mrs. Bodgett, looking quite terrified, as if a glass of port in the storm would have done her a world of good. 'lf ever it comes to your father's ears, that will be the end!'

"Them two young people was standing there before her, holding hands with their fingers all twisted together; and a very fine couple they made.

" 'Of course,' says Mr. Slompack, 'I was going to speak to him.'

"But even Miss Bodgett cried out about that. 'Oh, no, you mustn't!' she says.

" 'Haven't you told young Mr. Slompack that your father is one of the tragerical Bodgetts?' asks Mrs. Bodgett. 'Surely even if it was impossible for him to marry you he would not like to have his father-in-law's death on his unconscientiousness. Neither would you, if you have any feelings as a daughter. And to-day you must come back! I won't answer for the subsidences if you don't,' she says.

" 'l'm afraid I'll have to go back, Wally. You don't know what my father is like,' says Miss Bodgett.

"'I saw him sitting on the roof,' says young Mr. Slompack, sulky a bit. But he agreed when she pleaded about not wanting to be irresponsible for being a murderess as she would be if her father killed himself because she had disobeyed him. He made her kiss him before he'd agree, though, right there at the top of the stairs.

" 'And I do love you, Wally,' she says. 'l'll never marry Bill.'

"All the time there was poor Mrs. Bodgett wringing her hands, and looking round as if she suspected that Mr. Bodgett would come and listen to what was said, and then show how tragerical he was by throwing himself out of the window.

" That's him below , sir . He's wild because you wouldn't let him lead the squadron."

"'Oh, please! Please!' she says. 'You know, Hilda, I'd like you to marry who you like ; but we daren't cause the death of your poor dear father.'

"YOU talk about them Pyrenees of Tears. If ever there was Pyrenee it was the way that Mr. Bodgett had everybody scared about him being likely to commit suicide and them being irresponsible for it. Mr. Slompack said that he had found out where Mr. Bodgett was a clerk, and the firm had wanted to put him in a trench for twenty years and didn't dare to for fear they'd cause him to commit suicide, though why they should want to is far beyond me, as they say.

"He had his fambly properly scared ; and so, soon, was everybody about the place. And when that Mrs. Cruickshank got frightened of speaking to him about him having kicked her little dog, which she said she was going to tell him off about it, but she didn't when Mrs. Bodgett told her what might happen, it seemed hopeless for them young people. Especially when Mr. Grabblewit began to say that hope defied makes the art thick, and he wanted to get married soon. Which Mr. Bodgett talked more and more about them tragerical Bodgetts every time the poor girl said she didn't want to get married yet. You see, Mr. Grabblewit was as rich as a Crisis, so they said.

" 'lt's ridiculous, of course,' says Mr. Slompack. 'That uncorrugated rascal has been getting his own way all his life through this Herod ditty weakness to suicide. I wouldn't like, myself, to give him any chance to kill himself because of anything I've done; I daren't even ask him to pay me back my money. But I wish I'd let you get rid of him when you gave him notice. I won't interfere if you do it again.'

" 'No, thank you, Mr. Slompack!' I says. 'I don't want no dead corpse on my conscientiousness, even if I would sooner not have Mr. Bodgett in the place.'

" 'l'm really sorry for poor Hilda,' says Mr. Slompack. 'I wouldn't like Wally to marry into a fambly like that, but it's terrible to think the poor girl should be forced to marry this Grabblewit just because her father hopes to be kept in comfort. A disgrace. But I don't suppose anyone can stop it.'

"Which it didn't seem that anyone could. Poor Miss Bodgett ceased being the happy zebra she had been, and she was crying often when I saw her with young Mr. Slompack, and saying that surely he wouldn't like her to murder her father. Which he got very bad-tempered about it, and said once that it would be a jolly good job if Mr. Bodgett did throw himself under a tram. He had to come back and hang about to say he was sorry for saying that, after she had run away from him and wouldn't see him again.

"TALK about tragerical Bodgett! It was them young people who seemed tragerical to me. Especially after that night when there was loud voices in the Bodgett flat and Mr. Bodgett came down the stairs looking very gloomy and saying everybody wanted to see him dead. Which the whole fambly came rushing down to coax him back. And when Mr. Grabblewit came down he was smiling.

" 'l'm very happy 'to-night, Mrs. Parsley,' he says, passing me. 'ln another week's time I'm going to be married.'

"I wasn't going to tell him I was glad, when I thought it was a shame; I knew that poor Hilda had a heart bowed down with weighty woe, as the song says. I condoled myself by saying in my mind, 'Aha, my friend, you don't know what being a married couple is yet!'

"Young Mr. Slompack was nearly mad as a parched hare when he heard about it; and though his uncle might have been glad that his nephew could not marry a tragerical he was upset too. That's what made me surprised when I heard Mr. Slompack laughing as he came up the stairs that night. There was another man with him, who laughed louder; in fact, it made me laugh, too, when I heard him—a jolly, stout gentleman he looked.

" 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Slompack,' I says, 'but it was the way your friend laughed that made me laugh ; his laughter was contiguous. He seems to be a jolly Roger gentlemen if ever there was one.'

" 'Mrs. Parsley,' says Mr. Slompack, 'this is a friend whose acquaintance I made to-day. I thought I would bring him home to-night. Mr. Bodgett.'

" 'Mr. Bodgett! ' I cries.

"It seemed to me that Mr. Slompack had a queer look when he said it, as if he was a sort of Namesthis.

" 'l'm glad you can laugh, Mrs. Parsley,' says this new Mr. Bodgett. 'I like people who can laugh. Laughter's a fambly extradition, as they say. My fambly has been known for degenerations as "the laughing Bodgetts." I didn't tell you about my uncle, Colonel Swashwockler Bodgett, did I, Slompack?'

"You could have knocked me down with the last feather to fly with when that jolly Mr. Bodgett went on to tell Mr. Slompack and me all about that Colonel Swashwockler Bodgett who had been in the Hurrahs, but killed himself with his own sword to escape the Panthers in India. Only, with this Mr. Bodgett, the Colonel emptied a wagon of wine— which I should say was a grocer's exaggeration, as they call it —laughing at them Panthers, who could see him drink it, before he killed hisself.

" 'My goodness! ' I says ; but this Mr. Bodgett didn't know why I said it.

" 'And he was hardly dead before the delivered ants came?' says Mr. Slompack.

" 'Yes ; that was the joke of it. A bit tragerical; but we Bodgetts can see a joke even when it is like that. As long as he died with a laugh on his lips, what better death could a man have? That's why we've been called the laughing Bodgetts.'

"What them two men hadn't noticed was that there was the tragerical Bodgetts on the stairs behind them, held spelling-bound by what was being said, and that tragerical Mr. Bodgett looked very white. Then downstairs he came.

" 'Harry! What do you mean by coming to the place where I live and talking like this?' he says, angrylike.

"'Why, Ned!' cries the jolly Mr. Bodgett. 'Mr. Slompack said I could see you here! It's a treat. I haven't seen you since you were a kid.'

"But the tragerical Mr. Bodgett didn't take any notice of his hand, which he was holding out. 'You know damn' well it's the tragerical Bodgetts,' he says.

" 'Don't be silly, Ned,' says Mr. Harry Bodgett. 'Of course your mother —my stepmother— when she married dad, thought that "tragerical" would be much nicer than "laughing." But dad was proud of his aunts' sisters who had died with a laugh on their lips.'

" 'lt's a lie!' says Mr. Ned Bodgett.

"That made the jolly Mr. Bodgett angry, too.

" 'What the blazes do you know about it, Ned?' he said. 'You were only a kid when dad died ; and if it comes to that, you're not a Bodgett! You're a Wranglerotter, only when your mother married dad you took my dad's name.'

"If ever anybody was dumbfloundered after all we'd been standing from that Mr. Bodgett because of that Herod ditty which might have made him commit suicide, when after all he wasn't disentitled to it, it was me! I seemed to come out of a trance when I heard Mrs. Bodgett speaking.

" 'l'm going back to the flat to tell Hilda she can marry who she likes,' she says, looking very angry. 'As for you, you false pretence, you can go out and throw yourself under a tram for all I care. Putting that Pyrenee on your fambly all these years!'

"Which off she went; and so did Mr. Ned Bodgett, too, down the stairs; but he was back before midnight, not a dead corpse but dead drunk if ever a man was that way.

"But it was Mrs. Bodgett who gave me notice next day; and from what I heard she goes on still at other places about them being the tragerical Bodgetts; she's proud of it. The great difference was that Miss Hilda didn't have to marry that Mr. Grabblewit, and we got rid of them.

"I won't have any more tragericals in the place, even tragy deans— no, not even if they're tragy archbishops."

______________

14: Old Maudie

Bulletin, 12 May 1921

AS the door in Snide-lane swung backward, an atmosphere of tragedy in the house seemed to leap at me even before I saw the face of the landlady, Mrs. Ryan. Obviously she was deeply disturbed; and equally obviously she had been doing what she invariably does in moments of emotion— drinking.

"Come in, Mister," she said, remembering me. "Come on into the kitchen. Old Maudie's dead. Dead in 'er bed this mornin'. No, don't go away: stay 'ere a while. An' you might send for some more beer."

She had led the way into the old, tumble-down kitchen— the only sitting-room in the house— where on the rough table stood two empty bottles, and a glass and some cups. She handed the money I gave her to another woman, who, twisting her apron round her waist, went on her errand of beer.

"Poor Old Maudie!" said Mrs. Ryan, maudlinly. "I found 'er meself this morning, lying ; alf out of bed, lookin' 'orrible. It was the meth. that done it: she; s taken to methulated spirit; an;  you know she drank fierce. The cops 'ave been, and the doctor, an'  the undertaker's men. An'  there she is, lying upstairs, waiting for the coffin. I 'ad to lay 'er out meself. Oh, fer Gawd's sake give me a drink!"

The beer having arrived. I complied.

"You remember poor Old Maudie?"

I did. At a time when I had a craze for investigating such places as Snide-lane, I had struck what one is always likely to strike in such places, trouble; and, just as things seemed likely to go badly with me, the door of No. 10 had opened, and Mrs. Ryan had half-urged, half-pulled me into security. Then I had encountered Old Maudie— a withered virago who, in her drunken fury, wanted to go out and attack my assailants. Old Maudie, I found, was a character in the district. The wreck of a woman who had probably been handsome, who in sentimental, half-drunken moments insisted that she still had a voice, she was a terror when fully drunk. The police feared her, and feared her with reason.

And she was often fully drunk, she seemed to make getting fully drunk a hobby, yet her voice was cultivated, and there were signs of an old refinement about her. Now an idle moment and a whim had brought me again to No. 10 Snide-lane, on the day of Old Maudie; s death.

"When I saw 'er lying there, I gave a scream, an' I don't know what 'appened till I was talkin' to a John up in Bourke-street. 'E came back, an' then 'e went away to ring up a doctor. The two of them came down 'ere with a little old 'and-bag full of papers— all poor Old Maudie 'ad in the world. The doctor wanted to know 'oo she was, an'  'er age.  I couldn't tell 'em— only knew 'er as Old Maudie, poor Old Maudie, an' the Smiths and Browns she used ter call 'erself to the police didn't signify. I've known 'er six years, an' she's always been only Old Maudie.

"The first thing they finds is pawn tickets— years-old pawn tickets. Good God, she must 'ave 'ad good jewelry, says the doctor; so I looks over, curious. They was for 15 and 20 pounds, some of 'em: rings, an'  bracelets, an furs an' things— an' you know what the pawnbrokers give yer. Then there was photygraphs. There was one of an ' andsome-looking man with a curious smile on 'is face.It 'ad been torn in four pieces, an'  then pasted together again; an' another was a little girl cuddling up between the knees of a man, most likely 'er father, an' another a girl on a pony, laughing, in a garden. An' then they found a birth certificate, or somethin', wrapped up in paper.

"Thirty-three! That's all she was! An' we called 'er Old Maudie! But she looked old. She never took no care of ; erself; an;  she drank fierce. Thirty-three! An' I've known 'er six years, and she's always been Old Maudie."

"And what was her name?" I asked.

"Don't know," hiccupped Mrs. Ryan. "The doctor and the policeman seemed surprised; an' they looked at the paper together; an' then the John folds up all the things and puts them inside his tunic. 'Must be told,' says the doctor: and the John nodded; and out they goes together, after askin'  me about the layin'-out. I laid 'er out meself. Oh, fer Gawd's sake give me some more beer!"

There was a rap at the front door— the knocker had long disappeared— and, Mrs. Ryan being by this time nearly incapable, and, moreover, dissolved in maudlin tears, I opened it. A policeman pressed into the house, followed by an elderly, dignified gentleman with a drawn white face which seemed familiar— which was familiar. Behind him came an elderly, well-dressed woman, who appeared to enter the house reluctantly.

"The woman who died this morning?" said the man.

"In the back room," called Mrs. Ryan's voice from the kitchen.

"l'll wait here," said the policeman.

So, forced to it, I commenced to lead the way up the stairs.

"l'll stay here, too," said the woman.

" You come up," said the man, his voice having a note of sternness and strain.

Death was not beautiful with Old Maudie. Perhaps Mrs. Ryan's laying-out was not too successful. The scanty greying hair was dishevelled, Thirty-three years old! Old Maudie looked sixty; yet there was— something.

I stood awkwardly in the tiny room, because I could not leave it: it was a room so small that I was thrust into a corner. The old man stood looking at the dead for a moment with twitching lips, then stooped suddenly and kissed her forehead. He stood back again expectantly, waiting; then turned to the woman with him.

"Kiss her," he said imperatively.

The woman drew back.

"To think she should have brought herself to this!" she whispered, coldly. "Think what it means if this comes out."

"It need not come," he retorted in strained tones, "but she is still your daughter."

"It would have been better." she said, "if we had never known of this. She kept away from us when she might have come back."

"She was very proud, poor Maudie," he said.

"She was very spoilt. You spoilt her. You made more of her than all the children. She was just wilful."

"She was high-spirited and proud. You were hard. To me she is just— Maudie. Are you not going to kiss her?"

Her face was averted.

"Then go!"

I took the opportunity of going too; but as I went I saw the old man fall on his knees beside the tawdry bed, and throw his arms around the poor remains.

It did not surprise me shortly afterwards to read about a large benefaction to a charity which aims at saving feminine wrecks, from a benefactor "who desires to remain anonymous."

_____________

15: The Melbourne Cup Mystery

Bulletin, 7 July 1927

THE sensational ending of the Melbourne Cup of 1931 is likely to remain amongst the Great Baffling Mysteries with the personality of the Man in the Iron Mask and the unsolved problem of the deserted ship Marie Celeste, found floating in a crewless condition, but with nothing to explain why its company had abandoned their vessel or where they had gone.

The morning of the eventful race found Ted Tracey, the crack jockey who had the mount on Valais Prince, in a state of nerves such as he had never known before in his long racing career. It was not a question of his own financial interest in the race; confident as he was of his good horsemanship and the ability of his thoroughbred to capture the great prize, Tracey had not backed his mount to the extent of a single pound. His riding fee and percentages and the large sum the owner had laid him to nothing on the horse’s chance would amount to a considerable sum; but a lot more than money depended upon the winning of the Cup.

Tracey had a keen longing to close his racing career with the winning of this race —a longing that had become an obsession. The champion jockey disliked and almost despised the business from which, a man of careful and well-ordered life, he had amassed a comfortable fortune. When, a mere lad, he had made his way from the country to Melbourne, his clear-cut ambition was to find some work which would enable him to make his way through the University and into one of the professions. He found that circumstances baffled him; it was sheer necessity that led him to seek employment in a racing stable, where the horse-knowledge of a lad who was almost born in the saddle found him ready employment. It opened up to him an easy way of making money in large sums when his capabilities as a jockey were discovered. His ambition remoulded itself. He would take the fortune the gods had sent; later on, when he had made enough, he would leave the game and pursue, untrammelled by monetary cares, the professional course he had mapped for himself.

Perhaps it was because he regarded the work as a term of servitude that he cordially hated the whole racing business and his share in it. He loved horses, but the atmosphere of the racing stable, with its undercurrents of viciousness and trickery, revolted him. He imagined people referring to him, in spite of his success and his affluence, as “only a jockey,” and attributing to him the blunted morals which were all too much in evidence amongst a large number of the people who make a business of horse-racing. There was consolation in the promise to himself that he would show them his quality; he had no doubts about his mental abilities, and his brilliant course at the University would show them how far he was above the game he had used merely to reach his ultimate ends. But he had tangled the clear-cut issues of his life by marriage with a childhood sweetheart, the death of whose parents had left her unprotected and destitute. With the arrival of children the necessity for making his financial position still more solid before pursuing his ambitions had come to him, providing a reason for still lingering in the business where his skill earned him big retainers. Moreover, he had a feeling that it was only by putting himself at the very top of his occupation, by pulling off its greatest prize, that he could justify to himself his existence as a jockey. He wanted, with a desperate desire, to ride the winner in the Melbourne Cup.

Now that ambition seemed within his grasp. Three weeks before the race he was full of confidence of winning; but, day by day, a nervousness had grown upon him. Suppose he failed? He might then defer his ambition for another year in a dogged determination to make yet another effort to caphis racing career with the big prize. The possibility of that further year was a torture.

Yet the public, directly he was announced as the rider of Valais'Prince, had pinned its faith to that great thoroughbred. At the start Tracey had few doubts himself; but there was always the chance of accidents. Valais Prince, scion of a race of artists, had all the temperamental qualities that go with an artist. Tracey was one of the jockeys who could manage the sensitive horse; there seemed to be a sympathy between them without which the nervy animal, a vicious brute to those it did not like, the very spirit of gentleness to those who were its friends, would not give its best.But even with Tracey the temperament of the horse would display itself on occasion.

The Cranbie stable, with which horse-racing was a business, had three horses entered, and he knew that its investments on Speedsure were much heavier than was known to the public, whose faith in Valais Prince kept that horse well at the head of the market quotations. A dozen times a day Tracey made nervous guesses at the mission of the other two Cranbie horses, Moody and White Stocking, in the race— both speedy sprinters, hardly to be considered in the long distance, but capable of causing trouble in the race in the score of ways the tricky Cranbie people might devise.

Tracey was all nerves on the morning of Cup day. He told himself previously that it was the result of the wasting he had had to undergo to get down to weight; but that did not remove the apprehension that took possession of him. His condition was not improved by the infection which seemed to have reached his wife; she told him that she could not bear to go to the racecourse— she knew how much depended upon the winning of the race, and the tension of looking on would be too much for her.

He himself felt an aversion to going to the racecourse; he wanted to put off his arrival there to the last possible moment.

And yet all the time there was a nervous urge to go— to go and get the whole thing over. A round of golf failed to bring him any tranquillity. Irritably he swore at himself; if there was anything that would spoil Valais Prince’s chances in the race it was this nervousness of his own.

At last he set off in his two-seater to traverse the distance from his countryside bungalow to the course. The mad urge for speed, that he might run away from his thoughts, came to him; and subconsciously he put on pace.

He saw the break in the roadway, as he came round a sharp bend, too late to avoid the accident. The road here was sharply banked on the hill side, and a fall of earth had bitten off half the roadway. Into the opening the car pitched suddenly and somersaulted down the rock-strewn slope.

Tracey recovered consciousness to find himself, an aching mass, staring through a tracery of amber and green sapling leaves with a vacuity of mind that left him lying motionless for minutes. Then memory came back with a rush. He might have been lying there for hours! The fact that the sun was out of sight above the hill indicated that some time had passed; if he was to get to the racecourse in time to ride in the big race he must hurry.

As he moved, struggling desperately and painfully to his feet, he felt blood upon his clothes. No matter, he must— must— get to the course! Frenziedly. he dragged the bag with his racing clothes from the wreckage of the car and then, tottering and scrambling, climbed back to the roadway above. Having gained it, he staggered dizzily and fell, and his mind for a moment swam into unconsciousness. But grimly he took control of himself again and gained his feet.

Whatever happened, he must get to Flemington! If the effort killed him he must put that finishing touch on his career by winning the Cup. If he was only a jockey, at all events it would be remembered that he had at least won the biggest prize a jockey could win.

There was considerable traffic as a usual thing along the road. Scores of cars had probably passed since his accident while avoiding that gap in the road; it was quite easy to understand how they had missed seeing his predicament. Tracey was worried by the idea that any car-owner from whom he begged a lift might be more anxious to take him to hospital than to the racecourse.

When the roar of the racecourse surged upon him he could not remember how he had got there. The effort, to keep himself conscious had absorbed all his powers of concentration and left everything a blank. “I must win the Cup ; I must win the Cup!” he was conscious of saying over and over again— a suggestion to keep his mind from swooning into unconsciousness.

Similarly, he remembered nothing of what had happened on the racecourse until he, as if waking suddenly from a sleep, found himself mounted on the nervy Valais Prince trying to get him in the line facing the starting-tape. He knew he had somehow washed off the stains of his accident and clambered into his racing-clothes; he knew also that his face was deathly white— knew it even before one of the other jockeys had remarked to him that he looked ghostly. His head was swimming, but with grim determination he mastered the inclination to allow himself to flop from the saddle.

“I must win; I must win!” he kept repeating.

Then it was all a blur again—a blur of movement and mixed colors until, with a start, hie came to a vivid realisation of what was happening. Perhaps it was something in the shouting of the crowd which woke him up. Valais Prince was running on the rails, blocked ahead by White Stocking, whilst on his girth ran Moody. They were in the dust of the pack of horses racing ahead of them, and apparently increasing their distance, with the colors of Speedsure showing prominently. Valais Prince, full of running, was growing restless at his cramped position; Tracey could almost feel the temper of the horse rising. He had allowed himself to fall into the trap the Craubie stable had set for him.

Tracey took a new grip upon himself, he saw his one chance and waited for it. It came at the bend; and like a shot he took it. White Stocking gave no opportunity, hugging the rails closely; but there was an opening between White Stocking and Moody through which Tracey went like an arrow A feeling of exultation came as he felt the joy with which the horse shot forward, and heard the approving roar of the multitude as the Valais colt closed the gap on the leading bunch.

Taking no further chances, Tracey guided the thoroughbred to the outside and saw horse after horse sliding backward past him. Valais Prince seemed to be exulting in his free running; and Tracey let. him go. It was a big effort that took the game colt away with a three-lengths’ lead; but through Tracey’s half-swooning mind came the wonder whether the effort had left the horse enough to shake off the final challenge that was sure to come. It seemed that even with the thought came the challenge. The winning-post was in sight, but Tracey saw suddenly at his girth the distended nostrils which he knew to belong to Speedsure. Half-inch by half-inch it crept more into his consciousness as, gripping his swooning mind, he set down to ride his horse right out.

And still, with yards to go, Speedsure seemed to be gaining irresistibly. Tracey turned his head for a moment and glared at the head by his knee; and suddenly the danger faded out. Something like a snort of terror came from the distended nostrils, and the head faded abruptly out of sight. With the great roar that came from the racecourse multitude, Tracey knew that he had brought home his winner.

His head was whirling faintly. “Must weigh in, weigh in, weigh in!’’ he muttered grimly; but his mind grappled feebly for consciousness, and blackness rushed in upon him.

THE JUBILATION of the Flemington crowd at the popular victory was changed almost immediately to consternation which culminated in one of the most remarkable demonstrations of frenzy ever seen on a racecourse. The sensation of the finish when the strongly-coming Speedsure had baulked suddenly with a start of terror, fading out of the race, so that it was Gorton, Slumber and Lilac Time that followed the winner past the post, was succeeded by a new one when, after the numbers had been hoisted, Valais Prince was seen to be galloping back riderless to the enclosure. Nobody had seen the jockey fall; he could not be found on the course; apparently he had vanished in air!

It was then that the crowd, baulked of their win on a popular favorite, commenced to break things; but Howard Jones, collecting his winnings on the 33-to-1 shot, Gorton, hurried into a taxi, and burst into hysterical sobbing.

“My God, my God! What a day!” he said. “It’s the last bet I’ll ever have on a race; but, thank God, the long shot came off! I’m clear! The wife and kiddies are safe.”

He went straight home, full of new, clean resolve; and the voice of a newsboy shouting “Tracey mystery: Remarkable developments,” caused him to buy a paper.

“The incident which will make this year’s Melbourne Cup the most extraordinary in history,” said the report, “has had the addition of almost unbelievable developments. Those who attended Flemington this afternoon will be prepared to swear that the rider of Valais Prince was Tracey, a jockey whose face is too well known to be mistaken.

Yet Tracey, found this afternoon lying beside his wrecked car, which had crashed over a broken edge in the Homefield-road, was hurried to Melbourne Hospital suffering from concussion and internal injuries. He never recovered consciousness, and died, curiously enough, at the very moment of the finish of the Cup race. The V.R.C. stewards, who have the task of unravelling the mystery of the disappearance of a jockey whom Mr. Thrower, the owner of Valais Prince, is prepared to swear was Tracey himself, have a very curious problem to unravel.”

______________

16: Biggar in a New Suit

Bulletin, 25 Jan 1933

"YOU could get two pounds on that suit if you pawned it," Bergman said.

Biggar, who had hardly dared hope for success when he asked for credit, knew that that was the tailor's way of intimating that, though he might be good-natured, he wasn't altogether a fool.

"I'm going to pawn it for more than two quid— l'm going to raise prosperity on it!" said Biggar, with his roaring laugh. "You'll see!"

Bergman gave a quick grunt, which warned Biggar not to carry out his intention to ask for a small loan. He had to be content with emptying the largest tankard in the bar at the little tailor's expense; after which he walked half-way across the city to find Watt.

"I don't mind a drink, but don't talk about money, old chap," said Watt. "I've forgotten what it means. I haven't been able to buy myself a suit of clothes for over a year." Biggar felt there was resentment in the look he cast at the new raiment.

A little later Royston, an employer of Biggar in one of his rare intervals of regular employment, was gazing intently at the same apparel.

"You're looking prosperous," he said.

"Oh, this!" laughed Biggar. "The result of cutting out the booze, Mr. Royston!"

One of Royston's idiosyncrasies was a hatred of liquor; he had once disagreed heartily with the suggestion of Biggar that drinking aids business. He had even said that, if a drink was necessary, one might take lemonade!

Biggar, however, had use for Royston, and mentioned that he had heard a couple of men had dropped off Royston's sales staff. "You know I'm a salesman," he added.

"Don't know," mused Royston, looking at Biggar's clothes. "In these times we feel that any work that's going ought to be given to those in urgent need of it."

With a knowledge of the emptiness of the pockets in his impressively new suit, Biggar proceeded to convince Royston that he needed a job, and needed it badly. Royston was one of those benevolent men who like applicants for employment to want work badly, and be became interested.

"My wife," said Biggar, smiling sentimentally, "has always wanted me to take  a steady job—'four pounds a week, as long as it's certain,' is what she says."

"It's not four pounds certain; it's commission," said Royston sharply. "We can only pay on results nowadays."

"What expenses?"

"No expenses," said Royston decisively. "And no advance against commission."

Biggar blew in upon me later in the day, a little like a southerly buster that, has blown itself out. "I'm starting in a job to-morrow —a regular job; but I haven't a bean. You've got to let me have a dollar," he said.

"Talk sense," I told him. "I haven't got half a dollar. I'm. dead up against it. And I haven't been able to buy myself a suit of clothes for years."

Biggar exploded; which was a matter for no surprise when he told me all about it. Matters had become desperate. It was only because they were desperate that he had put it over Bergman for this suit.

"Bergman's got my other rags— the good-natured little devil promised to try to make them decent," he added; "if I'm not respectably dressed, that wowser Royston won't put me on. A job's a job, anyway, even if it's one in which you've got to tell lies about beer."

That was amusing, and I laughed; but I was astonished to see Biggar, generally so full of bluff and bluster, drop his head in his hands; and the tears came as he spoke.

"You've got to find me a few bob, old man," he said. "They're starving at home, and I can't go back without anything. I haven't made a bean for two weeks; and young Tom's fifteen bob goes at once."

All he told me, his head in his hands, the bluster usually sustaining him broken in a sense of abject failure, shocked me.

"But what about the dole?" I asked. It seemed a natural remark; I had no idea that it would give. Biggar. such offence.

"I thought you were a friend of mine," he said stiffly.

"I've tried to be," I retorted, nettled. "Dammit, the dole's there. There's tons of people taking it with less excuse than you have."

"I might have to take it," he said fiercely, "but I'll fight to the last ditch before I do !"

It seemed ridiculous in a man with the financial idiosyncrasies of Biggar; yet I realised that it was in keeping with his character. He was a man who fought for existence, hated the idea of being spoon-fed. Of course I had to do something for him; so I sought out Patton, who sometimes lends me money.

"We'll have a drink," I said to Biggar afterwards, "but you hang on to this money. It's only a few bob, and you'll need it all."

"You're a good sort," he said. "There's an idea in the dole, too, I think."

I felt a sense of satisfaction. It hadn't been fair of Biggar to fall upon me.

"That's right be sensible and take what's going," I said.

"I'm not talking about taking it," he answered; "but there ought to be some scheme of making money in it."

I faced him suddenly. "For God's sake stop your scheme!" I said. "You've got a regular job, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes; but only commission," he returned in a fashion that caused me misgiving. I had strong personal reasons for wanting to see Biggar in a job that was certain.

Biggar's buoyancy returned quickly. The sense of relief that even a few shillings gave him must have helped. Reminded by the stock on a barrow that Mrs. Biggar loved mushrooms, he proceeded, after buying some, to the purchase of rump steak, remarking that what you enjoyed did you good and what you didn't enjoy was waste.

He was at the top of his form when Ross came over to us in the hotel. The adventures of the day had taken a new effect; and the story he told, with roaring laughs, ofhow a good suit had closed the pockets of his friends and had almost cost him a potential job, caused Ross to take him to his heart.

"The job'll be worth twenty quid a week to me, I reckon"— it would not have been Biggar if he had not put that touch into it—"and yet there was I, wandering about, unable to get a bean, until I dropped in on our old friend here— and he had to borrow it!"

Ross, having thus been informed of our mutual impecuniosity, insisted upon being host; and shortly Biggar was bearing his share of the shouts, too. Only Ross's generosity could have explained that.

"Look, I must be going," Biggar exclaimed at last, "I've told you what we've been up against; I've got to take dinner home to the wife and kids."

"Let's all go!" cried Ross with the jubilation of a man who is enjoying his generosity. "We'll load up and make the evening a bean-oh! It's all on me; and I've got my car waiting."

"Great! Great!" roared Biggar.

I felt it would be mean of me to put any obstacle in the way of a feast for the Biggar family after its privations. So we made a joyous pilgrimage from stall to shop and back to the bar again, and soon the pockets of Biggar's new suit were bulging. Any parcel of Biggar's that will go into his pockets he always puts there; and fried fish, for one thing, is not good for suits, new or old, when carried like that.

"You'll be making a mess of those clothes of yours," I warned him.

"What's a suit or so in a happy world?" demanded Biggar

We burst upon an astonished Biggar family like bearers of gifts from the gods: but it struck me that Mrs. Biggar, although her welcome to her husband was the same affectionate and even worshipping thing it had always been, seemed as though affected by a feeling of terror that touched the children also.

"All our troubles are over, sweetheart," Biggar boomed. "To-night we'll eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow I've got a job."

"Oh, Tom!" exclaimed Mrs. Biggar delightedly. "Even if it's only four pounds a week!"

Mrs. Biggar's pathetid longing for a regular four pounds a week, whilst Biggar spoke in thousands, had always touched me.

"Pshaw!" said Tom. "Four pounds? If I don't make twenty pounds a week out of it I'm a Dutchman! I've got another scheme."

"Four pounds a week regularly would be splendid," said Mrs. Biggar doggedly. But she was diverted to a new ecstasy when she saw him in the light of the dining-room.

"A new suit! Oh, Tom! Doesn't he look splendid?" she said, turning to us. "I've always told him he pays for dressing; and he's so foolish to be careless about his clothes."

Tom was still laughing when there came a ring at the door. The scared atmosphere seemed to drop upon the family again.

"It's the landlord, I think; he's been here several times," whispered Mrs. Biggar.

A silence fell upon us, and through it the sharp ring sounded again.

"Don't you worry, sweetheart!" cried Biggar cheerily, and, excusing himself, strode to the door, from which came the sound of a conversation in which the voice of Biggar rose in his best mood. "Sorry I missed you.... Only just came home in my friend's car" (Ross's car was something to look at) ....

"Twenty pounds a week"....

It was in vain. Hoarse mutters came as a gloomy chorus to Biggar's rhapsodies; our conversation was made more awkward by the terror that had smitten the family.

"He's an obstinate old cow," Biggar said when he reappeared.

"He can't do anything," I said, "if you've taken—"

"I haven't," returned Biggar briefly. "Haven't had time. We've only been here three weeks."

"How much is it?" Ross asked sympathetically.

"Four pounds ten! A paltry four pounds ten!" Biggar said it bitterly, in his best manner. "If one of you chaps could let me have a cheque," he suggested hopefully, "I'd promise on my oath you'll get the money back."

My heart sank. I knew the sort of work Biggar is prepared to do with cheques. Ross, who had been going l through his pockets with a wry face, went through them again. The same performance was forced upon me, and my cheque-book flopped out of a mass of papers as if eager to betray itself— and me.

There was certainly no justification for the glad cry Mrs. Biggar gave; my bank account is not a thing to give gladness at any time. But Mrs. Biggar is one who believes there is magic in cheques. Her joy made the situation harder for me.

"Four pounds ten is the amount," said Biggar helpfully. "Make it out to B. Casper and strike out 'bearer' and cross it."

"What's the good of me giving you a cheque?" I said desperately. "I've nothing in the bank; and when it comes back—"

"Doesn't matter, old chap," said Biggar. "If it's like that all the better. It'll be up to me then. I'll fix it."

"I don't want to be asked to close my account," I said. "It's useful to me."

"I'll see you have no trouble," Biggar vowed. He saw my doubtful look. "You've never known me break my word to a friend oyer a big thing. Oh, I don't mean matters of five hob or so. Think of what it means to my family."

I was reflecting that, after all, on two occasions when Biggar had induced me to give him cheques to juggle with, by some magic they had been cleared, when Ross put in: "I'd do it like a shot if I had my cheque-book." And Mrs. Biggar said: "Oh, I'm sure he's going to do it."

It seemed to me the spellbound children were adding to her pleadings. Even if my credit in the bank was only 2s. 11d., I had to give that bit of paper. It was done with the inward hope that the landlord would reject it, saying he would rather wait another day. But he had been observing Ross's motor-car. He probably thought it was mine.

It was a happy party that night, except that that cheque was a death's-head at the feast for me. It gave me nightmare for a week, during which I was ashamed to face my bank. I expected daily the curt note asking me to close my account.

Nothing happened; yet Biggar's failure to see me still created a doubt in my mind.

Royston happened to be in the outer office when I called.

"Biggar? No, he's not here. He was to have started, but he didn't turn up," he said acidly.

My heart sank. Biggar had let slip the chance of the regular job for which his wife s heart craved.

The only thing to stop the worry was to see Biggar at his home.  He came rushing out to drag me in.

He was the bedraggled, boisterous Biggar of old, in a seedy suit that was nothing like the raiment Bergman had supplied.

"Here's the man we've got to thank!" he proclaimed. "Thank him, sweetheart! That cheque of yours and what you said about the dole..." He broke off.

The situation dazed me.

"You took my advice?" I murmured.

"Your advice be damned!" he roared laughing. "You put an idea into my head. Have a look at this."

From some piles.of booklets stacked at the side of the room he took one which he pressed into my hands. The cover bore the title: "The Dole: How to Get It and Where, How and Where to Spend It."

"You can't sell this!" I said,

He laughed his roaring laugh. "I don't want to sell it! It's all advertisements. The dole trade is a big one; there's not a shopkeeper who dared to be out of that handbook. They must be in. I'm working it in every suburb." He tossed the book lightly aside. "It'll keep the dole from the door," he said.

"Tom  always had splendid ideas," said Mrs. Biggar, with an enthusiasm which warmed my heart. "I wonder someone doesn't make him a general manager."

"Not at four pounds a week, sweetheart," laughed Biggar.

"How did you manage for money?" I gasped.

"Money? Your cheque!" Bigger leaned back on the chair and rocked with laughter. "I went to the landlord this morning after you were here, to try to get him to put money into my scheme. He was pleased with having got the cheque, and, although he said he had no money to spare, he was willing to let the rent stand until my scheme was through. So he handed the cheque back to me! And I've flashed it and got credit and borrowed on the strength of it— and I've still got it! I should have let you know, but I was so busy getting ads and fixing printing..."

"But do you mean to say that's all you did it on?" I asked

"No; there was the suit. Once, when I needed a few bob, I remembered what old Bergman said about popping it."

"You did pawn it?"

Biggar rocked with laughter once more, "I'm getting it out to-morrow. But two pounds! The pawnbroker looked at the beer stains— and all he would give was three half-dollars!"

________________

17: Glubson— Realist

Bulletin, 26 Nov 1930

Ah, Christmas-time is coming,
and the ducks are getting fat,

But who has got the money now
for luxuries like that?

We dream of sparkling vintages
and other things of cheer,

Then wake to know our Christmas fare
will be but cheese and beer.

Yet when salted by contentment
a meal of cheese is grand,

And beer is nectar for the gods,
no matter what the brand;

So let's forget in humble beer
our sorrows for a while,

And greet our anxious neighbors
with an optimistic smile.

I mentioned this to Glubson
in a philosophic vein.

"Eat cheese," I said, "drink beer, my boy,
till good times come again."

But what he said has raised in me
a pang of awful fear,

Viz., "Where the hell d'ye think we'll get
the money for the beer?"

______________

18: Disembowelled Spirits

The Bulletin, 1 Feb 1939

Mrs Parsely strikes again

"DIRECTLY that young lady told me she was a singer of negro spiritools I told her that I was full," said Mrs. Parsley with all the satisfaction of one who has saved herself much trouble. "I've had enough trouble with them spiritoolists, and I won't have any more, not for all the tea in China."

"But, Mrs. Parsley," I protested, with a picture in my mind of the astonishment the rather pleasant-ooking young woman must have felt at my landlady's refusal, "a person who sings negro spirituals is not necessarily a spiritualist."

"I don't know about that," retorted Mrs. Parsley, "but I do know that them Pontines, who was Number Four, used to open their see-aunts (they called them that, though it wasn't only aunts) with singing. And if I had known what was going to happen I wouldn't have allowed them and their see-aunts on the premises. Filling the place with their disembowelled spirits, as Mr. Slompack calls them. And nigger spirits, I expect, would be worse.

"When they came there didn't seem anything wrong with them Pontines, except her calling herself Madame, which sounds French, though her voice sounded Irish to me. I told them they might have their see-auntses in their flat as long as they didn't annoy the other tenants. Their spirits seemed to be very respectable spirits who paid their rent regularly and kept themselves to themselves, so to speak. If only they had continued like that everything would have been all right, but when they got out of hand and started wandering all over the residential terrifying tenants and even getting into bathrooms it was too much. Even Mr. Slompack said it wasn't very comfortable to think that a disembowelled spirit might walk through the wall at any moment.

"That was after Miss Harvey had screamed in the bathroom and then told us that one of them spirits had put its cold hand on her back; which what I say is that even a ghost, if there are such, should know that it isn't the right thing to behave like that. 'But, Mrs. Parsley,' says Madame, 'these man-infestations in your establishment are nothing to do with us. I admit they are queer; but Mr. Pontine and I think they must be bogeys. The spirits with which we are flavored with intercourse don't do all these silly things. They—'

" 'I don't care what you say,' I says; 'there were never any disembowelled spirits in these flats until you came. Although I don't believe in them myself, other people have seen them.

"But Madame kept on saying that them wandering disembowelled spirits didn't belong to her, and she couldn't go without notice. And what with tenants who didn't like meeting them spirits in the corridors it looked to me as if I would have the place empty before I could get rid of her.

"IT was when Miss Turner came down from the top floor one night screaming all the way and fainted in Mr. Slompack's arms that them other disembowelled spirits started. She said that the light was out, and a white figure came running all the way along the corridor without any feet to run on. It passed right through her, she said, without her feeling it. It was when she realised it had done that that she let out that scream that sounded like Gable's horn and ran down.

" 'Those see-aunts have been too much for the young lady,' is what Mr. Slompack said. 'There's been too much talk about the spirits for her. Naturally she saw ghosts.'

"That's what we all thought it must be ; but that Mrs. Killan, whose flat was right at the end of that corridor on the top floor, and who was a man-hater, said that if Miss Turner hadn't wasted her time staying out so late with her young man she wouldn't get into that state. Which she was annoyed at being wakened to know if she had seen or heard anything.

"But it was different when Mrs. Wassail screamed out next night and we found her trembling like one of them aspics. Mrs. Wassail said she had thought she heard her husband and had switched on the light, ready, I daresay, to say a few things to him for staying out so late. And there, there was no one there! It gave her such a shock that she screamed.

" 'l'm sure there was someone in the room,' she says, 'or something.'

" 'lt was something says Mrs. Humphries, which had the next flat. 'Several times last night there were taps at our window. Jack got up at least three times; but directly he reached the window there was no one there.'

"The way they was talking about it being 'something' made everyone creepy.

"Then, 'Good heavens! What is that?' cried the Major.

"It sounded as if an earthquake had started up above and was coming down stairs. We found Mr. Tumpat sitting half-way down the stairs as if he had fallen down them, and all the flat tenants up above and below had come out and was asking what had happened.

"That Mr. Tumpat was trembling like a leaf in the storm.

" 'What Miss Turner said must have been right,' he says. 'Something rushed at me and threw me down the stairs. I tried to grapple with it, but my arms closed on nothing.'

" 'But it wasq't you falling downstairs made all that noise,' said the Major, which it couldn't have been unless Mr. Tumpat, who was a little man, had been the size of two elephants.

" 'There was a terrible noise up here. I think it was in the empty flat,' says one of the tenants up stairs.

"I could scarcely believe my eyes, seeing I had left it locked, when I found the door of that vacant flat wide open ; and the way things were inside, with the furniture hoisted about and the chairs upset on the floor and the couch overturned, was terrible.

"Everybody seemed talking at once, like a regular Bethlehem let loose, and most of them was talking about ghosts.

" 'l'm afraid I will have to leave you, Mrs. Parsley,' says Mr. Humphries. 'The place is haunted. My nerves wouldn't stand living in a place where such things happen.'

"'Haunted— nonsense!' says Mr. Slompack, who had come in and come up the stairs. 'The only ghosts that exist are goats ; someone playing a practical joke. A very foolish practical joke. I would send for the police if I was you, Mrs. Parsley.'

" 'Perhaps you could explain my being pushed down the stairs by someone I couldn't see, only as a vague shadow, and couldn't grasp?' says Mr. Tumpat, who seemed to have got over being shaky.

" 'lt's that Madame Pontine and her husband. They've brought spirits to the place and some of them have got loose,' says Mrs. Humphries.

" 'Those Pontines are very respectable people,' I says. 'l'm sure they wouldn't do anything to inconvenience anybody. The spirits they have anything to do with are very quiet and respectable.'

"There was never such an upset in my residential in all my born days. It was the which-end hour before all the excitement and talk was over; and well might they call it the which-end hour when you don't know whether you are going to bed in the morning or at night. That Sergeant Carmody came along and said they would look for footprints on the furniture in the morning to see who had touched it.

"ALTHOUGH I wasn't going to admit to nobody that there were ghosts in my establishment, that opened flat door and the upset furniture worried me, because Scotty, the handyman, had the key, me having given it to him to clean oufc the place first thing in the morning ; and he had gone out.

"What happened in the place after that was terrible. Nobody else was thrown downstairs ; but now and again all the furniture in an empty flat would be turned upside down and the door left wide open. There were howls suddenly at night which made your flesh creep like the fruitful porcupine, as Shakspeare says ; doors would slam without anyone being able to find which doors they were. Even Mr. Slompack heard a tapping at the window, but couldn't find anyone there. The tenants used to gather in the corridors when one of them things happened ; most of them blamed the Pontines for having brought ghosts into the place.

" 'lt is most unfair, Mrs. Parsley,' says Mr. Pontine, almost crying. 'We are sign-terrific investures of spirituous phlegmonina, and we have nothing to do with such phlegmonina as this — which, of course, is mystrous, but seems bogeys to me. Our spirits don't do all these absurd things. Madame is very upset.'

"Well, I was upset myself, with nervous tenants giving notice and some gone already. There never was no disembowelled spirits in this place until you brought them,' I says.

"It was the way that Mr. Tumpat, him that had been thrown down the stairs, went on that annoyed me. He was as mean as any man I ever met, but when the landlord, Mr. Dyer, had died he had been going to buy the property. That was why he had come to live here. But, although they said he was as rich as a Crisis, only the smallest flat in the place would do him, Number 20, right up on the top floor ; and even then he had to beat me down for the rent. But Mrs. Dyer, poor soul, had decided not to sell the property.

" 'l'm glad I didn't buy the place after all,' says Mr. Tumpat, gloating about having saved his money.

" 'I wouldn't have the place now at a gift horse that can't look you in the mouth. I'll be leaving myself, I think, Mrs. Parsley,' he says. 'I don't like the idea of being afraid to go upstairs for fear something will try to throw me down them. People won't stay where that happens ; and the property won't be worth the paper it's written on.'

" 'You can please yourself about goin', Mr. Tumpat,' I says, sharp-like. But he didn't go, which I wished he had, for the nervy way he had of moving about the place waiting for other people to go upstairs with him, and looking about as if he expected them ghosts to spring on him, made me nervous, and other people, too.

"Somehow them newspapers had got inflammation about how those poultry gists, as the Major called the spirits, was behaving. People came and stared at the place from outside as if we'd had a murder. And there was them upsets, one way or another, every night. Scotty, the odd-jobs man, I must say, was very useful. He never said anything about having to put them flats straight again when them poultry gists had upset them, and he was about at all hours trying to catch them.

"Even Mr. Slompack, who had been so sure that ghosts was only goats, was puzzled.

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth than our foolish Sophies dream about, Mrs. Parsley,' he says. 'lt's not very comfortable to think that a disembowelled spirit might walk through the wall into your room at any moment. I'm afraid the Wassails will be leaving us.'

"'Not the Wassails!' I cried.

" 'He wants to stay ; but she says her nerves won't stand what is going on here,' says Mr. Slompack.

"MY heart went down in my boots, for when permanents like the Wassails were leaving it looked as if I was going to be paying rent for a place that soon would have no tenants in it. I was never more worried in my life. Only the Major, which nobody had ever known before that his favorite object was ghosts, seemed to be enjoying himself; and the way he talked about poultry gists and where-wolfs and all them other supper-natural phlegmonina, as he called it, only made them tenants that remained more nervous.

" 'lf I was you,' says that Mr. Tumpat, 'l'd tell Mrs. Dyer that you can't go on with the place. You'll he losing money paying rent when it's nearly empty. I had a lucky escape myself. Mrs. Dyer— she knows how things are going— wants me to buy the property at what I offered. But I wouldn't have it on my mind now,' he says.

"I didn't want no advice from that little miser; it was insulting an injury the way he boasted about having saved his money. I wished he had bought the place and lost it, which there didn't seem to be any chance of him doing now.

"Matters were going so bad that it was a shock to me to find some people at my door looking as if they wanted flats; but I've noticed that the silver lining is always before the dawn.

" 'Have you any flats vacant?' asked one of them, which I found afterwards was Mr. Furphy.

"It wasn't like I was going to tell them how many there was vacant. But it seems they was people who like ghosts. They was members of the Fistical Research Society, they told me, and they took four of them flats right away!

"But I won't allow no fists being used in my establishment, which has always been a respectable one, and never had any fighting in it but married couples, which can't be helped,' I told them. They seemed surprised at that.

" 'I didn't like to leave, in any case, because of a few absurd stories about ghosts,' said Mr. Slompack, 'but I shall certainly stay on to see the fun now.' And so did Mr. Wassail. Mrs. Wassail wasn't so nervous when those Fistical people was in the place, perhaps.

"They was more upsetting than the ghosts, them Fistical people, the way they carried out their investures. They turned the lights out and sat on the stairs at all hours to see what they could hear and see. They wandered about them corridors, and sometimes there would be a hullabaloo with all the lights turned on; but usually it was only a couple of them Fistical people who had caught one another in the darkness. They even wanted to investure them Pontines.

"It was hard to sort out the ghosts we had had from the false alarms them Fistical people made, what with the tenants who remained getting scared to death when they bumped into them. But there was no more of them where-wolfs and poultry gists. I thought myself that probably they didn't like them Fisticals being there. They made Confucius worse, confound it, as the saying goes ; but it was better having them there than the flats empty. But they seemed disappointed after a time.

"Mrs. Dyer came up to see me one day.

" 'Mrs. Parsley,' she said, 'Mr. Tumpat has been telling me that you intend to leave.'

"It took me aback.

" 'Mr. Tumpat,' I says, 'is an Ananias and a Sapphire. He is a man I don't give my diffidences to, although it is a fact that if I have my flats empty I can't pay the rent I'm paying.'

" 'But you've got some Fistical Research people staying here now,' she says.

" 'They're going soon,' I says. It seemed to cast her down in the glumps.

" 'I wish I had sold the property when my husband died,' she says. 'Mr. Tumpat wanted to buy it, but he offered such a poor price. Now he won't pay even that. He says the place will have a bad name; and I'm afraid that's right.'

"I was sorry for the way she looked worried; but I was worried myself.

"And then suddenly them ghosts started again. There was noises all over the house, and women screaming out and men shouting; and doors banged and them where-wolf howls was heard. It all happened sudden, beginning before one could say Jack Robinson, if anybody wanted to say anything so foolish, just as if one of them spittoons which do such havoc on them islands had hit the place.

"Them Fistical Research people, who had lost interest and started going to sleep like ordinary Christians, peered out into the passages. We found two empty flats with the doors wide open and the furniture all upset; and people in several flats, all trembling, was talking about something having been in them flats but had vanished when they called out and put the light on.

"Them Fistical people were so pleased that they all said they were going to stay on. I had never thought I would like to have ghosts in the house; but I feel that I had them ghosts to thank for the place not becoming empty. Mrs. Dyer, in spite of her looking very anxious, was pleased, too. 'I had been thinking of making Mr. Tumpat another offer, ' she says, 'but I won't now. Perhaps matters will come all right.'

"There didn't seem much to be cheerful about because them Fistical people wasn't likely to stay for ever, and even the Pontines had said they might be going ; but somehow I felt more cheerful; and when that Mr. Tumpat came to me to say that Scotty had been insolent and I ought to sack him I told him straight that I would do no such thing. As a matter of fact I had heard them quarrelling, and I was glad the way Scotty told him off.

"Them Fistical people was all busy again at night, but there was no more poultry gists, though there was that there where-wolf howling somewhere, and mysterious tapping at windows. Matters seemed to be going on in the even tendon of their ways, as the Bible says, and I was just going to seek the arms of Morphy, as Mr. Slompack calls going to sleep, when a reg'lar pander-pneumonia broke out upstairs. I went up as soon as I could get a wrap on. The corridor at the top of the house was full of people.

" 'We've caught your ghosts, Mrs. Parsley,' someone said. "Look who we've got here!'

"Several of them Fistical men were around Scotty, the odd-jobs man. Of all the blunders that never cease!

" 'We found this young man in the roof, Mrs. Parsley,' says one of the Fistical men. 'He was letting down weights at the end of cords to tap against windows. He admits—'

" 'Oh, I'm making a clean break ; I'll sign a statement if you like,' says Scotty. 'I was the ghosts. I'd got dooplicate keys for all the flats, and I could get in and upset the furniture and then make a noise like an earthquake, which was all them poultry gists of the Major's amounted to. I could step into people's flats in the dark and give them a scare, and then get out before the lights were on ; and I made those howls when people were not looking.'

" 'But, Scotty,' I says, 'why?' 'Mrs. Parsley, he says, 'I didn't want to do you no harm. It was that Tumpat. 'E offered me fifty quid. It was after them Pontines 'ad come 'ere and Mrs. Turner had given 'erself the fright when she saw someone sprinting along the corridor in 'is pyjamas. Mr. Tumpat was sore about not being able to buy this property at the price 'e wanted to pay, and 'e thought 'e could put it over Mrs. Dyer. 'E reckoned if the place got a reputation for being aunted it d lose its value, and 'e'd get it even cheaper.' The door of Number 28 opened, and there was Mr. Tumpat. 'He lies! He lies!' he screamed. But someone says 'Come back here!' and he went back with a jerk and the door closed. It was the most surprising thing ever ; but I 'ad to listen to Scotty talking.

" 'E doesn't like me giving the show away. 'E offered me fifty quid to 'elp, and— well, I wanted that fifty quid. Of course, Tumpat started the ball by faking that being thrown down the stairs. But when these Fistical Research people came 'ere, Mrs. Dyer got a bit of 'eart just when 'e thought 'e'd got 'er down to a lower price. Tumpat was disappointed; and 'e did the dirty on me over the money. So I got even by letting them ghosts go again to keep these people on just when they were going to leave. We 'ad a row about it. 'E came up to-night to get me to stop, saying 'e'd give me the money, when these blokes copped us.'

" 'That Mr. Trumpat!' I cries. 'l'll ghost him! What's he doing in Number 28? I'll—'.

"But there was Mr. Slompack, and he took me by the elbow.

" 'Mr. Tumpat is being looked after, Mrs. Parsley; he's not enjoying himself,' he says in a whisper. 'lt seems that the ghost Miss Turner saw that night was Mr. Tumpat getting back in his pyjamas to his own room. When Miss Turner stumbled on the stairs they thought it was Mrs. Killan's husband—'

" 'Mrs. Killan! But she's a man-hater!' I cried.

" 'So she says,' says Mr. Slompack drily. 'Anyway it seems that Mr. Furphy isn't only a Fistical Researcher ; he's a private detective, and he was here on behalf of that poor chap Killan. They're all in the flat there now, Killan included, and they're getting confessions from Tumpat and Mrs. Killan.

" 'You don't need to worry, Mrs. Parsley. The mean swine tried to steal a couple of thousand from Mrs. Dyer by getting her property cheaply; but it's going to cost him a pretty penny.'

"And so it did,'' said Mrs. Parsley, remembering suddenly that she had my room to do.

In the act of wielding her duster with an energy intended to atone for lost time, Mrs. Parsley had an afterthought.

"It was queer the excuse that Mr. Pontine made for them leaving," she said. "He said that they thought them man-infestations were not really explained, and Madame Pontine had always been very nervous of ghosts."

___________

19: Cutting a Long Story Short

The Bulletin, 26 Oct 1916

"WELL, to cut a long story short," said Snigsby, "they both got married."

"Who got married?" I asked, for the mixed reminiscences of the doings of many people left me in doubt as to the hero and heroine of his narrative.

Snigsby had been the keeper of lodgings for years, though his wife did most of the keeping; and, having very little except time to spend, but plenty of that, he was very discursive in detail. Likewise, he was a man who hated to be brought too suddenly to a point, so he began the whole narrative over again.

"There was this young feller I was talking about with the queer notions, ad the girl that was supposed to be married to him I was telling you of, and the actor-chap I mentioned. You heard me telling you of them, didn't you? Well, they got married."

"Have it your own way," I said: "but I thought you were telling me mainly about the young woman who used to wait at the top of the stairs for the young fellow while her husband was sleeping off the drink. Was it they who got married?"

Snigsby looked at me in a resigned sort of way."

"This young feller," he said—"this young feller he comes to the house and says to me one day, 'Have you got a room?' 'Well, what d yer think we have got?' I says. 'We dont sell oysters.' 'That's the sort of answer I like to get,'  he says with a laugh, 'Let's see your best— a double.' Well, he takes the best double, and after him shakin' hands that way I made sure I got the money in advance.  I'm suspicious of them, sort of thing.

"The girl arrives with him half an hour later, and a fine pair they was. She does what cooking they do on the balcony, and keep mostly to themselves an' there's nothing to complain about; but the missus says to me one night— you know what women are!— 'Them people ain't married,' she says; and she keeps worrying me about it, as if it mattered to me as long as they were respectable.

"They weren't neither, an' he didn't make no bones about it. He didn't believe in marriage, he didn't, and he said so. Like a lot of young fellers he was proud of gettin' up against other people's ideas. A bit raw he was, like a lot of youngsters who kid themselves a lot of things before they've been grilled on the fire of life, which sometimes overdoes 'em.

"Well, because I like the two of them, and partly because of what the wife says about their not being married, I takes a friendly interest in them. The wife likes them,. too, an' when, after she's been worryin' me, I says, 'All right, I'll tell 'em we want the room,' she says, 'No; but I wish to speak to the priest about them. So they went on living in sin at our house, and enjoym it. And, to cut a ong story short, I think they got as much outer it as if they d been married.

"But, though that was all right for a few weeks, it didn't last long. After a time I got wise that the girl wasn't as happy as she seemed to be. It wasn't that I listened at the door," he explained with a defiant look, "but I heard a. good deal of what they had to say. Picked it up, as you might say.

"Everything would be going merry and bright, an' you'd think they was Adam and Eve living in Eden with only one chair worth sitting on in it, when she'd say, strokin' his hair most like, 'Don't you think it'd be better if we got married?' and he'd just laugh an' say, 'I couldn't love you any more if we did !' But once started she'd keep on. 'Supposing there was a baby,' she'd say, an' he'd laugh and say it'd make no difference; fifty marriages couldn't make it more their baby. In the morning, when she went about the house after he'd gone there was a troubled sort of look at the back of her eyes.

"After a time the way she kept coming back to the same old point got to irritating him, as you know that sort of thing does, Instead of answering in a lover-like way he'd get impatient and say: 'lf I did a thing that I don't believe in, it'd be the end of love between, us'; or, 'Again! I tell you I don't believe in marriage!' Later on she'd flare back sometimes, and say he was conceited with his ideas, and he'd learn sense when he was older. Generally they'd make it up; but once he left the room so quick that he nearly fell over me. I was only fixing up the oilcloth.

"A couple of days later he got in a temper and went out of the house for ever; but he was back in half an hour with some stout and oysters to dry her tears. By this time things weren't working at all smooth. In general they was just as much in love with one another as ever; but, to cut it short, her nag about marriage was wearing on him, and the things a man says when he's angry were hurting her. I'm not blaming her. mind you; a woman naturally feels that her position's insecure when she ain't married, and she just goes on making it insecure or hopeless because of her anxiety.

"There was this actor-chap staying in the house, and he took an interest in the pair. He was a lonely sort of chap, who, though he was grey at the sides of his hair, was still youngish. He used to bring home supper, and have it with ns in the kitchen sometimes, and then he'd say, 'That poor little lady upstairs! She'll lose that husband of hers if she's not careful. He's young and restless.' Or something like that.

"One night, when he's a bit potty, the actor-chap stays with me after the wife's gone to bed, and gets some more beer.

" 'My wife—' he begins suddenly, and stops. Then he gets up in a restless sort of way as if he's going off to bed; then he comes back, sits on the table and helps himself to another glass.

" 'Didn't know you were married,' I says.

" 'Neither I was,' he said, the beer making him confidential. 'But the little girl who should have been my wife'

"He stopped, and when I said, as a sort of lead for him to go on, 'Your wife?' he just says:

" 'She's married. Good night. I'll take one of those bottles upstairs with me.' And upstairs he goes.

"That puts me wonderin'. The actor-chap is on the burst nearly all next day, and he scares the girl when, meeting her on the stairs, he squeezes her hand, and keeps holding it while he tells her that if ever he can do anything for her he'll do it. That night I bought some beer, an' after the wife had gone to bed I told him that another glass might pull him together,

" 'Last night I told you— something,' he says. 'That little lady upstairs reminds me of my own little girl. We never thought of getting married— at least I never thought of it; it didn't seem to matter, anyway, as long as we cared about one another. There always seemed to me something sordid about the marriage business, just as— ' He stopped there, because, of course, even if we knew otherwise, the people upstairs were supposed to be married.

" 'I went on a tour,' he says, 'and had to leave her, because she wasn't engaged by the show, and me own salary wasn't too good; and one of the first letters I get contains news, and she says I must marry her and do it right off. Well, I was willing if it would make her more comfortable, so I wrote saying I'd marry her when we got back. The tour was supposed to be tour weeks, but it lasted six, and then we went to Melbourne. I wrote saying she had no need to come down, as I was finishing after the first piece; but again I was kept on, in an indefinite sort of way.'

" 'Damn it!' he says, and drinks a full glass off and walks away restlessly, and comes back and fills another glass.

" 'lt was my fault. Moving from town to town, I forgot to write often, and all that. When I got to Sydney I found my little girl married.

"'I knew about it before. She wrote me saying that she had been waiting and waiting, and was quite satisfied that, being away, I had forgotten her. She had written to me in Auckland, asking me-finally if I was the same (the letter followed me all over the place, and reached me later) and then she had married— for the sake of the child.

" 'She told me when I met her— I had felt like killing her, but I got over that— that she would always love me, but she asked me if I loved her to make things easier for her, and let her alone. And it's my child! That's where— Good-night!' he says suddenly.

"Next day, fancying he may have offended her, he apologises to the girl upstairs, and after that they get quite friendly; and once or twice they have walks together. Her young feller he gets flashes of rage when he hears of it. Well, to cut it short, there's the situation, those two quarrelling every night, and the actor-chap getting as friendly as can be.

"One night there's a worse row than ever. The young chap goes out furious, but comes back after a time and finds the girl talking to the actor-chap at the top of the stairs.

" 'Hullo!' he says to the actor-chap in a fighting sort of way.

" 'I had just come in,' said the actor-chap quietly, 'and Mrs. Brian had asked me if I'd seen you.'

"Well, he couldn't say anything after that; but afterwards the two were wrangling for an hour, and I heard him say that he'd come back then, but it was the last time he'd stand any nonsense on the marriage business.

"Next day the girl looks pretty doleful; and the actor-chap, meeting her, gets her, after a lot of-persuadin', to go to a matinée to cheer her up. The young feller is in by the time they reach home, and for a moment I thought there was going to be a row. But the actor-chap carries it off well, and there was nothin' doin' till the two were in their room.

" 'Well, why don't you marry me?' says the girl.

"He was in a flame in a minute, and shot out of the house. And he didn't come back, neither.

"So, to finish up," said Snigsby, "they got married."

"What!" I said. "The girl and the actor? And what became—"

"I'm telling you," said Snigsby, ponderously. "The next afternoon young Brian passes the girl standing in the street near a marriage-shop close to where he works. He was going to pass without noticing her, but he turned back.

" 'What are you doing, here?' he demanded, harshly.

" 'l'm going to be married,' she said, with a sort of defiance.

" 'What?'

" 'What right have you to object? You won't marry me yourself!'

He seemed staggered and went pale.

"Come on," he said suddenly, taking her by the hand and moving towards the marriage-shop.

" 'What do you mean?' she says.

" 'Will you? With me?' he says.

"When it was over they came out, but Brian didn't seem too happy.

" 'I didn't think you thought anything of that actor-fellow,' he said glumly.

" 'Neither I do,' she said.

"He seemed more pleased, but not entirely glad.

" 'But you came here to marry him,' he said.

" 'I didn't,' she answered. 'I came here because I thought I was bound to meet you. I came to marry you. Oh, Jack!' You know how a woman can say that!

"Well, he kissed her there, in the street. When they came home that night he had some champagne and cakes with him, and he brought some down for us to share with them— said they were keeping up a sort of birthday.

"When the actor-chap came home after the show I told him. He didn't waste time: he goes out and gets some beer just as the pubs were closing, and keeps me up, laughing and singing, till morning. I never see a man so happy in my life."

______________

20: The Fakir

The Australian Woman's Mirror 28 April 1925

This magazine was a short-lived companion women's magazine published by The Bulletin

THE bush road was full of holes and bends, and here and there stumps not yet de-rooted, and Farmer was so busy keeping his car on the road that he paid little attention to the figure by the wayside.

Only he noticed in passing that the figure was strange and unusual. This tall, dark man was altogether different from the usual types of color. His figure, under his ill-fitting clothes of black alpaca gave an impression of strength and litheness; his features were strong and remarkably well developed, entirely different from the ordinary Hindu type. Something negroid possibly, but more definitely inclining to Arab characteristics.

More unusual than his appearance was the intense, louring stare of his black eyes, rivetted in a fixed way on the occupants of the car as it swept by. .

Suddenly Farmer noticed that his wife was shivering. The day was warm, there was no breeze, and the somnolent air fell warmly on their faces.

"What's the matter, Nell?" he asked, quickly.

"That black man!—did you see how he stared at me?" she exclaimed. "He has turned back and is following us now."

"Why? Did you look round?" he asked.

"No; but I know. I don't know how," she said. "Oh, Jack, drive on— quickly, please!"

He had slowed down to take a look back, and about two hundred yards behind them a break in some bushes that edged the road showed the man following.

"He's a queer-looking bird, certainly," he said, sending the car forward at a rather faster speed. "But there is no reason why you should be upset by a queer-looking nigger."

"It was the way he looked at me," she said, her voice sounding in a frightened whisper. "It made me think that I had seen him before. I seemed to see a lot of things— pictures of places I couldn't possibly have seen ever; and yet I seemed to know them quite well, and they made me afraid."

She shivered again.

"Queer," he commented. "It must be the heat. Try not to think of them."

"It's silly, of course," she said, with a queer, unmirthful laugh.

When they reached the Thompson's, Mrs. Thompson remarked that Mrs. Farmer looked ill, and took her into the shade of the open-air sitting-room, on to which the broad verandah opened at the back of the house.

Leaving the two women talking, Thompson drew Farmer inside to sample some whisky and to show him some curios recently added to his collection. A sudden staccato exclamation by Mrs. Thompson alarmed Farmer.

"Nellie! Nellie! What's the matter with you?" she cried.

Farmer was by his wife's side in a second. A look of terror was frozen on her face, and her eyes seemed to be staring at the opposite wall. They turned to his face with a piteous appeal as his arm fell reassuringly on her shoulder.

"Jack— that black man!" she cried. "He has passed this house and stopped near it."

The thing was uncanny. Farmer walked to the side of the house, and there, sure enough, was the man, squatting down at the side of the road. How could his wife know that he was there?

"It's very queer," he said returning and telling Thompson of the incident. "Must be some mesmeric influence. But, as I say, she is silly to let a thing like that upset her."

"But I have such an awful sensation of dread," said Mrs. Farmer. "Of course, it's impossible, but I can't escape a sense of having met that man before, and hated and feared him. And I seem to see—"

"I'm going to send him away," said Farmer, quickly, and strode out.

He came back with an uncomfortable feeling of puzzlement and dread. The black man had risen to meet him with a curiously dignified bow. His suavity when Farmer had addressed him in the rough terms he thought suitable for a black nonplussed the white man.

"What you bin do alonga here? What for you hang-about?" he had demanded.

"I am but a traveller through this country," said the black, in excellent, well-modulated English, and with easy politeness which made Farmer feel in the wrong.

"Well, you can't hang about here or you'll get into trouble," said Farmer gruffly; and then added, almost apologetically, in explanation: "My wife is in delicate health; seeing you seems to have upset her; and as I'm not going to have her upset I'll send for the police unless you move on.

"I do no harm," said the black, calmly. "I am going."

Farmer has a sense of being beaten when he returned to find his wife somewhat recovered.

"You want to run Nell down to the coast," said Mrs. Thompson. "She needs a change. A little incident like this wouldn t have this effect if her health was what it should be."

"If the change will do her good," Farmer promised, "I'll borrow my brothers house at Lane Cove, and we'll stay in town."

"Oh, Jack, thank you," cried Nell, with a fervor which surprised him. "I feel as though I'm in danger here— I don't know why, but still there is the feeling. Take me away at once."

"Oh, a couple of days won't matter," he answered. "Besides we've got to think of the trains."

He rang up the police station, and asked Sergeant Doolan, who had the legal destinies of the district in his charge, to keep an eye on a black man who was wandering in the neighborhood, and who, he said, was probably a prohibited immigrant somehow smuggled into the country.

"The man is all right," Sergeant Doolan told him that night. "He has passports and papers which show he is a qualified visitor. He's a man of education; and he has money. A queer bird, but no harm in him, I think. However, he will be watched."

Some apprehension made Farmer curse as he hung up the receiver. The feeling of uncanniness about the presence of the black came back to him.

It was in the middle of the night that he was awakened by a sense of emptiness in the bed beside him. With a start he sat up; and in the darkness caught the gleam of his wife's white-robed figure moving towards the verandah door. Springing from the bed, he flung his arms about her, but she struggled.

"They want me in the temple, and the High Priest is waiting for me," she said, urgently. "The people are all there—"

It sounded like madness.

"Nonsense, Nell. You're talking nonsense!" Farmer cried, shaking her. Suddenly she was clinging to him as if in terror, and crying:

"Oh, Jack, Jack, it is you. Oh, I am so glad—so glad! I seemed to see a big awful building, all dark, cut in the rock it seemed; and all around were black people, and strange houses, and in the distance tall mountains and the forest."

Farmer soothed her.

"Back to bed, Nell darling," he said, and she went obediently. "I'm going to have a look round."

Swiftly and silently he strode to the door, towards which she had been making, and went out. Suddenly in the darkness he felt arms twined softly about him.

"Be silent! Move as I guide you!" said a voice whose easy modulation he recognised.

The fact that the grip upon him was light gave Farmer an advantage. He visioned immediately that the waiting black had been expecting an unresisting woman, in a mesmeric condition, and felt a profound thankfulness that he had wakened. But he had little time for thought. A quick lurch forward, and they fell, and he could feel the wiry muscles springing with resolve below him. They rolled over, and Farmer felt his strength as but puny against that of a mighty opponent. A hand crept upward, in spite of his resistance, towards his throat. He knew that once those powerful fingers fastened the life would be shaken from him in a few minutes.

He heard his wife's scream and the startled shouts of men who, roused by the sounds of a struggle, were making towards him. There were calls for lights, but the light was long in coming.

Farmer's mind worked quickly. Uppermost for a moment he gave way, letting the powerful opponent swing over on top of him; but before the impetus of that movement had stopped, he swung with all his strength. He heard the dull thud as the black's head collided with the heavy tub which held a palm, and his opponent's resistance became suddenly limp.

Then came lights and help. The black lay unconscious, blood on his head, breathing heavily. With the aid of Sam Giles Farmer tied him up as securely as he could, and together they carried the captive to an outshed, where they lay him on the ground and left him, padlocking the door.

"No chance of him getting out of those ropes," Farmer remarked.

"He's a Houdini if he does," grinned Sam.

"Well, ride in and bring Sergeant Doolan out," commanded Farmer. "I'll have to go and calm my wife. Better bring the doctor when you come, too."

Mrs. Farmer was hysterical, and she continued to talk deliriously about strange forests and temples and black faces till suddenly calmness returned to her and she fell unexpectedly asleep.

A little later Sergeant Doolan, the doctor and Sam arrived, and Farmer led them towards the outshed, flashing his torch ahead.

The torch light fell suddenly on the gaping darkness where the door, now swinging half off its hinges, should have been. Within they found the ropes in a tangle, burst apart in several strands, lying on the ground. Fear stabbed Farmer in the heart.

"By the living God!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what all this means, but I'm taking Nell to Sydney to-morrow!"

In Sydney Nell seemed to forget the strain and upset that had come so strangely ; and then came the arrival of her cousin, Patrick Clausen, an elderly man, much travelled, and scientific in his tastes. The episode of the strange black had seemingly been forgotten, although Farmer had heard from Sergeant Doolan that the escapee had not yet been captured.

They were sitting one evening in the comfortable sitting room of the Lane Cove house, when suddenly Farmer heard his wife exclaim, and looking at her saw her white and trembling.

"Jack!" she cried. "He has come again! He is somewhere here!"

It was something Farmer had been expecting, much as he tried to laugh at his fears. A stride took him to a drawer, and a revolver gleamed in his hand; then he threw open a door, and stared into the moon-flooded garden which ran down to the gleaming water.

"He must be in the front! Come on Patrick!"

"What the—" began Patrick, but followed as Farmer rushed away.

Their search was fruitless—but when they returned the room was empty.

Farmer dashed to the window; and, far down, shadowed against the moon-gleam on the water, he saw two figures— one of them his wife, the other the black. With a shout he leapt out, his feet padding madly down the garden, with Clausen pounding windily behind him. As he reached the water's edge he saw his wife in a boat which the black was pushing from the shore. The black straightened himself to meet his rush, and the world swam round Farmer as a blow struck him on his forehead.

When his senses returned Clausen was beside him pointing excitedly first to a boat drifting well out from the shore, with his wife apparently in a state of trance as its one occupant, and then to a figure that leapt along the water's edge making for a point which jutted out lower down.

Frenziedly Farmer, with Clausen to help, burst the locks of the boat-shed and rushed the boat into the water, and the two sprang aboard and sculled desperately.

"Look!" cried Patrick, excitedly, "that fellow has dived into the water, and is swimming to the boat! And— good God! that ferry will cut her down!"

With its lights gleaming on the water the ferry came sweeping round a bend; but the drifting boat had been seen, and with a clang of bells the steamer twisted to avoid the collision. As the boat still rocked in the whirling waters Farmer and Clausen reached it, and Farmer dragged into his own boat a woman who woke from a dream to burst into an hysteria of terrified sobs.

Clausen rowed for the wharf which the ferry had reached, and as Farmer, thinkking of his wife, hurried her home, Clausen was attracted by a group on the jetty. In the centre was the dripping, mangled body of a black man, who still breathed, though gaspingly.

"This man was in the water, and as the ferry tried to avoid colliding with a skiff it ran him down," someone explained.

And then the black man spoke.

"A hundred years ago " he said, "she was stolen from our temple, and the curse was upon me who let her escape. I have searched and found— but failed! It was not ordained; but when I live again, again the search must be made."

"It is altogether curious—unexplainable," said Clausen some time afterwards, "but this may give some explanation for us to guess at: My ancestor and yours, Nell, John Cope, was a soldier of fortune and an explorer. Somewhere south of Abyssinia he ventured once in search of gold and ivory and he came upon a strange city in which there was a temple with a white girl, who in some way had become deified. He helped her to escape and married her.

"And now, four generations later, comes a black man who recognises in you your great-grandmother who, by his own age, he could never have seen; and you, when he was near, got queer fancies of places you have never seen!"

"Mysterious!" exclaimed Farmer.

"Yet, perhaps, only the mystery of the hallucination of a black gifted with high mesmeric power," said Clausen. "Who can say?"

___________

21: The Climax

Bulletin, 6 April 1916

"CAN YOU imagine anything grander!" said Singleton Sinclair, elevating his all-but-emptied mug of beer. But it wasn't the beer he meant. He had been talking about the manner in which an actor and actress whose names were strangely unfamiliar to me had made their end.

"I was with them at that pe-ri-od," said Singleton, uttering a sigh as he replaced the emptied mug on the counter. "It was a pe-ri-od of de-pression, when even the highest ar-tists could not get pay-able houses. The reserved seats were empa-ty, the people who should be in the stalls were in the gods, and the gods, whose loud ap-proval is a de-sidera-tum, were dead in conse-quence. Audrey Clark, with all her emo-tion, could not move them to tears, nor could Hor-atio Margson rouse their en-thusiasm. Artists both— such ar-tists as one ne-ver sees in these days— yet their season was a frost!

"I know it is my turn, gentlemen," said Singleton, in parenthesis, "but, as yet, treasury—  Shall we move on?"

In spite of a stagey protest from Sinclair, Josephs called for the drinks.

"It was not this stuff with Margson," said Singleton, affectionately gripping the mug-handle. "With him it was wine— the best, and nothing but the best. How he did spend money!"

"Sometimes quite three-and-sixpence in a night," murmured Josephs.

Singleton Sinclair deliberately replaced his beer on the bar.

"Sir! I will not derrink the beer you have bought if in that way you in-sult the me -ory of a greater act-or than you have ev met!"

He walked heavily to the bar-door, R.U.E., and paused there to make his exit speech; but Josephs' "Oh, only my joke!" brought him back to his liquor.

"Such a joke is sing-ularly ill-timed in re-gard to one of the world's greatest genius-es with whom I— I— was assoc-iated! However—"

He made a gesture of forgiveness with the mug that journeyed upwards.

"They were both ex-travagant," he continued on his original theme, "and their fail-ure brought them face to face with ru-in; hone-less, mis-er-able bankruptcy. It meant the end of their splendid career, their love-dream, their art-istic ac-hievement! See how they faced it—ma-king their end as glo-rious as their lives had been! For a fare-well per-formance they announced 'Romeo and Juliet'—and it drew! Yes, sir, at the end it drew! It was a packed house, and the play went well; but did that cheer-ing crowd know what real tragedy they had been called to-gether to see?"

During an impressive pause he paid attention to his drink.

"They had planned it sup-erbly! The last act was altered so that Juliet awakened while Romeo was in his death-throes, seized him in her arms, and poisoned herself! Romeo struggles to his feet, there is a final embrace, and then, in each other's arms, they fall on the bier— dead! Curtain! The house ate it, gentle-men, ate it! Three times did the curtain rise: and then the strange thing that the players did not rise to take the call, but lay still, in each other's arms, with-out ev-en a sigh, struck someone. People rushed on to the stage! They found that the great artists were dead; and in no time the whole house, as. shocked and si-lenced, it went into the street, knew, as if by instinct. of the ger-reat trag-edy it had wit-nessed !"

He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, but it was not to wipe his eyes.

"Was it not a ger-rand climax?" he asked. "Well, gentlemen?"

This last inquiry was not in regard to his story, but our intentions; and, there being no more beer in sight, we went outside, where Singleton Sinclair left us.

Josephs and I walked on.

"I've no doubt the old beggar by this time believes the yarn as he tells it," Josephs said— "he's told it that way so often. A lie looks more truthful than the truth if it's only repeated often enough. But, as it happens, I was a boy at the time and I had a job in connection with the show when Margson and Clark arrived at Newcastle.

"They were pretty well on their uppers then, mainly because they thought they were a darn sight better artists than they really were, and played unsuitable stuff. They lobbed into Newcastle with a desperate hope of making a rise, and the hope was about the most blasted thing in a droughty continent by the time they'd finished.

"On account of their phenomenal success they extended their season from time to time— which means that they couldn't get away. They were an awful frost; but still, by hard work, they managed to hang on until they seemed to owe everybody in Newcastle money.

"The orchestra went on strike pretty early, and they filled up from time to time with local amateur musicians until they also got tired and went on strike. Sometimes there were bailiffs in the box-office, but nobody ever got much out of that. There were furniture people, carters, newspaper collectors, bill-posters, boardinghouse-keepers and all sorts of people waiting about the stage-door day and night to get the usual promises.

"Well, they announced the final performance when the worst came to the worst; that is when the actors said they must have money. 'Romeo and Juliet' was the bill— fancy heaving stuff like that at Newcastle! But somehow there was a big audience this night. Some people came to see the last of a long-season show, others out of sympathy, no doubt; but most came because it was in the wind that things were likely to be lively. Consequence was there was a crowd down at a quarter past seven; and by a quarter to eight, when he reckoned it was time enough to begin handling the money, the usual bailiff arrived to take charge of the ticket office, and he found a whole lot of  coin already collected, he was fenced off till after eight, and when he got in he found only a few bob in the box. The management had the rest.

"I had a busy time that night. Margson, who had been in the ticket-box with a cap over his eyes and an opera-cloak pulled up around Ins chin, came dashing round after eight o'clock to make up and to square with the orchestra, who had been refusing to go in until some screw was forthcoming. Margson handed her out five bob and pushed her into the orchestra well, promising to see her afterwards. Then about a hundred people with bills, who 'must see Mr. Margson' worried me. Margson sent them out passes and a message that he would see them during the intervals. Then Sinclair, who was doubling Tybalt and Capulet, refused to make up till he got some cash."

"What! Singleton?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, the same enthusiastic Singleton," said Josephs. "I don't know how Margson squared with him; but I do know that several times he sent me out for beer. The first time I came back with the bottles Margson was running about excitedly. 'Where's the Nurse? Where's Miss Joynton?' he asks. So he sends me down to the lady's hotel.

"Well, Miss Joynton's not at the hotel of course. The landlord is as black as thunder, and just on the point of coming down to the theatre. Miss Joynton has left for Sydney, telling him that he'll have to see Margson about the bill.

"Of course, it was a rocky performance (and no Nurse at all), but the audience enjoyed itself in its own rather ribald way. So when Margson, as Romeo, in the balcony scene, says "It is the moon," someone in the gods speaks up: "Bad night for flitting, old man!" And the orchestra insisted on collecting another half-crown in the second interval.

"But that was only a circumstance to what was happening behind. All the show, at one time and another, was on strike, and entrances were held up while players demanded cash. Most of them got a few bob and the usual promise, though one of 'em, who was on his last entrance and didn't matter much, got a punch on the nose.

"Round the stage door was where the excitement was greatest. Half a dozen of his creditors sitting in the theatre would bolt out every time Margson left the stage and dash round to see that he wasn't leaving for good. There were threats going about that if cash wasn't obtainable from Margson they would get satisfaction somehow or another. Some of them, at one time, actually tried to smash down the stage door; but the police came round and interfered.

"I tell you, under all the circumstances I felt sorry for Margson, and did my best for him. I wondered how he'd get through.

"Singleton told you how they faked the last act; and what he says is practically correct. They did act in that scene— the pair of them. I didn't think they had it in them! When it impressed a derisive house it must have been good; and when they fell together the house really did applaud.

"But on the recall. Chapman— a smooger on the management, whoever he was with— rushed on to the stage, shook Margson and Miss Clark without seeming able to disturb them, and then, stooping, picked up a bottle.

" 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he shouted; and the people stopped on their way out. 'Mr. Margson and Miss Clark have taken poison!' He held up the bottle. 'ls there a doctor in the house?'

"Of course it made a big sensation. Most of the people got away from the tragedy as quickly as they could, but a lot stood gaping at the stage to see what would happen next. A doctor jumped upon the stage, and a little group gathered round the players, who were still lying where thev had fallen, writhing a little. I was sent for a cab, and I had to  make my way through a crush of creditors at the door by shouting. 'Look out! Margson's committed suicide!'

"When I got back people were carrying the suicides off towards the door, and the theatricals who had been waiting to pounce on Margson fell back. So did the creditors outside, a policeman assisting to make them and we got the pair into the cab, which drove off.

"In the morning the truth was known; but by that time Margson and Miss Clark were well on their way to Sydney, where they were just in time to catch the American boat. A lot of people were sore with the landlord of their hotel, who was the only one that was paid and had no doubt helped them; some declared that the police had assisted the trick— which they may have done to save a riot.

"But the worst hit was Chapman, who, having put the fake through for them and been in their confidence, was fobbed off with a tale that they didn't mean to leave for at least a day, and got left."

"What about Singleton?" I asked.

"Oh, him!" said Josephs. "His description of Margson at that time, was a triumph in dramatic denunciation."

________________

22: The Confession

The Bulletin, 1 Feb 1917

"A WOMAN knows she's a woman long before she is one, really. After that, especially if she marries, she gets over it a lot. That's what makes flappers so aggressive. Their very shyness flings the fact that they're women at a cove who might not otherwise have thought of it."

The Smoodger is a man of vague morality, but mighty in human philosophy. Still, he never throws away the pearls of his wisdom unless he is stirred by the sight of someone whose story he has studied. So I waited, while he consumed half his mug of beer.

"There was a man in here a while ago," he said, wiping his moustache with the side of his coat, because he hates stains on his sleeve, "who married a girl I've known all me life. There was nothing wrong with her when she was a flapper except that she was one; and that led to the trouble. She picked up with a young feller called Allen, and started going out with him. I don't blame her; I blame her people. A girl, when she's only a flapper, wants looking after, I don't care who she is. She's got no real idea of what's what, and's likely to get carried away by what she thinks are romantic and sentimental ideas, which aren't; and, besides, she knows she's a woman.

"If it hadn't been that, there'd have been no harm. Allen wasn't a bad young feller, and he liked the girl. She was a handsome little piece, with a taking manner about her. But that flapperism of hers was a direct challenge to his masculine instincts: it's the sort of thing that merely amuses a man who is grown up, but to a youngster who tries hard to think that he is grown up it is different. Allen turned himself into a Don Juan merely because he thought that the girl would despise him as a mere boy if he didn't. She quarrelled with him at first, but she didn't avoid meeting him when he showed he was not to be choked off.

"Her parents had no sense about the way they looked after the girl. But I'll say this for them: when they found out things they hadn't any of the usual foolishness that some people have about insisting on a marriage. Of course, the thing was impossible; although Allen was willing to do the square thing— if the marrying of two people who didn't know their own minds and had nothing to live on is the square thing. May's father merely expressed his intention of killing Allen, and chased him off. And May, who, no doubt, felt she had a romance, with a broken heart and so on, cried a lot and sobered up, becoming a nice, quiet girl who swore she'd never marry— until she met Bill Jones.

"She married Bill. People think they're in love when they marry; they find out afterwards if they are or are not— sometimes a long time after. Bill and May got on like most married people who have hitched up with the in-love-with-one-another idea. They made plans about the little home of their own they were going to build and live like lovers in; postponed them to meet the expenses of the new baby; and renewed them after the baby arrived. And then they settled down to forget their dream and take life just as they found it.

"Then Allen came back. He'd been away to the Boer war, and stayed in South Africa, where he had all the experience that was good for him. The old incident had been forgotten, and even May showed no sign of remembering it. Anyway, Bill knew nothing of it, and made Allen one of his pals. As Bill didn't mind how often lie saw his pals at his house, that was good for Allen. And May, who had known him when he was a boy, and, as I said, had got over her flapperish notions, liked to see him. They would talk over childhood's days together, and became quite chums.

"But it was different with Allen. The affair had done him more harm than it had May. He had been a decent young fellow, but wasn't now. The fact that Bill had made him his pal and trusted him was nothing to him. He was piqued because May ignored what had happened long ago, and treated him only as a chum, and he set out to make love to her.

"She froze him when he tried to recall old times that were too recent to be pleasant; but when she got cold he got hot. And one day he went too far.

"She just sprang up, tore herself away from his arm and flung open the door. " 'Go !' she said.

" 'I mean to have you,' he said, 'or if I don't I'll settle with you. Do you think I'm going to stand by watching you living with him, and all but ignoring me? I'll let him know all that happened!'

" 'You cur!' she said. 'Go!'

" 'l'll give you time to think of it,' he said, with an ugly grin; 'but mind what I say!'.

"How much she did mind I saw when I called in a little while later. You see I know, because— well, because we were cousins, and brought up pretty well like brother and sister. As a matter of fact. I'd told her it wasn't the thing to have Allen about, and she'd only smiled at the idea; and that's why she spoke to me about it. She was pretty well broken up.

" 'Don't you worry,' I told her. 'I know a few blokes, and we'll clear the mongrel out of the neighborhood. He won't want to come here again.'

" 'But.' she said, 'then he'll only let Bill know by letter, just out of spite. He's a cad; he's capable of anything.'

"And she leaned her head on her hands, sobbing.

" 'Well, cheer up. May,' I says awkwardly, seeing everything about it, that you were only a girl and you've been a good wife, Bill may not feel so bad about it. He might overlook it.' She sprang up with her breast heaving.

" 'Chiller,' she cried. 'I can't stand it!

Bven if Bill forgave me for the children's sake, it will raise a barrier between us—it must! I love Bill, Chiller, I love him; and I couldn't bear it!'

" 'I know you're a true wife to Bill,' I says, 'but I thought you'd got over feeling like that.'

"'I thought so, but I haven't. If anything came between me and Bill. Chiller, I feel it'd break my heart!'

"You see it's what I said about people finding out if they love one another after they're married; and May had found out just because of Allen.She was so tragical about it that I couldn t say nothing except to suggest that Allen might not say anything, after all.

" 'He will! He will!' she sobbed. 'I know he will!' Then an idea struck her. But he won't be the first to do it. I'll tell Bill myself!'

"The idea staggered me a bit, but Bill came home just then. Afterwards, when I took a chance to get out, she did tell him.

" 'Bill,' she said, going up to him, caressingly, you don't seem to care for me as you used to. Don't you love me?'

" 'Oh, of course I love you, old girl' he answered. 'What's the matter? Ain't you feeling well?'

" 'Bill,' she said, 'I want you to do something for me: I want you to send Allen away. I don't like him. He's not your friend. Oh, Bill, I want you to forgive me "

"The agitation of her tone disturbed him. I saw him go a sort of whitewash, looking at her. now kneeling at his knee. I saw it through the window.

" 'What's the matter?' he asked.

" 'Bill— he's been trying to make love to me. I want to tell you— l should have before. But, oh, Bill, do, do forgive me!'

"And she made her confession in her own way, her face tragical, her arms on his knees.

"When she had finished, or before lie sprang to his feet with a fury that only a good-natured man, really angry, can show. 'l'll kill the mongrel!' he shouted, 'i'll rip the skin from his body!'

" 'But, Bill, will you forgive me?' she pleaded. 'I love you. Bill; I love you, dear.'

"He turned towards her— he'd been rushing to the door— with a softer passion showing through his anger.

" 'Of course I forgive you, Maisie,' he said. 'You're a good girl and a good wife.'

" 'And love me, Bill?' she insisted. 'lt won't make any difference.'

"He hesitated a minute; and then he took her in his arms like a young lover taking his first kiss.

" 'lt'll make this difference, that we're going to have that little place out a bit and all the things we used to think about.'

"I got away then. But I was present when he fixed Allen up next day. He stopped the mongrel directly he saw him.

" 'I want a word with you,' he said. 'You know what about.'

"Allen only had to look at his face to guess; but, although he paled, he raised a sneer.

" 'You didn't suppose you were the first—'

"Before he got further Bill's fist caught him on the jaw. It was a ding-dong go before they were parted, but Allen, once he got away, didn't want to face it again. There is a cowardice in every man's heart about a man he has wronged, or attempted to wrong.

"And now," concluded the Smoodger, "they've got the place they wanted, and they're so love-like that when Bill comes in for a beer, he dashes away again in a minute so as to catch his train and get home early."

"He must be a good sort," I commented.

"He overlooked altogether what his wife had told him?"

"You oughter know about women!" he said. "What she told him was that she had been sweethearting with Allen when she was a girl, and had let him kiss her; and she felt ashamed of having let any other man kiss her, especially as Allen was using it as an excuse for making love to her. You know what women are!

"After that," finished the Smoodger, reflectively, "Bill would have thought Allen just a revengeful liar if he had said anything more."

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23: Unleashing The Lease

The Bulletin, 5 Jun 1940

I HAVE some pity for landlords, especially my own. They are mostly people with a bad habit of calling on Monday morning for the rent, as if they expected to get it. Hope is a wonderful thing.

The landlords who deserve most pity are those who possess the very little property which, apparently, they regard, like knowledge, as a dangerous thing; say, one bungalow besides the humpy in which they live. When it is empty they worry about the rates and taxes ; when it is occupied they are afraid that the tenants will knock it down with a tack-hammer; and when the tenants move they rush round frantically to make sure that the removalists haven’t taken the house with the furniture.

Once I had an office next to a house and estate agent who had one ewe-lamb house of his own. He advertised that it was to let, and that he wanted a "selected tenant.” I didn’t know this until I arrived in the morning and found the stairs and the landings crowded with people. Some of them had brought breakfast in order to be in time; and others, who felt that they would have to admit to the crime of having children, had put them into white collars and their best clothes to show how well-behaved they were.

The crowd rushed me when I approached, one man, who pointed a chop-bone at my bosom as if it were a revolver, hastening to inform me that he had been there at 5.30 and was the first to arrive. Later, when the real landlord came, I heard sounds of great anger outside my door. The applicants for the house went in one by one and passed out breathing anger. One of them came into my office to let me know what he thought of my neighbor, while others stood in the doorway listening and approved.

It appeared that the house-owner was particularly careful about the “selected tenant.” He took names and addresses and the names and addresses of previous landlords ; and he inspected rent receipts. But not even the bribe of a month’s rent in advance would tempt him to let the place until he had communicated with the previous landlords and ascertained all about the morals and dispositions of the would-be tenant.

One woman snorted “Wonder he didn’t ask to see me marriage-lines!”

He got his tenant, of course. Also, a few weeks later, he got a bailiff. I noticed the shabby, beery-looking individual coming in every morning; and one day, when my neighbor’s door was locked, he confided to me that he was trying, without success, to effect an entry into the recently-let property. Careful selection, apparently, is not always as successful as it should be. Even if that landlord had appointed a committee of experts to do the selecting they could hardly have done worse.

ONCE I had a landlord who lived next door to his one letting property. That was Pogwoggle. He told me in an impressive way that an M.P. lived across the street next to Blinks, the big softgoods merchant, and that Alderman Smith resided on the other side of the cottage; and he charged all these circumstances in the rent. He seemed grieved to learn that I had several children, but he overlooked it; and he asked me if I was prepared to sign a lease for twelve months. The light fashion in which I assented appeared to grieve him, and he insisted upon reading the document to me before I signed it. Then he carried his copy to the safe, like a man depositing the Holy Grail for safe keeping, and seemed upset at the offhand manner in which I folded mine and put it in my hip pocket.

When the furniture arrived Pogwoggle was on the spot, advising the vanmen how to get it in without scratching the doors. His troubles did not cease when the vanmen had gone, because by that time I had started putting up the blinds. It’s a job I soon tire of, and when I was weary of turning screws I put the fixtures up with nails for a change. I had not been engaged at the hammering for long, however, before Pogwoggle came running in with a gimlet and screwdriver. He seemed to doubt my word when I said I had some, and insisted on leaving his. Later, when the hammering continued, he called in twice to ask nervously if he could be of any assistance. Even after that I could see him, with the light at the back of him, peering anxiously through the slats of his blinds. I had finished the curtain-fixing ; but now and again, in a spare moment, I knocked the hammer against the window-frame just to see the effect on Pogwoggle. When I came home next night my wife said she was sure the place would not suit us. I reminded her that a week before she had been sure that it would; and, anyway, I had signed a lease, but she said that previously she had not known that the landlord was one of the fixtures. It appeared that Pogwoggle had called in shortly after I had left to remark that young Hamer was using the pieces of asphalt, where it was broken, as coal for his toy trains ; and since then Pogwoggle had been in half a dozen times, ostensibly to see what needed to be done to the copper, but really because he heard hammering in the kitchen, or because he heard nothing and wanted to see what all the silence was about.

Later he called to see me and made, in an apologetic way, seven complaints about (1) the children, (2) the dog, (3) the servant-girl, and (4 to 7) generally. He mentioned casually that he had the lease with him. It was my first intimation that that lease was going to be a nuisance.

AS days went on my wife became more convinced that the place would not suit us. She declared that, lease or no lease, she was not going to live next door to a Jack-in-the-box whose face appeared over the fence every time there was the slightest noise. He had, of course, offered to read the lease to her; but she had choked him off the habit of coming in so frequently by asking him one morning if he had better not stay to lunch: it would save him the trouble of coming back afterwards.

On Sunday I prepared to lay out my vegetable garden. I have seldom eaten any vegetables grown by myself, but that is because I move. I have no doubt other people have eaten them; and I like a kitchen garden. As I prepared the first bed the face looked over the fence and said it was Sunday.

“I know,” I said shortly.

“What are you going to do?” asked Pogwoggle.

“Lay out a vegetable garden,” I answered.

“You can’t do it!” he protested.

“I can,” I retorted; “I’ve done it often.”

“But your lease says you can’t. You are not to remove any of the shrubs or plants in the garden.”

“I’m not going to remove them,” I said ; “just put them in another place— in a heap at the end of the garden.”

He groaned and disappeared, but shortly was back again with his lease, and insisted on reading it over to me. He seemed ridiculously like a parson reading the lesson for the day. I went on digging and said “Amen” at the end of the reading.

“So you see you can’t change the garden without my consent,” he said.

“So you see I can,” I retorted, still digging.

“The lease says you can’t.”

“If I can’t do what I like with my own garden I’ll get another house,” I said.

“You can’t. The lease is for twelve months,” he answered.

“Then if you object to my doing what I like here,” I said, “cancel the lease.”

“No,” he answered. “I don’t want to do anything unpleasant, but if you spoil the garden I will sue you on the terms of the lease. Listen!” He began to read it again. I went inside and left him to it.

That evening I agreed with my wife that the house would not suit us, and I went to see Pogwoggle after tea, and said so. He said he did not like to talk business on Sunday, but if I liked to leave the next week’s rent, as I was there, I could do so, and he would let me have the receipt tomorrow. It seemed a fine point in religious observance. There is, of course, no labor in receiving money, but there is in signing a receipt. He wanted to read me the lease again ; that, of course, was strictly religious.

“Very well then,” I said. I meant it to be ominous.

NEXT week I laid in a stock of sapling stakes and wire-netting and let them rest ostentatiously on the lawn. My landlord, according to my wife, used to pause and look at them about twenty times a day.

At last he asked me what they were for.

"Oh," I said, “the wire-netting is for the windows and the stakes are for the snakes to climb on. I’m going to rig them up in one of the front rooms— the sitting-room. It’s nice and sunny, and will do splendidly.”

“Snakes!” he cried. “Surely not?”

“Oh, yes. And I’m going to fix up the other front room as a sort of aviary.”

“But you can’t!” he gasped.

“There’s nothing in the lease against that,” I said. “I’m not going to move any fixtures ; the old chandeliers will make splendid perches; so will the picture-rods. And those saplings will just fit in between the floor and the ceiling, and will come down easily afterwards.”

“But you’ll spoil the rooms. Snakes and birds!”

“Oh, they make a bit of a mess of a place certainly,” I admitted, “but most of it can be cleaned up afterwards. I’ve got some of the snakes inside in boxes. Will you come in and see them?”

He didn’t call my bluff. He didn’t want to see my snakes; and, after arguing tearfully with me, and asking if I couldn’t do with just the vegetable garden, if he agreed to that, he went away in a despairing manner. Later I saw him reading the lease as he paced his garden. I knew he wanted to read it to me, not because it prohibited snake-keeping— he had not thought of that when the document was drafted— but on general principles.

The next morning as I was leaving I called back to my wife: “Look, Ethel, keep those children from pencilling on the walls today if you can. The walls are disgraceful.”

I saw a head jerk in a startled fashion on the other side of the fence.

“You can’t expect me, with only one girl, to be watching the children all day,” returned Ethel, playing up to me with spirit. “I smacked young Hamer for chopping the mantelpiece with the chisel; but you shouldn’t leave such things about.”

“Well, anyway,” I said, “get me some paste ready for tonight. I’ll fix up that wallpaper where the children have torn it. And take the paintbox away from them.” I’m certain I heard groans.

“I’m going to fix up the room for the snakes tonight,” I called back as I bolted to miss my train.

When I got home my wife showed me a notice to quit. She said old Pogwoggle had come in wanting to inspect the house, but she had refused to allow him in. The refusal must have confirmed his worst suspicions, stirred him to action.

I went in and saw him, telling him sternly that my lease was for twelve months. I offered to read the lease to him. I said that by giving notice to quit he had forfeited all claim to rent; but finally I consented magnanimously to the cancellation of the lease.

HAVING seemingly resigned himself to the hopeless damage of the property, my landlord did not trouble me again; but upon the day we moved he hovered round, endeavoring to get an opportunity to inspect the house before we left and assess the damage. The manner in which I forbade him to enter excited his worst fears, and he was nearly frantic by the time the last van was loaded and the girl had put aboard the broom and bucket she had just been using. He seized the keys with trembling eagerness, and rushed into the house.

“You wait until I have seen what harm has been done,” he called out in a sort of frenzy. I didn’t; but as I walked away I turned back and saw him looking with dazed sadness after me.

The house had been swept-and garnished throughout : its walls bore not a mark or stain. In fact, I had been a good tenant— and it was he who had cancelled the lease. I think it broke his heart.

But he recovered sufficiently in a few days to write me a letter saying that a stopper from the kitchen sink was missing, and unless it was replaced he would place the matter in the hands of his solicitor. If I doubted my responsibility, he added, I might call in to see him and he would read over the lease with me.

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24: The Lottery Ticket

The Australian Woman's Mirror, 17 Jan 1933

"WAIT till we win the lottery!”

Mrs. Stoney issued that invitation with unfailing regularity every time trouble— invariably it was a financial trouble— presented itself. Sometimes I heard the younger and more innocent members of the Stoney family making the promise definite.

“We’re going to win the lottery next week, see?” little Gladys— or it might be Tom— would say, evidently maintaining the pride of the family against the assault of a young companion who had turned hostile.

However impecunious the Stoneys were, there was always a lottery ticket to gild the future with hope. Of that impecuniosity I became aware from the moment I lifted the highly polished brass knocker and gave my first rat-tat on the door. It was the alliance of that polished knocker, a glossily blackened doorstep and a card in the window announcing a room to let that had drawn me to the door.

A whispering rustle came to me from inside, and shortly, as I waited, the door opened cautiously to reveal the freckled face of a girl of about eleven.

“Mum’s out. Call again next week,” said the child all in a burst.

“I called about the room,” I said with a wave of my hand to the window.

“Oh, wait!” said the child and her face vanished. “Mum, it isn’t the landlord. It’s about the room,” I heard a voice calling; and soon a pleasant matron with a replica of the child’s face was smiling at me.

Perhaps I felt flattered at being taken for a landlord. The room was suitable in convenience and price, and, accepted into the bosom of the Stoney family, I became acquainted with more of its financial disabilities. The landlord incident was only an introduction.

There were occasions when, a knock having come to the door as I was preparing to descend the stairs, Mrs. Stoney would whisper to me, “Would you mind saying, Mr. Hamer, to whoever that might be, that I’m having a bath and I would be glad if he’d call next week.”

On such an occasion Mrs. Stoney would prove herself a sport. She would lend artistic verisimilitude to the tale she had commissioned me to tell by turning the shower full on and giving me the moral support of much water-splashing.

There was always someone to be postponed in this fashion. If the landlord happened to be paid, or partly paid, there was the t.-p. man or the grocer’s collector to be sent away with empty hands, or it might be the cash-order man.

The Stoneys’ credit was good, for apparently they had lived for ages in the same house and their honesty was recognised; but their financial methods were as untidy as those of any Australian Treasurer.

“But we’ll win something in the lottery one of these days,” Mrs. Stoney would say happily, “and then everything will be all right.”

She was quite candid about their financial difficulties, for in that hearty manner which was native to her I had been made one of the family directly I crossed the threshold. I had not been in the house for more than two days before, just after I had gone to my room on my return in the evening, a knock at my door introduced young Tom on an errand.

“Mum says would you mind letting her have a look at your evening paper if you’re not using it. She wants to see if we’ve won the lottery,” he said.

That was my introduction to the lottery enthusiasm. After that, as a natural thing, my evening paper became a sort of family possession on days of the drawings. Stoney himself, who departed for some work carrying a tin lunch-carrier sometimes during the day and sometimes later at night, would run a horny finger down the lists of numbers and give an occasional whoop of joy which would impart a thrill to the family. It always grouped itself near by on these sacred occasions.

“Here it is! A twenty-pound prize!”

Stoney would shout. “Four-two-three-five-one —that’s our number, isn’t it?”

There would be a flurry while the ticket was sought. It had always been placed somewhere “for safety,” as Mrs. Stoney said, and when this excitement came it was difficult to remember the safe deposit. The ticket found in the tea-caddy would probably be one that had already disappointed the family hopes, and another back-number would be found in the knife-drawer.

“Go up to my bedroom and look under the carpet near the wardrobe, Hilda,” Mrs. Stoney would say.

The ticket would arrive at last; it would probably be 42315. The family suspense would fade away in a sigh, and hope would be transferred to the next lottery.

They were a pleasantly happy if happy-go-lucky family, tied together with bonds of affection that were very appealing. If young Bert appeared with a cut lip and a blackened eye it was certain to be that he had been lured into a fight, not because of a love of it, but in pursuit of a duty— the protection of his young brother Tom from the bullying of some bigger boy. The whole family stood to each other like that.

The house had its drawbacks, certainly. The family itself lived mainly in the kitchen, but it had a sitting-room which was by way of being a mausoleum. The grotesquely enlarged photographs of the family’s immediate ancestors hung on the walls and stared woodenly at me on the few occasions when for quiet discussion on various family matters I was introduced to this holy of holies.

There were times when the mere knowledge that this family vault existed irritated me. So used had I become to it that one day when I entered with the just-published early edition I left the paper downstairs in the hands of young Tom, who had come home from school for lunch, and made my way to my room.

A sudden outcry in the house startled me. Opening my door, I was in time to prevent Tom, charging like a young bull, from banging his head upon it. His “Dad wants you to come down. We’ve won the lottery!” mingled with the excited call of “Mr Hamer! Mr. Hamer! Come quickly!" from Mrs. Stoney somewhere about the foot of the stairs.

Stoney, looking as if he had been just ready to depart for work, was standing in the kitchen with his finger pinned firmly upon a number in the lottery list as if he feared it might escape, and in his other hand the current lottery ticket.

“We’ve won it! We’ve won it at last!" he said in the manner of a man who had fulfilled a life’s ambition.

“Have a look at it, Mr. Hamer,” appealed Mrs. Stoney. “It’s the third prize!”

It was the third prize.

“You’ve won it, all right,” I said.

It was as though the family, unable to trust its own senses, was waiting for that verdict. Not until it was given did its suspense really end. Then Mrs. Stoney flung her arms around Stoney and kissed him; before I could escape she had repeated the performance with me, and she proceeded to scatter her embraces amongst all her progeny.

Young Tom broke away from the pandemonium ; a scrambling sound indicated that he was scaling the fence, and his shrill “Hey, Bill, we’ve won the lottery!” showed that the news was being proclaimed to the world.

“It’s a wonder the newspapers haven’t been after you,” I remarked. “They usually interview the big prize-winners.”

“I got my ticket down at the works,” said Stoney. “They’ll be looking for me there.”

“Well, I’m very glad. You’re set now,” I said. “What are you going to do with the money?”

“There won’t be enough in it for a pub,” said Stoney. “I reckon a nice tobacconist’s business would be just the thing.”

“Don’t you be silly, Bert,” said Mrs. Stoney. “What we’re going to do is buy a good residential that will set us up for life. Or a mixed-goods shop in a good district.”

“What I say about a tobacconist’s—”

It was suddenly realised that Stoney would be late for work. He might not have minded, in the glow of his fortune, but obviously he desired to spread the tidings of his financial success amongst his fellows.

“I’ll get off, though; the foreman’ll fix it for me,” he said.

A little afraid that Mrs. Stoney’s exuberance might run to further embraces, I withdrew also.

The discussion was merely adjourned until the evening, when I found myself, on my return home, drawn into that and a festivity of beer and prawns, spread as a special occasion in the sacred sitting-room before the stony eyes of those enlarged ancestors.

It seemed that they had been waiting for me— the Stoneys, I mean, not the ancestors, although from the way the latter stared down from their stiff frames it seemed that they had been waiting, too.

As far as they had gone, Mrs. Stoney appeared to have triumphed in her idea about the residential; Stoney had agreed on the suggestion that there might be a small shop on the ground floor where he could run his tobacco business and talk about horses.

“But first of all,” said Mrs. Stoney decidedly, “there’s my mother and father without as much as a stone on their graves.”

“I don’t suppose the stone’ll make ’em settle down any more comfortable,” remarked Stoney uneasily.

“We’ve got to do the right thing by them,” said Mrs. Stoney firmly. “It was all right when we didn’t have the money. We couldn’t do impossibilities. Now we’ve come into this money I’d feel ashamed of myself if I didn’t give them a stone.”

“There’s my own father and mother,” said Stoney.

“Why, of course; we must do the right thing by them, too,” said Mrs. Stoney justly but unenthusiastically. “There wasn’t even a notice in the papers when they died. That’s something we’ve got to make amends for.”

“For the matter of that,” put in Stoney, “there’s my brother Joe.”

“Joe,” remarked Mrs. Stoney rather tartly, “was a drunken wretch who always had enough money for booze but couldn’t pay his board and was always cadging money from you. And look how he broke that vase of mine, coming home drunk— my mother’s wedding present!”

“Speak no evil of the dead,” said Stoney scntentiously. “He’s gone now, poor Joe, and it’s only right we should pay respect to his memory.”

“There’s my aunt Martha, too,” remarked Mrs. Stoney.

“Aunt Martha was—”

Whatever Stoney had intended to say about that departed, he checked himself. “We’ll do the right thing by all of them,” he said.

“And Mr. Hamer will help us, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Stoney.

I tried to dissuade them, but when I found they were intent upon “doing the right thing” I did what I could to help them.

It was obvious, however, that my efforts at In Memoriam verse, designed to get away from the usual style of such things, did not appeal to them. They were received in a manner that suggested that, although they did not want to hurt my feelings, they had overrated my ability. It was a proud day for the Stoney family when the Sydney Morning Herald came out one morning with a regular splather of announcements extolling the virtues of the Stoneys’ departed relations. As a personal favor, Mrs. Stoney got me to bring home twenty-four copies of the paper that evening, the local supplies having apparently been exhausted.

To each one of the announcements was attached a tag of verse in the style much used by In Memoriamists. There was a touching reference to the mother of Mrs. Stoney as a bird in heaven; and the spirit of her father was informed in pious print that his picture was turned to the wall— a picturesque use of poetic licence, for the enlargement of the old gentleman’s photograph was probably the most annoying of the portraits hanging in the mausoleum. In a separate tribute these grandparents were informed that their loving grandchildren would suffer grief and pain until they saw them once again.

Stoney’s mother, it appeared, had become an angel ever bright and fair; and his father was assured of a reunion on the happy shore. Aunt Martha was told that her voice was still heard in dreams— which, from a private account of the dead relation given to me by Stoney, may have been a sly hit on his part. The bibulous Joe, all his sins forgiven, had his place, too:

A brother true, an uncle kind,

A purer soul ’tis hard to find.

He lived with us for many years;

His grave is watered by our tears.

No mention of unpaid board in that! Determined to make a clean sweep, the Stoneys had even dragged in some cousins, who were duly honored in verse.

“Now we only want a stone over the old people’s graves and we’re set,” said Stoney, staring with satisfaction at the sheet setting out the virtues of the departed relations.

“To-morrow,” announced Mrs. Stoney, “I am going out to look for a suitable residential.”

Business in Brisbane drew me away from the Stoneys suddenly. I left them in the midst of discussions over the details of residentials available for purchase and suitable headstones for graves. As these latter discussions rather irked me, I was glad to get away.

As it was not to be expected that the Stoneys would be in the same place when I returned, I did not bother about looking them up. One day, however, I ran right into Stoney in his working clothes and carrying his lunch-tin. His face brightened as he saw me. I found myself looking at a photograph of a tombstone he had thrust into my hand.

“Is this the one over your people’s grave or those of Mrs. Stoney?” I asked.

“No; we’ve got those framed at home. This is Aunt Martha’s,” he returned.

“By the way,” I said, “where is your home ?”

“Same old place.”

It surprised me.

“What? Did you decide to give up the residential idea?”

“It gave itself up,” he said with a laugh. “What with paying up what we owed and getting new outfits, and then the cost of them tombstones you’ve no idea what tombstones cost, Mr. Hamer!— we found we didn’t have the money. I’m on the way to the grocer’s now to give him a bit on account. He’s overdue.”

“You don’t mean to say,” I exclaimed, “that you spent all that money on putting up memorials to your dead relations?”

He looked at me and laughed, not at all unhappily.

“Oh, well,” he said, “she liked it! And what does it matter if we’re happy? There was the gramophone and wireless set an’ a few things like that, too; but it was mainly the relations.”

He laughed again.

“We did the right thing by them— blast them,” he said.

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25: Everybody Dies

The Bulletin, 25 May 1916

OF all the people who derive a large measure of happiness from the consideration of melancholy matters, Old Man Andrews is the most shining example amongst my acquaintance. He developed his faculty for this particular form of enjoyment one day as he absorbed gin and ginger-beer.

"Everybody dies," he said, following a  sorrowful trail of thought from the mention of the death of an old lady at the age of ninety.

"The old lady was a friend of my mother's, and nursed me when I was so high. My mother died twenty-five years ago. and now her friend's dead too!"

"Anyway," I said, "she had her full share of living, and probably she did not object to dying, as a change."

"Yes, of course she's the exception. It's when people die in the flush of their health, or when it's young children who should have years to live, that you feel it most. That's the position I took about my daughter."

To divert his mind from what seemed a sorrowful subject I suggested another drink, and he assented. He took the same mournful kind of liquor, and, having got it, pursued the theme.

"My girl gets a lover when she's only sixteen; not a bad fellow he isn't, either; finely set up, and a manly, straight chap all ways. They wanted to marry, but I put my foot down on it. The way I looked at it was that if they married there'd probably be children. and it was only bringing people into the world to die. I told them that she could do what she liked when she was 21 and her own mistress, if she didn't die before then; but from what I had seen of people dying I wasn't going to encourage it. Everybody dies, and what's the good of bringing more people into the world to do it.'

"Well, of course, I'm set on my ideas, but they're just as set on theirs. So I forbade the young fellow to come near the place.

" 'Not that I have anything against you,' I says to him; 'but you've got no more chance than if I hated you. My daughter isn't going to marry you. I'm not going to encourage this dying.'

" 'lt's living we were thinking of,' he answered. But I told him how I saw things.

"Well, he didn't come near after that; but by-and-bye I discovered that they were meeting one another on the quiet. I was angry at that; and you know how obstinate a man gets when he's angry! Well, I made a sort of prisoner of Margie.

"I noticed a sort of change come over her in a few weeks' time; noticed it, but did not heed it— you know what I mean. She seemed restless, as if she was thinking over something that was worrying her. Then one night she comes into the room, throws her arms round me and kisses me. saying 'Good-night father, darling!' I hardly noticed the unusualness of it until afterwards, when the wife comes in and says she can't find Margie anywhere in the house, and she knew something was going to happen by the way she kissed her good-night."

He paused, and I twisted my glass, scarcely knowing how to express sympathy at the tragedy I understood.

"Poor girl!" I said at last.

"Just then." he pursued, "the young fellow rang up on the 'phone, and he says that Margie is all right, but they're determined to marry, and he wants to see me. but supposes that, as it's so late, he'd better leave it till morning. Of course, I wouldn't allow anything of that sort, so I told him to come out straight away.

"Imagine how I felt while I waited. I was wondering whether to knock his brains out with a poker or use my revolver. But when he came in he was so straightforward that, after the first few moments, I started poking the fire to show that that was what I had the poker in my hand for.

"Margie, it appears, just like a silly girl, had run away to him; and he, being a decent, straight fellow, but one that wanted to marry her, had helped her find a boarding-house where she could stay without drawing any aspersions upon herself while he came to tackle me. He put their scheme to me: he had not abducted the girl, or harmed her in any way, and he had used no influence upon her. She was all right; but she did not mean to return, and he did not mean to tell me where she was until I consented to their marriage.

"lt was the wife that induced me to give way; so I said I would promise my consent but they'd have to listen to me talk first, and they might change their minds. And I did talk to them ! I pointed out that they might have children that might die; and that if he died she'd be a widow; and if she died he'd be a widower. But it didn't change their minds."

"Why, that," I said, "is quite a bright little romance— a thing with life, not death

"Wait a bit," he warned me, sombrely. "He was an officer on one of the interstate boats—a risky sort of job, and he had to be out at all times and in all weathers. They'd been married less than a year, and he was away on one of his trips when it happened.

"He died?" I murmured.

"No: The baby was born. It was a fine boy. though a bit delicate; and I used to think of what would become of his parents who simply adored him, if anything happened to him. Dear little lad, he was— I remember the day he asked me which was the oldest, me or Methuselah; because, if I was, he meant to be as old as me some day."

He gave a melancholy chuckle.

"They lived in a wild sort of place down near the shore. George's River way; and you know how a child has to be watched where there are rocks hanging over deep water. Well, another baby comes along, and— l suppose it's because it looks more like its father than the first— Margie simply is more madly attached to this one than the other, even: consequently ooor little Reggie is allowed to wander about by himself.

"I well remember the day. I was sitting on the corner of the verandah. I'd just been warning him against leaning over the water, where he'd gone with a bent pin on some cotton, when I heard little Reggie's voice call out."

"Fell in?" I suggested.

"Not he ! Damned if he hadn't caught a fish on that ridiculous fishing-line, a thing about the size of a whitebait; and he comes up, proud, to show me. saying I can have some, but there must be some for daddy and mummy. Then, going into the bedroom, he sees the baby lying awake, and gives if the fish. As babies will, the poor little mite tried to eat it."

He paused again.

"It was the baby that died?" I hinted.

"Died?" he echoed. "It's fine and healthy, and growing: got eight teeth already."

"I thought," I excused myself, lamely, "you implied that there was a death—"

"Oh, no!" he retorted, gravely. "What I did say was that they'll all die someday. Everybody dies!"

________________

26: The Man With Hair Like Mine

The Bulletin, 13 Feb 1937

IT seemed ridiculous to associate bloodthirsty violence with Arnoldo Bertilli. At Melchisadek Mansions, one of those places where a few partitions help disguise mere rooms as flats, I sometimes passed the little man on the stairs, and in spite of his obvious devotion to garlic I liked him.

Perhaps his loneliness stirred a feeling of compassion; there was something attractive in the shyly cheerful manner of his salute in passing. Then there was the way he amused the children who lived awhile in one of the flats on his floor; his dignified protest when someone carelessly referred to him as "the fiddle-player."

"It ees, surely, m'sieur, because you do not know. I am not ze feedle-player— no! I am ze musician, ze arteest!"

My own acquaintance with him was mainly a matter of things heard, until my landlady told me of his blood-lust.

"Would you mind trying not to meet Mister Bertilli to-night?" she said nervously, intercepting me at the foot of the stairs. "He is a little upset; in fact, I am afraid he has been drinking, and he is excited. You see, he's furreign," she added. That, to her, was enough to account for anything.

"It's your 'air, if yer'll excuse my sayin' it," she went on. "A man with your colored 'air did 'im a great wrong at one time. I think 'e was in love with the man's wife, an' the man took 'er away. Which was quite a respectable an' proper thing to do, I should say ; but you never know what these foreigners think. That's why 'e is in Australia. 'E follered 'is enemy 'ere, an' "—her voice dropped to a whisper— " 'e says 'e will kill 'im when they meet."

"He seems such an inoffensive little man."

"So 'e is—quite respectable ; there's not another tenant pays 'is rent more regular. But for fourteen years— so 'e told me— 'e 'as sworn revenge."

It struck me, as she dropped her voice again, that she was enjoying the thrill of it.

"For fourteen years! 'E 'as a little image in 'is room, an' 'e swears— with a knife in 'is 'and— that 'e will kill the other man when 'e finds 'im."

BERTILLI was only a handful, and the warning merely amused me until one day, having left my door ajar, I turned to a sound to see Bertilli standing in the doorway, vibrant with fury, with a knife gleaming in his hand.

"A-a-ah!" he exclaimed with a gasping breath. "Zose hair! Zat eyes! At la-ast!"

There was so much seriousness in the gleaming eyes that it was a relief indeed to see the darkness clear from his face.

"No, it is not you," he said suddenly, slipping the knife away. " 'Ow much apology do I owe you, my frien', 'oo I meet on the stair!"

He advanced into the room. In my relief I pushed the whisky-bottle towards him.

"I drink to you; I also drink to ze revanche! " he cried. "Ah, you do not drink? Is eet zat"

"Yes, yes—l'm drinking. The revenge, certainly!"

I said hurriedly, and his sudden ferocity was calmed.

"To ze revanche! "he cried. "Some day, m'sieur, I will keel a man wis 'air like yours."

"As long as it is not me," I said amiably.

"Let us 'ope, m'sieur, zat eet ees not you," he said darkly.

To assure him of my friendliness I indicated the whisky-bottle again, and he took a seat as he helped himself.

"Leesen," he hissed, leaning towards me. "Eet ees not to make ze monee zat I come to Australie! Think eet not, m'sieur! I am 'umble I will not boast, m'sieur; but, m'sieur, I am ze great arteest, great musician! In Paris, in Europe, I make ze great name. Kreisler, vot ees'e? Pouf! Eet is I, Arnoldo Bertilli, zat shall be Kreisler. But eet is not so. My life, eet ees spoil. By a man wis ze 'air like you! "

I really wished he would forget about my hair.

"Leesen, m'sieur: I love ze lady—oh, ze perfect lady— ze Madonna, ze Venus! lam at 'er feet; but no, she ees 'ard— only because I am marry, my wife ees alive, I cannot marry wis 'er. She ees 'ard! An' me ze gre-at arteest! What is marriage to an arteest? Ees not Arnoldo Bertilli more zan marriage? 'No,' she say; 'you wait; your wife, maybe, she divorce you.'

"Oh, ze cruelty! Zee agonee! 'Ow can a man— ze arteest —wis ze 'eart on fire wis jealousy, be hees best? An' wis my torn chest where ees my art? 'Ee go. I vill not boast, m'sieur, but lam a genius; I am ze greatest composer in ze world! But 'ow can ze greatest composer write, upset-down wis passion?

" 'Non, non, Arnoldo; you must wait,' she say to me— ah, cruel! 'You must prove yourself. I cannot love a man in ze so bad temper.'

"I am despair. I moan. I take ze knife an' say I steek eet in 'er 'eart; but no, eet does not make 'er love me. No, she laugh ; an' then she go suddenlee. I find out. My frien'— ze man I 'ad not suspect— 'e ask 'er to marry heem, an' she chose zat to an arteest zat cannot marry 'er! An' 'e was ze man wis ze 'air"

"Like mine," I said quickly; "but not me."

"Leesen, my frien'," he said ; "I have 'ere ze daggare zat will go t'roo hees ribs like so— ooah! when I see him, ze man wis ze 'air"

"Like mine," I finished for him. "But why not forget it, old man?"

His eyes flashed furiously. "Forget? I, Arnoldo Bertilli, forget? Ah, nevare— nevare! I have sworn to 'ave revanche. Come, you will see!"

He overwhelmed me, dragging me by the elbow; and so I was introduced to that little shrine before which the frail musician kept the flame of his vengeance burning. Having sworn his oath again with dramatic intensity, he swore a new oath that, in spite of my hair, he knew I was his friend and he was mine.

AFTER that a growing liking gave me a genuine concern for the little chap. There was a childish innocence about his conceit of himself that had an appeal of its own. Except for his hunger for revenge, his was a remarkable simplicity. It seemed pathetic and absurd that such an impulse should obsess his whole life.

I even became anxious about him, especially in what my landlady called his "excited moods," but my concern was much more for Bertilli himself than for the man he hunted. The idea of the little musician dangling on a rope was unpleasant. It would be like hanging a child.

He had a supreme confidence that one day he and his enemy would meet. He did not hurry matters ; he went on with his work in an orchestra. But the thought of his revenge was constantly before him.

It can be understood, then, what my feelings were when Hartley turned up— Hartley, the man with hair like mine.

ONE day as I rode past on the William-street tram I saw the musician's dapper figure, the violin-case in his hand, making a way along the pavement, and the idea that this was a dangerous character seemed more ridiculous than ever.

"Look! Look! The man with the violin-case! Surely that is our little friend of Paris— little Bertilli!"

The woman's voice was well-bred and sweet. Turning to look into the
next compartment, I caught a view of a pleasant-faced pretty woman, rather ample in figure, inclining towards a comfortable middle age. The man with her was leaning forward eagerly, and I noticed he had hair— like mine!

"Arnoldo Bertilli? You must be mistaken. What would he be doing here in Australia?"

"He's gone now; but, Harry, I'm sure I wasn't mistaken."

"I'd have jumped off to speak to him if I had seen him," said Harry, "if you are sure it was he we must look him up."

"Of course I'm not mistaken," said the lady. "Don't you remember? He used to make love to me! I'm sure I wouldn't have married you so soon if I hadn't been a little frightened of him. I had no idea that he had taken it so seriously. You know, Harry, I really cared for the little fellow in a way."

"Well, so did I," Harry agreed heartily. "You couldn't help it. He was so like a child with his big ambitions and his conceit— and his little shyness. You felt he was a chap you had to look after— the sort of fellow you had to help."

Precisely my own feelings! They were lost in the bustle of the emptying tram at the top of William-street, leaving me with a feeling that I ought to have spoken to them, conveyed some warning. Apprehension seized me ; and yet it seemed ridiculous to go tothe police.

I LEFT matters to chance, and was given a shock I when my landlady entered my flat less than a week after the incident in the tram.

"Oh, please, please keep your door shut," she said. "Mr. Bertilli has come home, and he is excited— very excited ; and there is a friend with him."

Bertilli certainly was excited. I could hear him, apparently trying to sing, shout and laugh at once. I closed my door.

But Bertilli did not let that stop him. He entered boisterously, and at his heels came another man— the big, wholesome-looking man I had heard addressed as Harry in the tram.

"My frien'— both my frien's," said Bertilli, "permit me to present my ol' frien' M'sieur 'Artley. I have not seen him for fourteen years!"

There was a note of exultation in his voice. The situation, to me, was tense; all the more so because Hartley was heartily jolly, oblivious of the fate in store for him, and Bertilli on the top note of excitement.

"Sit down while I get the whisky," I said, trying to cover my nervousness. "No, you sit over there, if you don't mind."

It was something to get the table between Hartley and the avenger; I sat near Bertilli, prepared to spring if I saw his hand go towards the hidden knife.

"Well, here's to more meetings," toasted Hartley. "Just fancy me running across old Arnoldo after all these years! We knew one another in Paris— and he knew my wife, too."

"Did I not love 'er?" laughed Bertilli; but only I, apparently, sensed the danger in his voice.

"Of course; anyone would love her," said Hartley heartily. "What did you think of her this morning? I always say she keeps as charming as ever. A bit stouter, of course, but that makes her all the jollier."

Poor fool, unconsciously goading the fury already stirred against him!

"It is because she ees 'appee," said Bertilli. "I forgive you for taking 'er from me, for 'ave you not made 'er 'appee? Ees eet not all a man can ask, if 'e love a woman— that she ees 'appee?"

"It's the right spirit, but I don't know that I could feel that way," said Hartley, standing up suddenly. Surely it must come now! Alert for action, I watched Bertilli for a moment; but he apparently  wanted to play with his enemy for a little longer.

"I'll get some water if you don't mind," said Hartley.

I had been watching the situation so keenly that I had not noticed the deficiency; even now, instead of apologising and getting the water myself, I merely motioned him to the kitchenette.

Bertilli leaned towards me. I was watching every movement he made.

"What an escape!" he whispered. "The girl I lof, she was sleem, so like ze fairee; but now oh, mon Dieu!— oh, so fat! And it is only for the M'sieur 'Artley I would have marry her!"

He laughed suddenly, took the knife from its hiding and flung it under the couch.

"A healt'!" he cried. "May we all bee sateesfied— zose who marry ze girl, and zose who dont!

________________

27: A Memory of Morbecque

The Bulletin, 9 Aug 1933

MORBECQUE was brought into the war when the dent was made in the northern part of the British line by the German thrust of March, 1918. As with all other French villages, the war had drained its manhood; but the troop trains which carried their freights through to the junction at Hazebrouck had swept by, leaving the little hamlet in its peace. Then the tide of mixed soldiery suddenly flooded into its streets and thronged its estaminets. Morbecque was in the war.

It was still untouched when a section of us reached the place on special duty, after being raced north from Amiens and doing a spell on the Bailleul-Meteren railway track which checked the German push. Billeted in the school-house, we pronounced Morbecque a home, and hoped that it would stay that way until we had done with it.

But on the morning of the second day Fritz presented his card. It was a glorious spring day; the air was like wine, and here and there little flowers showed against the green of the grass. But into the peacefulness came the sharp scream of a falling shell, the geyser-like upthrust of a fountain of earth and smoke, the roar of an explosion. Another shell sang spitefully overhead, and the metallic clang showed that it had exploded in the village—probably on the cobbles of the main street.

Our working parties scattered. I paused on seeing a little boy standing in what might be a danger zone, his blue eyes open wide, but his expression more one of wonder than of fear. Hurrying towards him, I held out my hand. He immediately put his little hand in mine.

The shells seemed to be falling on the other side of the village; so instead of waiting I led the youngster towards his home, the direction of which he had indicated with a pointing finger. He was glad to have me with him. But there was no conversation, because I found it difficult to understand his childish French, and I expect mine was worse to him.

Ormsby uprose from his cover under a hedge in the little hedge-bound lane.

"S'pose Fritz has let up," he remarked; ''but he'll shell like hell to-night. Where'd you pick up the kid?"

I told him.

"Cripes, it gets on a man's nerves the way these Frenchies hang on when they oughter move out at the toot," Ormsby said. "Fancy a kid like this— bonzer little kid, too —being kept here where any moment a shell might get him."

"I'm going to speak to his mother and urge her to get out before to-night, I said.

"Do," Ormsby replied ; "but she won't go."

The boy broke from us and ran to a buxom, good-looking woman who stood in the doorway of a little rustic cottage. She carried a baby against her breast. Her skirts were clutched by the hands of another child.

After talking volubly to the boy, the woman thanked us in the pretty way the peasant women have. In my stumbling French I implored her to leave the village. Ormsby joined in; he was able to make himself more intelligible.

"But no," she said. "It is the home of my François, and when he comes back he will expect to find me."

We continued the argument, without moving her. She was proud of her Francois. Francois had had an accident and an illness just before the war, and, being unfit for service, was put on other work in which he might have remained. But François wanted to fight for France; and at last he had been accepted. And he would expect his Jeannette to be in the home he had made for her. He would find her waiting.

"Is François at home now?" demanded Ormsby suddenly.

He was looking intently past into the grey of the house interior; and his question and attitude startled her.

"No, no!" she said.

"Well, who is that in the house? The soldier with the wounded arm and the bandaged breast?" he asked.

With the arm that was not holding the baby she grasped his, staring along the line of his gaze.

"I cannot see!" she cried excitedly. "Is he a tall man with a leetle moustache— black? And a red scar along his cheek?"

"Yes," assented Ormsby again.

"Oh, it is my François! It is my François!" she cried. "What has happened to him? Why can I not see him?"

I had been looking on curiously; and as I, like the woman, could see nothing, I wondered at Ormsby's game. I thought I knew when he spoke again.

"He seems to be waving you away— out of this house— to be asking us to take you away," he said. "It is as if he is worried by your being here."

"No! No!" she sobbed. "It is because he is afraid that I shall leave his house— the house in which every wall is dear because of him."

Ormsby dashed into the house, paused irresolutely, and then came back. In my heart I applauded his good acting, realising that his purpose was good; and, with him, I again tried to induce the woman to leave the village. All in vain.

Ormsby shrugged his shoulders as we left. Presently I wanted him to go back.

"Tell her that tale about your seeing her husband was just a trick," I said. "It has upset her."

"You don't think I saw anything?"

"Of course not!"

"How did I describe her man then?"

"You didn't. You just answered the words in which she described him."

He stood stock-still and looked at me; then he walked ahead. When I made some further remark he turned the conversation completely.

There was a pay-parade that afternoon, and wine was bought in large quantities. As the evening darkened the estaminets became more crowded; and, enjoying myself, I forgot the Frenchwoman and her children.

In twos and threes the roysterers wandered through the pitch-dark street back to their billets. Silence gradually settled on the village.

The storm of iron arrived. Our first intimation was when the building shook, the concussion throwing some of us who were carelessly balanced to the floor. The air became acrid with, a rush of gas.

Came a nightmare of tumult in which the scream of shells, the crashes and thuds, and the spatter and rattle of falling metal and bricks all mixed.

I thought of the woman and her children, and dashed through the streets, whose darkness was torn only by the flashes of shell explosions, or by the ghastly gleam that a heated shell sometimes threw as it sped overhead. The totter and fall of housefronts in the pitchy black was horrible. Civilians were rushing out of their homes, many dragging household goods or personal belongings they had hastily gathered. Soldiers were helping them.

As I neared Jeannette's house a man came running alongside. Ormsby. We both paused with dismay when, turning into the little by-way which led to the cottage, we saw light before us— the changing, unequal light of flames. In a moment we saw it was not from the dwelling we sought. Another had been hit, and was on fire.

We hurried on, and found the woman, carrying her baby, and with the two children beside her. Beside her, too, were two large bundles, each caught into a sheet. The boy was manfully trying to get one over his shoulder; his mother had dropped hers to try to help him.

"How the hell did she get those together?" muttered Ormsby. "Oh, these damned French people!"

"Here, we'll take the kids," I said, picking up the little boy. "Leave the bundles— we'll come back for those for you."

"He came to me to-night," I heard her sob. "I saw him this time. He woke me up, and told me to go. I had only just gathered these things to take when— when it started. But, oh, I do not know what has happened to him!"

We were too busy with our loads, too anxious to get her out of danger, to make any comment. She had whispered her words and did not speak again.

We had not advanced more than a few paces when there was a tearing crash.

I heard the woman behind me sob.

"What's wrong? Is she hit?" I whispered— for the inclination to whisper fearfully came to us all.

"Her cottage is gone— that's all,"

Ormsby's voice threw forward to me. I looked half-round and saw, beside the flames of the still-burning house, the "dirt" falling where the cottage should have been.

There was a sudden roar in the lane ahead of us. I threw myself and the child sideways into the hedge and downward to cover; and some flying stones and pieces of shell-case rained about us. But this shell, so far away from the village centre, was merely a "stray," and more were unlikely. Still, we could not leave the woman alone with her children.

We made a cut across the field —difficult and troublesome with our loads— and gained the main road from the village again. Here, in a long line under the hedge, the refugees were camped, waiting for the morning; but the oppression of silence was so much upon them still that we were almost treading on them before we knew that they were there.

We found a space for our charges, and as we dumped our loads, both the children and the bundles, the mother sank to the ground and, letting her head sink into her hands, burst into subdued sobs.

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Ormsby sympathetically.

"My François! My François!" she sobbed.

A shadow crept close to her.

"Is it Mathilde?" it whispered. "It is Sophie here. Oh, Mathilde, I have lost my daughter! She must be killed. We cannot find her!"

We were glad to get away. We left them some bully-beef and biscuits we had in our haversacks, saying we had more work to do. There was plenty more to and weak villagers staggering under absurd loads to find a place to rest. In the course of these duties Ormsby and I were parted.

I realised that what I regarded as Ormsby's imposture had impressed the woman into imagining visions herself; but I was so intrigued about the soldier he said he had seen that all the time I had been wanting to question him about it. I felt he had given Jeannette an unnecessary belief that her husband had come to harm, and that he ought to explain to her.

The bombardment faded out, and, except for the crash of some tottering wall, quiet came to Morbecque— the quiet of ruin and desolation. I wandered back into the deserted village, making my way into the estaminets, where the wine was unattended. In some of them soldiers were taking advantage of the free drinks.

Dawn had come when, moved by an unaccountable attraction, I stood before the cottage whose inhabitants we had assisted to safety. It was a pathetic wreck now. As I stared at it the cure came near and stared at it too.

"There were a woman and three poor little children in that house," he said nervously.

"They are safe," I said. "I can show you where they are, if you wish."

"You can, m'sieur? If you would!" he said thankfully. "I have a message for the mother— about her husband."

"Something has happened to him? He is a soldier," I said.

"He has been shot."

"Is he dead?" I asked intently.

"No, m'sieur. He has been badly wounded in the arm and chest."

"He will live, then?"

"He can fight no more, but he will live!"

As with joy in my heart I led the cure on his mission to still the sorrow of a soldier's wife and give her back the father of her children, I heard a black-bird singing.

But I was never able to tell Ormsby the rest of the story or question him about his vision. He was hurt that morning; and I never saw him again.

_________________

28: Non-Union Ghost

The Bulletin, 3 Feb 1937

SINCE the only spirits that appeal to my credulity are sold in bottles, I did not believe in ghosts. Neither did Blogson. I knew that his idea of a haunted boarding-house had been one of those freakish schemes characteristic of Blogson, like the one that came to him when, going to a bottle-yard to convert some empties into his fare to town, he caught sight of a pile of peculiarly-shaped medicine bottles which the bottle-yard man said gloomily were unsaleable.

"By jingo!" cried Blogson, "a patent medicine in those bottles would sell like hot cakes. I'm going into the patent-medicine business."

"But you have no money," I told him as we walked away, having arranged to take over the bottles.

"An idea is money," he said.

He proved it. "Blogson's Betterelth Banishes Biliousness" was shortly a familiar slogan; and for a time Blogson lived in affluence upon his idea and a start made with a borrowed tenner. The affluence might have remained but for Blogson's characteristic failure to pay his debts and some difficulty in securing fresh supplies of bottles, which were expensive to make. Finally, a meeting of creditors was left with a formula which was, I believe, a mere weak solution of gin and peppermint, and Blogson's Betterelth was forgotten.

In a similar fashion the idea of the haunted boarding-house had come when, looking for a new home, Blogson discovered Grantham Hall. It was one of those old houses which win a reputation for being haunted by remaining empty. The agents were prepared to discuss almost any sort of terms to secure a tenant who might break the evil reputation.

IT was a depressing place, but it filled Blogson with a bubbling enthusiasm, making him forget that he was stony broke and that the cause of his house-hunting was the determination of an unpaid landlord to get rid of him and his family.

"If a place is haunted," Blogson burbled, "people by themselves will shun it; but give them a chance to go there in comfortable social surroundings and they'll rush it with ears back. The whole world is looking for new excitements, and I'm going to give it one."

What followed was an amazing example of the Blogson methods. When he suggested that I should go with him to the agents, curiosity prompted me to accompany him; and he mesmerised me into the loan of a pound for a formal deposit.

"I came out in my old clothes"— that explained his shabbiness adequately— "and left my cheque-book at home. Herb, old chap, lend me a quid until I cash a cheque," he said.

That was Blogson at his best. Frenzied finance followed. Blogson dug an old, useless cheque-book out of his old papers and rushed round selecting furniture and distributing cheques as deposits for it, gas, new clothes and other necessary things. Then he went to Solomon, who had done fairly well out of Betterelth (probably five or six hundred per cent well), and succeeded in getting some real money to go into the bank to meet the cheques.

I was wondering how soon Blogson would get into gaol when the article on "The Ghost in the Boarding-house," published in the Evening Alarm, showed me that his harebrained scheme was developing. It was followed by others; the Alarm, in a slack time, had seized upon a haunted boarding-house as good news for daily splurging. It spoke of "manifestations" and of a crush of people filling every room in the house, with a long waiting-list of intending guests willing to pay all sorts of prices to stay at a haunted guest-house. Parties of members of the Psychic Society took it in turns to stay there, and expressed their views— very impressive views— to the papers.

I had a more substantial indication of Blogson's success when Blogson sent me a cheque for a fiver. I hardly believed the cheque until it was cashed. It salved the resentment I had felt for the way Blogson had practically forced me to part up a quid I had never expected to see again; and shortly I accepted his invitation to go out to see him.

IN spite of the papers, I had hardly expected the prosperity I saw in the place. Whilst trimming the previously overgrown garden at Grantham, Blogson had managed to preserve its eeriness.

Blogson, faultlessly arrayed in a dinner-suit, roared an exuberant welcome, although engaged on the 'phone, on which he was telling some inquirer that there was no chance of booking accommodation for another six weeks.

"We're the rage, old man," he said as he hung up the receiver. "People put off getting married until they can arrange dates here for the honeymoon. We've had to send the kids to boarding-school because our space here is so valuable— naturally, people don't expect to get ghosts thrown in at ordinary rates."

"I'm curious about how you work those ghosts," I said.

"Work 'em?" he cried. "I don't work 'em, my boy. I'm always afraid of a strike, as a matter of fact."

Although he laughed, it struck me that there was something uneasy in his manner. He rose from his desk, leading me towards the door of his office.

"I'm sorry, but we're so crowded that I'll have to fix you up in a sort of box-room. But you'll be comfortable."

"Oh, I say, I'm not going to stay. I—"

"You've got to stay—for one night at least," he said. "Let me introduce you. This is Major Dingle— Mr. Hamer; Miss Durack also. Excuse me— there's that 'phone again!"

"You know," said Major Dingle, a tall man with rather protuberant eyes and a strained, austere face, "this isn't right, Mr. Hamer."

"Isn't right?"

"That's my opinion. It isn't right to expose spiritual beings to vulgar curiosity. I take it, sir— you look an intelligent person— that you came here as a genuine inquirer. A place like this should be run with discretion mere vulgar sensation-mongers should be excluded. And that is all most of the people here are. It is an insult— an unwarrantable outrage— on the Beings who manifest themselves in this house."

"There are ghosts here, then?"

"Ghosts?" His eyebrows lifted superciliously. "If you like to call it that, there is at least one."

"There is no doubt about that," said Miss Durack decisively.

"I have seen him," said the Major impressively. "I have spoken to him. I may say he is deeply hurt."

Before I could inquire further Blogson claimed me.

"I'll show you your room, and then have to leave you. The dinner-gong's just about to go— come straight to my table. I'll keep a place for you."

"About these ghosts—"

"Oh, a little ghost goes a long way," he said breezily. "If people come to see ghosts they will see them. I'm afraid we won't have much time together to-night—l'm kept going pretty well— but I'll bring a bottle of whisky along and we'll have a yarn after you've gone to bed."

I HAD to admit he managed his ghosts well. For instance, it was not until dinner was practically over that the mournful, long-drawn howling of a dog sounded somewhere outside, eerily close. It brought a startled clatter of cutlery and an awed silence. I was startled myself.

Blogson jumped up.

"No need to be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen," he cried. "Those who have been here any length of time have grown used to it; that dog gives us a howl every night or so."

"Excuse me," said Major Dingle from a far table, speaking authoritatively, as one with knowledge; "that is the cry of a werewolf. It is no use," he added to several men who had moved towards the door, "to try to discover where it comes from. I have tried myself, six times, with others— Mr. Daley and Mr. Johns there; there is never anything to be seen."

I looked at Blogson, expecting a sly grin, but he kept a solemn face. I should have liked to hear the authoritative description of the habits and usefulness of the werewolf which I observed the Major giving to his neighbors. Men like the Major must have been invaluable to Blogson.

There was another diversion— a sudden terrified scream and one of the women who had left the room came rushing back sobbingly to throw herself into the arms of a young man who had been the first to leap towards the door.

"A hand touched me— out of the blank wall!" sobbed the girl.

"This is what young married couples like," whispered Blogson. "The girl likes the excuse for throwing herself publicly into the arms of her hero, and he likes being the hero."

We joined the solemn but excited procession that patrolled the corridors, examining the wall where the girl said the hand had touched her. Of course we found nothing.

I reflected that it was pretty easy to make people feel phantoms in the air. Even the dining-room of a place where everybody was expecting ghosts had not been the most cheerful spot in the world; an atmosphere of rapt expectancy conveyed even to the unbelieving a feeling of discomfort. The chatter at the tables was full of weird mystery. The psychic researchers revelled in recounting stories of adventures with spirits garnered from all the world, and their habit of whispering was disconcerting.

The atmosphere accentuated itself; although an impromptu concert started in the music-room and in the smoking-room the card-tables were out, people still exchanged their ghosts. Girls shrieked in corridors and came back with stories of mystic tappings.

EVERYBODY seemed to enjoy these sensations immensely; but when, having retired to my comfortable-enough stretcher in my box-like room, I had been twice aroused by further outcries, with subsequent excited gatherings in the corridors to investigate some new manifestations, it seemed plain to me that the guests were allowing their imaginations to run riot. But, waking from a doze into which I had fallen, I myself saw something that sent me out of the room like a shot. I collided with Blogson, clad in trousers and shirt, and nearly upset the promised whisky-bottle.

"Good God, man, you're trembling!" he cried.

My teeth chattered as I tried to talk.

"I was just coming along to talk to you," he said. "I should have told you about it. But he's quite harmless: come back with me and see."

He was so calm that my shock passed. It only returned in part, too, when, entering my room with him, I saw that dim, semi-luminous shadow, the vague figure of a man, sitting on nothing apparent, with his head buried in his hands.

"Hullo, old chap," said Blogson breezily; "you startled my friend. Not your fault, of course; he doesn't know you as I do, and he wasn't prepared to meet you."

The shadow groaned hollowly.

"It's cruel— cruel!" it moaned. "The old home a boarding-house— not a single room left that I can haunt in peace! I used to have the whole house to myself, and now even this room is gone!"

"Only for to-night, old chap," said Blogson soothingly. "It's hard on you, I know, but this is a very old friend of mine and I had to ask him to stay to-night."

"Place full of music and noise, too! It's cruel— cruel!"

The dread had vanished now; I regarded the shadow with mere curiosity and some feeling of pity. He looked pitiful. But a tap at the door startled me again. My nerves were getting jumpy.

Blogson sprang to the door; he seemed to gesture the man who stood there into the room, then closed the door again. I recognised the handyman of the establishment.

"Well, Jones?" demanded Blogson.

"So there he is, the blighter!" said Jones, with a jaundiced look at the shadow. "Still blacklegging, are you?"

The shadow merely groaned again, and Blogson turned to me.

"You see, Herb," he said, "I naturally didn't believe in ghosts when I came, but I was determined to have one. So I engaged Jones here— gave him an extra ten bob a week to slip round in a white night-dress, tapping at doors and scratching walls and getting into the garret and rolling things about— all that sort of thing."

"It was me that thought of the 'owling dawg an of gettin' on the roof an' tapping on the windows with sinkers on the end of fishing-lines," said Jones gloomily. "An' where's yer gratitood?"

"At that time," explained Blogson worriedly, "I hadn't met our friend here. He's a quiet chap; keeps to himself, as it were. I didn't know he was in the house, and I used to laugh when people declared they had seen him."

" 'E's got no idea of being an hartistic ghost. I can scare people worth two of 'im," said Jones scornfully.

"In lots of ways you're certainly a better ghost," admitted Blogson.

"Oh, don't say that!" moaned the shadow.

"Still, he's a real ghost," said Blogson. "It's a pity he won't moan in public like he did just now, but he's real."

"You didn't play the game with me," said Jones.

"You still get the extra money— in fact a quid a week extra now."

"Money ain't everythink. There's perfessional pride, said Jones bitterly. "An' this bloke, 'e works tor nothing. 'E's only an amachewer—a bloomin' blackleg!"

The shadow rose wringing its hands. "Oh, I can't stand this—l can't, I can't!" he moaned. "No peace— no place to haunt quietly; bound to intrude upon people to prevent the work being done by an imposter! I am robbed of my home!  I must seek some quieter place to haunt. I must go!"

"I'm with you there," said Jones heartily  "I'm going. There's heaps of boarding-houses now'd be glad of a good perfessional ghost. That'what made me foller vou in 'ere Mr. Blogson. I wanted ter tell you I put the business up to Sandring'am 'Ouse ternight, an' I took their offer. You ain't goin' to be the only one to run an 'aunted boarding-'ouse, Mr. Blogson."

"Look here, Jones—"

"I've said me larst word," said Jones, with a stride to the door, "I'm done. As you prefer your bloomin' amachewer, blacklegging ghosts, you can keep them!"

Blogson tried to stop him, but the door closed between them

"Well, you'll have it all to yourself now," he said, smiling ingratiatingly at the shadow. "I expect your co-operation. If I don t get it I'll have to employ someone else to do the work that Jones has been doing—"

But the shadow had vanished too. Only a groan came from mid-air. "There were jazz parties last week! The place is too noisy!" said the grieved voice, growing fainter.

"He's gone to sulk in the old coal-cellar. That's the sort of thing he does," said Blogson resentfully. "As a ghost he's not a patch on Jones. If I don't come to an understanding with him I'll have to get someone else."

I FELT sorry for Blogson, a sort of feeling that I had made trouble between him and his ghost by occupying that box-room, and I followed subsequent events with interest.

Sandringham House became, in its advertisements, a ghost-ridden boarding-house also. Then there were others. Some of the stories told about them were ingenious. Blisset House, for instance, was quite new, and there was no ancient reason why it should be haunted ; but the tale was told that while it was being erected a scaffolding had fallen, killing a woman who had come with her husband's lunch and the child who was with her.

Shortly, however, there was such a glut of haunted boarding-houses that the papers lost interest in such stories.

The glut puzzled me until I saw a very worried Blogson again. It appeared that he was having a fight with a union.

"You see, there is something queer about Grantham," he said, "and the union objects to it."

It appeared that Blogson had hired another man to carry on Jones's work; but Jones, who had developed a spirit of animosity, had got at the newcomer. He had gone over to Blisset House. His successor had passed to The Grange, after Blogson had taught him his work. Blogson could not keep a handyman more than a week or so.

A "Mystic Branch" of the Miscellaneous Workers' Union was formed. Its main plank was preference to unionists; and that was Blogson's trouble. A real ghost could not be expected to join a union, even if Blogson was ready to pay its fees. The union's strongest principle— in this the spirit of Jones, its president, could be seen— was an objection to "amachewers." Men who went to Grantham were called out on principle, and under the threat that they would be barred from future employment, and jobs were found for them elsewhere. And so the haunted boarding-houses grew.

THERE is only a limited number of people, after all, who like haunted boarding-houses, and what had been a goldmine idea began to peter out. But I think it was less a realisation of that than the desire to hit a shrewd blow at the union which had harassed him that caused Blogson to insert the advertisement that I saw one morning in the paper.

Its heading was:—

GRANTHAM HALL

NO BAD DRAINS: NO GHOSTS.

It was a shrewd move at a time when every boarding-house was boasting its spare ghost. It revived newspaper interest; and Blogson was enabled to explain how he had laid the ghosts of Grantham Hall by effecting necessary repairs to defects that had been responsible for queer noises. That annoyed the Psychic Society, especially Major Dingle; and Grantham got a lot of new publicity.

But, as far as I can make out, the Grantham ghost which had refused to give Blogson any real help was annoyed at being associated with bad drains and spots where repairs were needed. It came to life again, and stories revived about people who had not gone to Grantham to have ghostly experiences being disturbed at night. Anyway, it seemed that people who liked the thrills of far-off dog-howls and mysterious tappings objected to a shadow which sat on the end of the bed and moaned a hard-luck story. While a few of the boarding-houses whose ghosts were definitely bogus still did some business Grantham languished, being distrusted by people who didn't like ghosts and no longer valued by those who did. The Psychic Society, as a matter of fact, had boycotted it.

All this seemed to bear out the union's contention and Blogson's bitter comment that the amateur ghost wasn't a patch on the professional.

Grantham had only a couple of boarders when last I paid Blogson a visit there. Blogson might have held on and come back had it not been for his characteristic failure, during the times of prosperity, to meet the rent and the furniture instalments regularly. The creditors kicked at last, and Grantham went.

THE last time I met Blogson he was in the company of a man he introduced as the president of the Psychical Frauds Suppression Society. He was also, it appeared, the president of the Boarding-house Proprietors' Association.

"We are out to suppress unethical practices in the control of guest-houses," he told me. "This idea of advertising ghosts, for instance. We have found Mr. Blogson— who, I may say, put up to us the idea of the P.F.S.S.—invaluable as an investigator of ghost frauds."

Blogson always found a way out. He is a man of ideas. He passed me a whisper: "I've exposed that cow Jones five times; and I'm after him again."

__________________

29: The Crabbiness of Miss Cripps

The Bulletin, 22 Nov 1923

I HAD made up my mind to leave Miss Cripps's place. I hate crabbiness; and I had come to the conclusion that Miss Cripps's remarks about the late hours at which I came home, and the later ones at which I rose, betrayed an acid disposition. It was impossible for me to make myself at home in a place so like home— home being notoriously a place where any man who retains bachelor weaknesses can never be at home, even when he is there.

The argument of the morning which sealed my intention had been a particularly heated one. After it there was a lull; and then I heard a timorous tap at my door. The head of old Bolgin, who occupied the room next to mine, appeared.

"I hope you won't mind my coming in for a while," he said.

"Have you been getting it, too?" I asked.

"No— although I frequently do."

"And you've been hero for years. I wonder why you stay."

He passed his hand over his mostly-bald head, as if it had suddenly occurred to him that it was wonderful and he wanted to encourage his mind to think about it. A nuggety little man, at about the limit of middle-age, Bolgin ran a prosperous grocery business not far from Miss Cripps's establishment.

"I stay here," he said impressively, "because Miss Cripps is a splendid woman. I heard what took place this morning, and that's why I came in— because I know you'll think she's petty and narrow and exacting. I wished to tell you that she's a splendid woman."

He was so earnest that I forebore to smile. Miss Cripps did not impress one, at a glance, as a splendid woman. She was still young, but already the starved expression which creeps upon many women as they approach old-maidenhood was pinching a face that had probably never been beautiful. Her grey eyes purposeful, straight-gazing, fearless and yet soft were her best feature. Like her house, she was always trim but her temper was short. Certainly, very far from the ordinary man's notion of a splendid woman.

"I ought to know," said Bolgin. "I've lived here for fifteen years. Ever since she started the place. She was only sixteen when she did that."

"A pretty capable girl."

"She was. And a splendid woman." He was not going to let me escape that. Clearly he had something to say, and equally clearly he was finding it hard to say it.

"I want you to understand her," he said. "You see, you're a writer chap ; and, then— anyway, I wouldn't like you to go away and not understand her."

There was a pause.

"Supposing there was a woman who had drifted down until, what with drinking and letting herself go, she had become a real bad lot, losing any morals she may ever have had; and supposing she was made worse by a husband who didn't care what she did as long as he wasn't bothered, and who was nearly always away, anyhow. What sort of a chance would four kids, if they were girls, have of growing up decent?"

"Not much."

"Supposing they were brought up with strange men coming to the house, and brawls, and drunkenness?"

"No chance at all," I said.

"No, they wouldn't," he said ruminatingly. "Except— except one of the girls was like Chrissie— Miss Cripps: a splendid woman! She was about 13 when I first remember knowing Chrissie. I'd seen her before, but it seems (as often happens with people) that I suddenly woke up to her. I knew then that if I was ever to get any money out of that family it would be through Chrissie. I could give Chrissie credit: she would pay. She was mother to the other girls— though one was older than her. The mother was just a sloven, caring about nothing. Chrissie kept the others clean and tidy, and the house, too; and she got the money out of her mother for the bills somehow.

"There was respect in the whole neighborhood for little Chrissie. She had a kind of passion for respectability, for herself and her sisters; and even the rough characters of the neighborhood admired it in her. She sort of grew on us. Then came the time when she turned out a man who came to the house... Well, not exactly turned him out.

" 'Aren't you ashamed to come here?' she asked, standing right up to him. 'There are four young girls in this house, and it's their mother you are with. She wouldn't have brought you here, only she's been drinking. But you ought to think about it; you ought to think about them and be ashamed to stay.'

"I know, because I know the man; and he told me he was ashamed— so ashamed that he left.

"After that there was a considerable straightening up in that home; but it was hard to keep Mrs. Cripps straight. She was one of those women who are always talking about their love for their children and doing nothing to show it. As if it was something great and wonderful and unusual for a woman to love her kids! Perhaps she did love them— in her own slovenly way.

"Directly she was 14 Chrissie left school and got a job in a tearoom; and she got Ada, who was older, a job there, too. The mother had got Ada a job before, in the usual slovenly way, as a nursemaid. Still, in spite of her work, Chrissie was the little mother to the others; and kept the house in order, and the mother, too— she needed more keeping in order than the house.

"At 16 the father faded out. Just disappeared, and the money he used to send faded with him. Chrissie had to face the problem, for the money waitresses got them days didn't go far to keep a family. The lodging-house idea came to her. They couldn't let lodgings in their old house: it was a crazy old five-room place, pulled down now. She had to get recommendations for the landlord and the furniture people. She came to me.

"She came to me," he repeated proudly and with a touch of softness in his voice, as if he liked to think of it.

"I came to live here directly she started the place; I thought it would help her, and it was handy.

"Next she has trouble with Ada— a slummicky girl at 19, and prone to giggling whenever a boy looked at her. There was a pretty good deal of trouble one time and another; but she got to learn it was likely to be worse, and she locks Ada in her room one night. I heard the girl banging at her door, and I went down to see about it.

" 'lt's that cat Chrissie,' she says. 'She's locked me in. She's jealous about me having boys. Let me out, please.'

" 'lf she's locked you in it's good enough for you, I expect,' I says; 'but I'll find her—'

"I found her on the verandah. Just as I arrived there was a whistle in the street, and she pounced down on the whistler. Presently he followed her into the house looking sullen, and from what I heard I thought I might put in a word.

"I walked into the room where they were. 'Now, look here, young feller,' I said, 'what Chrissie says goes in this house, and I, as a relative of the family, am here to back it.'

"In short, we warned him off unless he was serious; and it was that that made him serious. He stayed away for nearly a week; and when he came back it was to tell us he's found out he really cares for Ada. They were married later, and that was one worry off Chrissie's hands.

"She had a few young fellows who used to come and see her herself; chaps she'd met at the teashop mostly. There was one hung on for a long time, and I wanted to break his neck after. He was a wealthy young galoot, and soon he is after Chrissie in deadly earnest. One night she is as happy as Larry, as she tells us all about it. They're engaged; and there is a big house and happiness ahead of her— all that she deserved. I felt dumped about it, not thinking him half good enough for her. But I was glad to hear her singing happily about the house. Singing about the house," he repeated. "You don't picture her like that, do you?"

"Well— no."

"But her troubles weren't over. Freda was the next one. She had a job as a typist, and she was all for going out; flashing round with the boss sometimes. Freda used to say she wanted enjoyment, and was going to get it. Chrissie thought it out; and then she got Reggie to take Freda out with them to theatres and so on.

And then it suddenly dawns upon me that the happy singing has stopped; but I didn't ready guess the position until I heard Chrissie sobbing in her room one night. Then I found out that Reggie was in love with the younger sister. He was prepared to go on, but when Chrissie heard, she wouldn't think of it. She released him. He married Freda soon afterwards. Chrissie had sacrificed her happiness for her sister's, but she kept a calm face to the world; and only I, who heard her sobbing at night, knew what it had cost her. I wanted to hear that happy singing again, but I never did.

"Then the mother died— it was a relief, that, I think. And the youngest girl. Anne, passed through the University on a scholarship, and got a classy school job. She never comes here now— looks down on Chrissie as commonplace.

"Commonplace!" his voice rose in passionate indignation. "Saved her whole family! Let her own happiness go! A splendid woman! If I had my way. I'd take her away from here, give her a fine house, and let her have all the pleasure that money could buy. She deserves—"

"Why don't you?" I demanded.

"Eh?" he cried, aghast. "Why, I would, but but I couldn't ask her! She's broken-hearted!"

"Nonsense," I expostulated. "A woman doesn't remain broken-hearted for good. If a young man has failed her, she may care for an older one. A woman wants to be married. I don't wonder at a woman growing crabby if year by year goes by and a man she knows loves her is ass enough to refuse to say so. Why—"

A tap at the door checked me; and on my "Come in," Miss Cripps entered.

"Miss Cripps," I said ; "I may have been rude this morning, and I want to apologise. I fancy I left my cigarettes in your sitting-room. Do you mind if I get them ? I'll be back in a minute." I paused half-way to the door. "What do you think Mr. Bolgin has been asking me, Miss Cripps? He wanted my advice 'on how to tell a woman he loves her!"

Bolgin's face flamed as he stammered a protest, and I paused for a quiet grin outside the door and unavoidably heard:

"But what he says is really true, Chrissie—"

Then I went downstairs.

I DON'T WONDER Bolgin wanted to hear Chrissie's happy singing again: she really has a very sweet voice. I heard it this morning.

As I remarked before, it had been my intention to leave my lodgings. I now find they are leaving me, as it were. What the whole business proves is that one should be careful of sweeping condemnations till the full story has been told.

_____________

30: Honor Among Thieves

The Bulletin, 4 Sep 1924

CHARLES DRAYSON strode along the dingy street, his lunch-tin clinking in his hand. A man leaning against a corner post detached himself and took step with him. There was a vast difference between them. Drayson, despite his smudged working clothes and black shirt, had an air of clean manliness; the flash clothing of the other only accentuated his mean shiftiness.

"Longie's in the soup, Charlie," he said shortly.

"What— Dave Long?"

"Yes, Dave. Over the park shooting."

"It was him, was it? See they're offering a reward over it."

"That's it. The Johns have an idea it's Longie, but they're not sure. An alibi's 'is lay if they get 'im. So 'e's lyin' low down at my place."

He paused for comment, and as none came went on: "But they seem to 'ave a derry about it. My place is being watched, and they've tried a few tricks to get in. If they come along with a searcher, Longie's gone a million— with 'is alibi. We gotter got 'im somewhere else."

Only the pad of their feet, broke the silence for a couple of seconds.

" 'E was a cobber of yours when you was kids!"

"I'd be sorry to see Dave in the soup, Ernie," said Drayson.

"Thought you would!" said the mean-looking one. "That's what I expected you to say. Well, you can get 'im out. They're watchin for 'im too close for us to git 'im away to the country just yet; but we could git 'im along to your place. That'd save 'im. The Johns'll never think of watchin there: you got too good a name."

The inflexion bespoke a scorn of the man whose reputation with the police was good.

Drayson stopped suddenly. "Look here, Ernie," he said; "I'm sorry for Longie, but I don't want to be mixed up with no crook work. You all know I don't. With the missus— why do you want to drag me into the thing?"

"Because it's the only way! We know all about you an the missus, and yer wantin' to keep straight, of course— good luck to yer, as fur as that s concerned! But y' can't git over, it that Dave useter be yer cobber, an' stayin in your place is th' one way to save 'im."

Drayson shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"What does he want to get mixed up in a shootin for?" he demanded, querulously.

"I told 'im what it would lead to, but he was so mighty clever!"

"Doesn't matter why— 'e done it!" said Ernie impatiently. "An' it's 'anging, mavbe, if 'e's caught."

"They wouldn't hang him."

"Well', it's seven years, any'ow. An' you re 'is cobber."

There was an embarrassed pause. "All right. Bring, him along," said Drayson, and moved off, with all the buoyancy gone from his step.

Half a dozen times he paused irresolutely, as if to turn back, and withdraw his agreement, and then changed his mind and went on.

The usual joyous greeting awaited him he reached the little old house in the shabby street which was "home" to him. There was the sudden feel in his arms of all that made, life delightful and turned that sordid place into a paradise. Momentarily he torgot about Longie. But watchful eyes saw his distraction.

u It s this, way, Ollie," he said at last, 1 m expecting a friend along to-night—he's going to stay for a few nights, an' nobody's to know he's here. We'll fix a stretcher in the back room, but you mustn't say a word'about it to anyone."

She sank to her knees on the floor.

"Charlie!" she cried. "It's nothing crook, is it? '

"It's nothing crook that I'm in," he said rather gruffly. "But it's an old cobber of mine. He has to lie low— over something, I'm sorry, Ollie. I knew you wouldn't like it. But they put it up to me over an old cobber— and what could I do?"

"As long as you're not going crook, Charlie." she said, "it's whatever you like, But why not get away from this place— away from it all'"

"That means money," he said. "But you need have no fear for me. I won't do nothing but keep straight— l've got too much to keep straight for, anyway." It was spoken in no empty complimentary fashion, but with deep earnestness, as lie drew her on his knee; and she was contented.

LONG duly arrived— a tall broad shouldered man, whose cool, assured manner, "snowy" hair and healthy red face, gave lie to the saturnine lines about his eyes and mouth.

"Knew you would always stick to a cobber, Chiller," lie said, heartily; and then turned towards Ollie. "Glad ter meet ycr, missus, Charlie useter be a cobber of mine since the time we was kids, but I've never 'ad a chance of seeing yer before. All I can say is that he 'as a good taste in choosing a missus."

His crude gallantry irked Drayson; but he soon forgot Ins annoyance and wondered at the easy mirtlitulness with which Long pliinged into the gossip of the neighborhood. Ollie flushed with pleasure when he spoke of her husband— of the qualities us a staunch mate he had shown, and his determination to be straight; and Charlie, feeling some insincerity in the flattery, something of a scornful jeer in the references to his straightness, was yet pleased because of that flush. There was a cynical look in Long's eyes as he viewed them both. For him the world had but two divisions— preyers and preyed upon; and whilst he might not prey on friends like this, they were there to be used.

Three sharp raps at the door startled Drayson, and his look to Long indicated the advisability of flight to an upper room but with a cool "That'll be Ernie Smart," Long remained undisturbed. It was Ernie.

"They've been an' searched the place: but they got nothink. I moved it in case. Yer'll be safe ere until we bring a car for yer th' night after next. About eight er-clock it'll be— Tom's car. an' it'll run yer to Campbelltown, where yer can start doin' the swaggie. We got it fixed to prove yer was in Goulburn two days ago. Yer lucky to be 'ere. Most of the blokes in the game," he said with bitterness, "seem to be pimps nowadays; an' that hundered pounds reward—"

Drayson s hand touched his arm sharply as he uttered an almost inaudible S-sh! His wife had approached and was staring, large eyed. .

"Don t she know?" Ernie whispered after she had gone.

"No. I don't want her to. know She goes dead-sore against crook business."

THEnext two days were full of anxiety for Drayson. He was relieved when, in the mist of the night, a car purred softly up the lane at the back of the house, and Long slipped out and was gone.

He was beginning to regard the episode as closed, when one evening as he reached a darkened corner, coming home, the figure of Ernie broke away from a shadow into his path Simultaneously two other figures loomed from nowhere in particular.

"Y'eard Dave Long's been took?" asked Ernie, a curious menace in his tone.

Drayson was amazed. "You say Dave's been been caught?"

"You know 'e 'as," came from the bigger of the two men behind Ernie. "You blanky pimp!"

He recognised Jumbo Duneen and Dud Coffey, who, like Ernie, were satellites of Long.

"I'm no damned crook, thank God! He said hotly; "but I'm no pimp! Anyone who says I am is a liar! Anyone who says I put Dave—"

Hot as he felt, Drayson was not blind to his danger and was ready for the coming rush Ernie was no fighter: and the frontal attack was left to the massive Jumbo. But Drayson knew their methods. Instead of meeting the heavyweight's charge, he side-stepped; and, as a well-directed right met Coffey's chin the bottle he had been preparing to wield flew from his hand and caught Duneen on the side of the head. It was a lively couple of seconds, but, helped by the paralysing effects of the opening incidents, Drayson found himself clear of his attackers. With a few yards between them, panting but defiant, he stopped; and so to his surprise, did they.

"We'll leave you till Longie comes, y' cow!" said Coffey. "He's on bail."

Drayson knew that his life was in danger. Suspected of being a pimp who had betrayed one of the men of the district, he would have to be consdtantly on guard against quick, murderous attacks. Yet it was not these thoughts that chiefly worried him, but the accusation that he had betrayed a friend.

Brought up in a neighborhood which had become so much a part of his life that, even when he married,  he had seized upon the first vacant house that offered as his home, he had watched it grow into a thieves' warren, still remaining friends with men who had become thieves. He had kept apart from them to the extent that he had gone straight; yet, while knowing their doings he had never dreamt of betraying one of them. It was a point of honor. To be charged as a pimp would have infuriated him, even if the man he was supposed to have betrayed had not been a friend.

Alarm showed on his wife's face when she saw him.

"Whhat is it, Charlie. What is it?" she questioned.

"They've called me a pimp!" he cried, in a voice choked with fury. "The Johns have got Dave Long, and they say I put him away. I ll make them—"

"Charlie!" she cried, and hid her face; and at once he knew.

To him it seemed as if the most awful of all things had happened. His wife had been a traitress to the friend who had taken refuge under their roof! He was too wroth to notice that it was not all terror at his discovery that her face showed, but shame and penitence as well.  He stared at her, his features working.

"Charlie!" she tried, "I'm sorry— I was sorry directly I'd done it; ashamed of it! But it kept coming to me to do it while I was sitting here, thinking— with him in the house. It kept coming to me that you would do anything for him because he was your friend, and then you would get into trouble, and all the life we hoped for would go to pieces. It made me mad to think of it. I felt I could do anything to prevent that; and it seemed that if Long was caught it would stop it. And then the thought came— kept coming— that the reward would give us the money to get right away. It kept coming, Charlie; till all in a moment I decided to go to the police. I know it was a terrible thing to do, Charlie; and I'm ashamed. But you don't know what awful thoughts drove me to it— thinking here alone. Charlie! Charlie! Don't look like that— speak to me!"

He did speak to her. as if he had not heard her shamed explanation, forgetting all his tenderness, making no allowances. He spat words of hateful reproach at her. Did she think it ever possible to make the foundation of a home on blood-money— the price of a friend's liberty? Rather, it would wreck the home they knew. He had nothing but loathing for a traitress— one who had marked him for ever as a traitor.

When she put her arms out imploringly to seize him and stop the channels,of his anger he threw her from him; and finally, distraught with the frenzy of his feelings, he dashed out of the house.

Sobbing on the floor where he had left her, with the thought that the romance of her life was killed for ever, she heard the door swing open again. Hoping that compunction had come to him, and that with a caressing hand he would raise her, she sobbed on. At last she looked up, and saw that it was Long who stood in the doorway, gazing down on her.

"Where's your husband?" he demanded.

"He's not here."

"I want him."

"Yes— you want him!" she blazed. "I wish to God you had let him alone, left him out of your affairs! Now I have lost him because of you— because he thinks he owes more loyalty to you than he does to me, his wife!"

"A lot of loyalty he's shown me!"

"He has! If you think he put you away you're wrong. I did it— l! And because he knows it he has left me."

He made a couple of steps towards her, and, terrifled, she screamed and retreated around the table.

"Why did you do it?" he asked unbelievingly.

"I'll tell you! I wanted to get him away from this place with all its thieves and its thievishness. He was always straight, but I was afraid of him: afraid he might be led into something. And he always said he would go when we could get the money to pay a deposit on a place. When he brought you here with him I was terrifled. It looked to me as if he was getting mixed up with crook business, and I felt that I would do anything— anything— to get the -money to take us away. And then I heard there was a reward."

"So you sold me— for cash," he said drily.

"It wasn't only that. I felt that he looked upon you as a friend, might get mixed up with you again. I wanted the police to get you so that that couldn't happen."

"You she-cat!"

The steely control he had hitherto maintained was broken by a blaze of ferocity as he stepped towards her. Sweeping desperately around the table, her hand met a work-basket, and she scrambled desperately amongst its contents for her scissors. As she drew them out the work-basket strewed its contents on the floor.

Standing at bay before him, with the scissors dagger-like in her hand, she was surprised to see the ferocity soften out of his face. His eyes were on the litter on the floor.

"I'm sorry, missus," he said suddenly. "Were you making them?"

Off her guard, she followed his eyes to where the little garments lay. With a poignant recollection of her griefs, and perhaps with some intuitive knowledge of the dramatic effects upon the man she had betrayed, she stooped suddenly, and seizing the small articles pressed them, sobbing, to her breast.

"I'll tell you why this gets me, missus," he said. "I 'ad a missus once— she was as good as a missus, anyway, though I couldn't marry 'er, having another one. But she didn't want the kid to be born unless I got work and we could be married, so— well, it wasn't. And she died. You done me in; but it can't be helped now. And Charlie— I'll fix up Charlie. Only you bear out what I say. Hist!" he added suddenly.

He had caught a sound. Charlie appeared and threw himself protectingly near his wife.

"Dave, I know why you are here," said Charlie hoarsely. "You think I put you away. You ought to know me better! I didn't; but you've got to think what you like."

"I don't think you did," retorted Long, with the easy humor he had shown when he first appeared as a fugitive. "It was your missus."

"That's a lie!" cried Charlie.

"No need to get hot," said Long calmly. "Your missus did it because I told her to."

Charlie stared at him; then he looked at his wife, but she hid her head in his shoulder. And a great elation came to him with the thought that she was not the traitress he had fancied.

"It's this way," said Long. "I reckoned I had no chance of getting away really, an' I found out that your missus wanted money to get a house away from here. So I says to myself, 'I don't owe the police nothing; why not make 'em pay a friend, since they must have me?' It took some argument to make 'er see the point— but don't you see I'm getting one over the Johns?"

"If I'd have known"— began Drayson.

"That's just it," said Long airily. "That's just why I told 'er on no account to tell you." He moved jauntily to the door.

"Good-bye, old pal; and so long an' good luck, missus. I'm going out to tell the boys in case there should be any misunderstandin'."

And with a jaunty walk and a laugh meant to indicate his appreciation of the joke he was putting over the police, he went into the darkness.

______________

31: Biggar and Better Times

The Bulletin, 28 Jun 1933

IT was when a southerly buster made itself felt, coming with a wild scurry round the corner and knocking newsboards and sundries flat, that I thought of Biggar, who so much resembled that sort of tempestuousness. Hardly had the thought occurred when I was thumped on my back, my arm linked into that of somebody I did not immediately see, and I was blown into the bar of the hotel I had been righteously passing.

Of course, it was Biggar. He had scarcely given me time to order my drink before, commanding a total stranger to hold the loose end, he started to unwind a roll of calico.

"What do you think of that?" demanded Biggar.

At the angle at which I was standing it was not easy to make out the big blue lettering, but Biggar, with a roaring laugh, interpreted: " 'Vote for Biggar and Better Times.' That's a good slogan, isn't it?"

"But what's it in aid of?" I asked. "It looks like an election sign to me."

"It is an election sign. Behold Thomas Carnegie Biggar, M.L.A.!"

My heart sank. Although it was refreshing to meet Biggar with the ability— the desire was always there— to shout for the whole bar, as in a minute he was doing, his announcement suggested that he had again jettisoned a sure and safe job. When last I had met him and his wife she had been overjoyed that Biggar had achieved a billet at £4 per week. He himself seemed satisfied.

"Gone in for politics?" I asked.

"Gone in for politics?" he echoed. "My boy, l am politics! My mission is to put patriotic, independent life into a moribund Parliament. This country must be rescued from the blight of Communism"'

"Hold hard, Tom," I said., "I'm not a political meeting. The last time I met you you were doing well with Seaside Sites, Ltd. You told me you were set for life."

"Pshaw! That was merely a stepping-stone," returned Biggar grandly. " 'There is a destiny that shapes our ends,' you know, and destiny was shaping my ends in associating me with Seaside Sites. Now I'm going into Parliament. I'll get in as a National Independent on the ground floor."

I had so often heard Biggar offer to let people in on the ground floor of new companies that I guessed what he meant; but it was only bit by bit that I pieced together the story of what had happened.

Doing well with Seaside Sites, he had developed an ambition for a motor-car. It was, he declared, absolutely necessary to enable him to cover the ground ("covering the ground" had always been one of Biggar's phrases). I could quite understand the use Biggar would have for the car in entertaining his family and his friends. Miraculously, one was provided by the firm, and at once Biggar found Samuel Pompard, M.L.A., who was on the board of directors, an intimate friend. Pompard developed a notion that the seaside sites in his electorate deserved special consideration; and Biggar said he would consider it a sacred duty to help.

It was natural for Biggar to stress the connection of Pompard, M.L.A., with the Co. Nobody in the world could promise more largely than could Biggar when he got going, and the whole surrounding country heard of what Pompard was going to do for it in the way of a railway, cheaper trains and everything a suburban taxpayer might desire.

Biggar didn't realise, apparently, how much he was being used by a political self-seeker until Pompard suggested one day that he would like the car for Sunday, and Biggar with it. Biggar was shocked at this misuse of the Co.'s property. Besides, he, had arranged to take his family for an outing to Bulli Pass. He voiced his objection.

"Look here, Tom," said Pompard acidly, "there wouldn't have been any car if I hadn't insisted on it as a member of the board. It's been useful to you and the Co., and I'm entitled to something surely for my —my foresight. I really want the car this Sunday."

He got it that, Sunday— and on others; and the Biggar family did not go to Bulli Pass.

"That's how I got the strength of him," Biggar explained. "He's not liked, you know; just forced upon the electors by the machine. People came to me and said I was the fellow to hold the seat for Nationalism. The electors were sick of Pompard, and their votes would go to the Labor chap unless there was someone else offering like myself. So," said Biggar with his roaring laugh, "you see me as the future Tom Biggar, M.L.A."

"But what about your job? An election campaign costs money."

"I've thrown in the job, of course," said Biggar carelessly, for jobs were just casual matters to him. "They've formed a committee for me, and it'll find the exes. I won't need a snide job like that when I'm in Parliament."

His confidence was magnificent, and he showed how ready he was to spend the money with which his committee supplied him by planking down the coin for another round of drinks.

"I didn't know you were much interested in polities," I commented; "and I always had the idea that you were a Labor man."

"I was," Biggar said significantly; "but we must lay the grim spectre of Communism. which threatens to reduce Australia to the level of Russia. My policy is independence. I shall advocate more suburban railways, more employment, more opportunity to private enterprise, less taxation. Biggar and Better Times! That's it in a nutshell."

"How are you going to do it?" I asked cynically.

"Wait until I'm in Parliament and I'll show you," he retorted easily. He became oratorical, and probably would have been content to remain in the bar airing his political greatness if my remark that I had an appointment had not reminded him of one of his own.

Pompard, I knew, was not a popular politician. Still, I wondered at an opposition prepared to find enough money to put Biggar, as an opponent, in Easy-street until on the steps of the Andreas Building we met two men obviously waiting for Biggar. I knew both Cowley and Knowles.

"You're damned late, Tom!" said Knowles. "Peterson went in a quarter of an hour ago, and the appointment was at four. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I've been doing good work. Hamer here has promised to come out and assist my campaign," breezed Biggar quite gratuitously. "He's going to give me some paragraphs. By the way, Hamer, I'll send you a photograph you may be able to use."

I saw daylight. Peterson was chairman of a group of city interests eager for certain political concessions which Pompard (whose financial interests were different) had sedulously opposed. Cowley and Knowles I had often met at the Trades Hall. Their names were seldom mentioned in Labor politics— political wire-pullers do not court publicity. Biggar, a baby in politics, believing himself a bulwark of anti-Communism, had fallen into a nice little plot to split the vote with Pompard, for whom one of his rare dislikes had grown. It was skilful work, no doubt, on the part of Cowley and Knowles, who were giving the Labor man a chance to win the seat, on money provided from essentially anti-Labor sources. There were probably other organisations besides those headed by Peterson that would help in giving the aggressive Pompard a bump. It was one of those little intrigues that frequently arise in election times, when money to pull all sorts of wires becomes available.

Biggar was so innocent and so confident that I did not like to make the matter plain to him when I visited him in his electorate.

"I'm a stone certainty," he roared at me in his gusty fashion. "Here's a test for you. Hey, Parkins, meet my friend. He's not very sanguine about how I'm going to get on. Who're you going to vote for?"

"As far as I'm concerned, there's only Tom Biggar in it," returned Parkins heartily.

"We're sick of Pompard, and I've never given Labor a vote yet."

Biggar breezed us into a hotel. He seemed popular in the bar. He would be. As the days went on, and I saw him blowing about the town in his well-known imitation of a southerly buster, I was almost infected with his own confidence.

His committee-room was a hive of activity. There I met Mrs. Biggar, sitting at a table checking a roll with lists that had been brought in, and two little Biggars— they were writing out, in large, scrawling handwriting, other lists of marked names from other rolls.

Mrs. Biggar looked a little wistful, I thought.

"How do you like the prospect of Tom becoming a member?" I asked her.

"I think it might have been better if he had stuck to his sure four pounds a week," she whispered, as if half afraid of disloyalty in saying it. I felt sorry for the poor lady. She corrected her disloyalty immediately.

"Of course, Tom is just the man for Parliament, with all his— his ideas."

"You really don't like the idea of your husband being a politician," I said. softly.

"I've heard such a lot about political life spoiling family life," she said, whispering again. "You know, Tom sometimes gets drunk. It's only natural for a man who has so many friends; but he always did come home."

I squeezed her hand as I said good-bye, understanding her feelings exactly.

They were astonishingly good meetings Biggar held. He put forward his policy as it he were selling shares, throwing at his audiences lumps of political meat; and they barked approval.

"When you send me into Parliament," he declaimed, "a great blow will be struck. It will be the beginning of the end of the professional politician."

That was like Biggar. The crowd cheered. The newspapers, apart from the little help I gave him in a friendly spirit, took no notice of him. That did not worry Biggar, whose optimism remained unshaken: but, as usual, there was a fly in the ointment.

"That brute Cowley," he said, "doles out money as if it was his own. It's not. The money raised by the committee is my money."

"Perhaps they don't like you spending it outside the electorate," I suggested as he planked down the cash for another drink.

"You've got to spend money to make money." (Biggar was full of phrases like that.) "Cowley turned me down, so I came in to see Peterson, who I know is backing my campaign. All I could get out of him was a quid, as a personal loan. A quid goes nowhere. If—"

"I'm darned hard-up to-day," I said quickly. "I certainly haven't a quid myself."

He gave one of his roaring laughs. "I'm not trying to tap you. But Cowley hasn't paid the bill for our removing into the electorate yet. Apart from that, the printer and signwriter were both after me about their accounts this morning. Of course, if the committee doesn't pay them— and it looks fishy— l'll be able to square things off easily enough when I'm in Parliament. I told them so."

"Well, good-bye, Biggar, M.L.A.," I said to him as we parted. "I'll be along to see you before the elections."

LANGLEY invited me to stay at his place, which is in the electorate, for a couple of days. I went down with him. It was the eve of the poll.

"Biggar's a good chap, in spite of his peculiarities," I said.

"I'll probably give him a vote," replied Langley.

After dinner we strolled down to meet Biggar, and afterwards we attended his main rally.

Heckling started almost at once. Biggar had spouted the phrase "The chains must be broken from the arms of private enterprise," when a voice shouted, "How about an anti-depression pill?" The yell of delight showed that this reference to a commercial exploit of Biggar with a quack remedy was understood.

"Put me into Parliament and I will show you that l am an anti-depression pill!" retorted Biggar readily. He got a burst of applause for that; but he was soon floundering in deep water as he attempted replies to thrusts he should have ignored. Evidently patient investigators had been delving into his history. The joy with which questions regarding his unpaid debts were reecived showed that the information collected had been carefully spread.

I felt sorry for Biggar, standing, red-faced and floundering, before his big sign, "Vote for Biggar and Better Times." He was having the worst time he had ever had. He certainly retrieved himself when an egg bounced against his chest.

"That egg is as rotten as my opponents' arguments!" he roared.

I remembered having told him the story of that retort made by George Reid in similar circumstances. He had recalled it opportunely, although he lacked the George Reid manner.

There was more to come. When Biggar had finished, amid a howling uproar, a man started to his feet with a bawled "Question!" which secured a momentary quietness.

"When are you going to pay the grocer's bill you left at Jonesville?" demanded the questioner. There was further pandemonium. Sorry as I was for Biggar, there was one for whom I felt more pity. I found her in the deserted committee-room in tears. I had noticed her earlier in the crowd struggling for a hearing against the interjectors, which had only added to the confusion.

"When they asked Tom if he had left off beating his wife," she sobbed indignantly, "I wanted to get up and tell them what liars they were. Tom has never been anything but a kind, dear husband to me, and it's a criminal shame that just because there's an election they should say such things. I can't understand why Tom didn't say about that bread bill that he'd given the baker a cheque."

I understood. A stony-hearted banker had returned it.

Poor Mrs. Biggar, thrown from her £4 per week felicity into this ! It was a relief when her husband arrived, red-faced but not cast down.

"The scurrilous vermin!" he cried. "But they've overreached themselves. Their attacks will only awaken sympathy for me. I'm certain of that. I had a good chance before, and now I'm a certainty. Cheer up. old girl!" he added. "To-morrow night we'll have a victory."

I TURNED OUT next day to do what I could, and Langley offered his car. The polling was as dull as polling usually is. Biggar blew about, in and out his committee-rooms and around the polling-booths. He had started the day in an angry mood when he discovered that his "How to Vote" cards directed his supporters to give their second vote to the Labor man, putting Pompard last. However, he had got over that annoyance. He had got over the closing of the hotels also, and he was confidence incarnate wherever he appeared.

"I lent Biggar a quid," Langley told me in the afternoon. "He said he had run short of change and wanted to get some beer for the committeemen. He's all right, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, he's all right," I said hurriedly.

"You don't seem too certain about it," said Langley darkly.

I hoped that he had voted, for Langley is a man who can forgive anything but being taken down.

I walked down to the headquarters committee-room about two hours after the poll had closed to find out how the count was going. The result for the centre of the electorate, where Biggar had reckoned upon an overwhelming victory, should al least be illuminating. The whole Biggar family was present. Young Tom Biggar was repeating as he held the telephone: "Pompard, 4-5-3-6. Yes, 4-5-3-6. Lavery, 4-1-0-9. Yes. Biggar.... Hey, what's that? What? Biggar, 1-5-9. What? Only 159!"

It seemed ridiculous, a farcical ending of all the hopes, to say nothing of the sacrifice of the £4 p.w. job that had made poor Mrs. Biggar happy.

Biggar flopped into a chair as if stunned.

My "Hard luck, Tom!" seemed to be a futile comfort. It was Mrs. Biggar who relieved the tension. There was a light in her face that might have been relief. I think she was relieved, yet sorry for the disappointment and humiliation that was in every line of Tom's face and drooping figure.

She put her arms over his shoulders.

"Never mind, Tom; we are together anyway. We will try again—"

"Never again," said Tom. "I've finished with politics."

It startled me when he sprang to his feet suddenly. "Pompard !" he exclaimed. There was a note of fury in his voice.

Pompard came in with hand extended.

"It's the hand of friendship, Tom," he said. "You behaved like a sport. I expected you to hit back last night, but you didn't. You fought clean."

He had said the right thing to relieve Biggar's worst emotion, his humiliation. The fury passed from the defeated man's face, and he took the extended hand.

"My scrutineers," said Pompard, "tell me that you took Labor votes almost entirely."

"That's what I intended to do," said Biggar.

"It was not what you were intended to do," said Pompard drily. He looked round at us and then, deciding that we were all friends, went on: "I owe you something, Tom. They tell me that there's been a little trouble in your committee about funds. Well, there's a cheque waiting any time you want it for what you need, to put you straight."

He went on hurriedly to avoid thanks.

"Meet me at the Seaside Sites office about your old job on Monday. You were a very capable man, and there's no reason— Shall we say half-past nine?"

I saw the shine of gladness spread over Mrs. Biggar's face. Biggar himself seemed rather stumped.

"There's a drop of whisky in the bottle in the car," said Pompard.

Biggar was himself again. "Good for you, Pompard!" he cried. "Bring it in and we'll drink to the winner."

_____________

32: Marketing Our Bridge

The Bulletin, 16 March 1932

The landmark Sydney Harbour Bridge bridge was formally opened on Saturday, 19 March 1932.

DRAMATICALLY Biggar breezed into my office and got in that friendly bang on the back before I had time to dodge it.

“Old chap, I’ve made my fortune! Lend me five bob,” he said, all in one breath.

“What— again?” I demanded cynically, knowing that cynicism is the only defence against Biggar’s exuberance. “What’s the goldmine this time?”

“The Bridge,” he said.

“What bridge?” I demanded, determined, as a matter of self-defence, to take some of the wind out of his sails.

“Not the one on which galoots like you trump your partner’s ace and go four no trumps on a Yarborough,” he retorted. “The Sydney Harbor Bridge, you chump!”

“Is there a bridge?” I asked.

“Don’t be a goat,” he said. “If you’d been a bit late coming across the harbor this morning you'd have seen them putting the finish on the eighth south panel.”

“They completed it, did they?” I said, with the interest of one who is a part-owner. “Looks as if they’ll have it done in no time now!”

“They’re getting ahead,” he agreed. “That’s where I drop in. It came to me like a flash. I kept on thinking of it, night after night: if there was going to be a bridge there must be some money in it for me. Then I saw the way. A great scheme! You’ll find it there.”

He had thrust before me a typewritten document on which I noticed the heading “Harbor Bridge Approaches Land Trust,” and then .something that took my breath away as effectively as his slap on the back had done.

“Nominal capital, £10,000,000!” I gasped.

“Just the bare ten million,” he said off-handedly. “If you’ve got a couple of bob we’ll go and have a drink, and I’ll explain it.”

Biggar was one who never appeared to see the incongruity of talking of millions and the necessary silver for drinks in one breath; and I must say that, in spite of his frayed raiment, his talk was quite impressive.

The scheme itself might have been acceptable, too, if someone whose name was Money had been its sponsor. It was, in effect, a pooling of land adjacent to the Bridge approaches for purposes of re-sale— a scheme which would have seemed attractive enough to property-owners, no doubt, if Mr. Money had stated them; the huge capital was to represent the shares that  would be issued against the pooled land. Merely as the scheme of the shabby Biggar, however, it looked too much like a suggestion that the property-owner should pool his land for the purpose of providing a salary for Biggar, whose services were modestly assessed at £2500 per annum. But Biggar saw no difficulties.

“Approached in the proper way, they’ll rush to get in!” he declared. “All I want is the money for preliminary expenses. Whoever puts in for that I’m prepared to let in on the ground floor.”

That is an impressive phrase which cashless millionaires like Biggar, I have noticed, are almost as fond of using as the other one about “putting all the cards upon the table.” It gives a mental picture of a magnificent forty-storey edifice, solid and complete in every detail, in which the most desirable apartments are available for a mere song to the far-sighted investor. It is probably fortunate for myself that I have never been in a position to accept all the ground-floor invitations that have been extended to me. I didn’t regard the five shillings Biggar extracted from me as the price of that admission. Being sure I would never see it again I tried to forget it when I said good-bye to Biggar, after promising that if I ran across any people with ground-floor leanings I would put them on to him.

But when next I met Biggar one of those changes with which he sometimes astonished his acquaintances had come upon him. He was, so to speak, clad in affluence, and in his southerly-buster way he blew me into a saloon bar and poured two drinks and an amazing optimism into me.

“Great!” he said in answer to my inquiries about how his scheme was going. “I’ve got my preliminary capital, and we’re in a position to go straight ahead. You must come up and see our offices.”

It was impossible just then, other business calling, although it was difficult. to prevent the exuberant Biggar from carrying me with him bodily. The meeting bad awakened my curiosity, nevertheless; and when I did call the aspect of the offices impressed me. They were, small but pretentious, and the gold lettering on the. door, with; “T. Carnegie Biggar, Secretary and Manager,” underneath, was all that gold lettering should be. The "Carnegie” was new to me; but it called up million-dollar memories.

When I entered without knocking, as the door invited, me to, I noticed that a boy in an enormous white collar was bent industriously over a desk in the corner, and, as I waited for him to notice me, I heard Biggar’s voice from the inner room.

“I assure you, Madam, that you cripnot do better than accept your trustees’ advice and agree to putting the land into the Trust. They are business men who realise the advantage Why, Great Scott,

Mary, it’s Hamer!”

When I saw Mrs. Biggar smiling at me as the pair came out of the inner office, I realised that the words I had heard had been prompted, as a bit of artistic window-dressing, by the sound of the opening door. I noticed, too, that the boy with the, big collar was Tom Biggar, junior, who, having grinned at me in a friendly fashion when he recognised me, relaxed to the job of drawing horses on the blotting-pad— his industry having been another bit of window-dressing evidently.

“Well, what do you think of us?”, said Biggar proudly, showing me into his well-furnished sanctum, and pushing me into one of the saddle-back chairs. “She’s pretty, good, eh?”

“Has quite the ten-million-pound look,” I commented.

“That sounds an enormous amount, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Biggar,  it seemed to me a trifle anxiously. “And that salary of Tom’s, too ! I often think it would be better if he got a position with a regular salary;—even four pounds a week, if it was certain.”

Biggar indulged in one of his huge laughs as he patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart!” he said. “You run along and have lunch, and get home to the kiddies. And tell that grocer I’ll come down to-night and see him.about his account.”

“Things not quite so good?” I queried as the door closed on Mrs. Biggar, after she had said good-bye.

“Matter of time. These property-owners are fair cows to deal with. They won’t see what’s good for them; but all the same— well. Mr. Hamer, you will never regret your decision to come in. The proposition means a hundred per cent, improvement or more in the value of your land. Suppose we go down to the solicitor’s now?”

The sudden change in his conversation would have surprised me if I had not heard the door open again and an exchange of words between young Tom, who had declared his father to be engaged on important business, and a new arrival. I found myself being introduced to a middle-aged man whose face had a suspicious look.

“Do you mind waiting for a quarter of an hour?” said Tom.  "lf I m not back then, will you come to-morrow? We’re just going out to sign some documents— it may take a little time.”

The “documents,” needless to say, came from bottles in a pub a couple of blocks away— Tom remarked that old Heather, grown tired of waiting, might also feel thirsty, and a near hostelry would, therefore, have dangers— and I learnt, both going there and (in a double sense) on the spot, the position of affairs.

“All the old idiot would come up was a hundred quid and he calls in every day to see how things are going on, as if it was a million. I let him in on the ground floor— a thousand shares for his hundred, and the cow won’t come any more cash. A hundred quid is a rottenly small amount, considering the work it’s got to do!”

I looked at his prosperous raiment but did not mention that.

“They charge you a pretty stiff rent, I expect, in that building,” I said.

“Yes; and the first week’s had to be paid. I’ll have to find someone else to put up a little cash.”

“Let him in on the ground floor, too?” I could not help asking.

“Yes, absolutely!” he said seriously.

After a few drinks we played dominoes, Biggar having, for the benefit of Heather, rung up the office to say that he had been called to a conference of interested land-owners; and somehow we were still playing dominoes when the grinning face of young Tom, who evidently knew where to come, looked in, and the youngster announced he had closed the office.

After that, although Biggar persisted in a boisterous optimism about his scheme, I was not surprised when, dropping in to see him a few weeks later, I found the office empty and a workman scraping the gold lettering of the Harbor Bridge Approaches Land Trust from the glass panel of the door. A man who looked on, and who appeared to be the caretaker, seemed eager to make nasty remarks,

“Where’s Mr. Biggar gone?’" he repeated nastily. “The agents would like to know! People who put time-payment furniture into offices and then fade out, not paying anyone! Are you another of the blokes he’s taken down? There was that Mr. Heather calling in for a. week after he’d disappeared!"

I was still smiling over the caretaker’s grievances— in which a black eye had somehow got entangled— when I found myself, whirled abruptly into a hotel, and knew it was Biggar himself who was with me.

“The Approaches Land Trust?” he echoed after me. “Oh, that’s up the spout! I found out I was on the wrong lay.”

“Then you’ve given up the idea of making money out of the bridge?”

“What ?” he roared. “Not me! What’s the use of us building a bridge if I don’t make money out of it ? I’ve got an option over it.”

Used, as l am to Biggar and his statements, this one made me gulp over my whisky.

“Advertising,” he explained. “I did have an idea, seeing how hard up the Government is for cash, of getting up a company to take over the bridge and make it pay; but then I got this one. It’s better. Do you know how much space there is for advertising on the bridge?. I’ve got the figures here!”

He plunged his hand into his pocket to produce the inevitable papers— l don’t think I have ever met Biggar when he did not have a prospectus of some sort in his clothes.

“You don’t mean to say you’ve been given an option over the bridge for advertising?” I demanded.

“Well, I haven’t exactly got the option yet; but I’m after ft, and live got backing.  Managed, to. get some politicians interested; why, Blankidash, M.L.C., is my chairman of directors! They don’t get their shares unless the thing comes off.”

"lt’s monstrous; you’ll never get it,” I commented.

“Why not? Doesn’t the Government want money to help pay for the dashed thing? Well, we’ll get it for them. Artistic advertising, of course. Why, it’ll look grand at night, with all the electric signs up. ‘That Trip to Europe’ at the apex, with a ship in colored lights sailing over a green sea, and underneath '10 to 1’ with a fag, red light at the end. The ‘B.O.’ are looking out towards Botany, and ‘Coffitup for Colds’ gleaming out where it can be seen by all the couples sitting on the damp grass in the harborside parks. The whole thing will be a mass of light— it’ll look fine!”

“I’m damned if it will,” I said.

For about the first time in our acquaintance something like a quarrel took place between us, Tom having a hot resentment at my aesthetic objections to his scheme.

“But, damn it, we won’t quarrel!” he said. “Let’s have another drink. Only I said I was going to make money out of the bridge, and, by Christopher, I will!”

I DID NOT run across Biggar for some time; but I caught sight of him moving busily about once or twice in cars, and this evidence of affluence and activity made me curious. It would be a scandal, of course, if the bridge was leased for advertising, such a scandal as I could not imagine being permitted; yet....

I was quite glad to meet Mrs. Biggar, looking very happy and prosperous, one day.

“Yes, Tom’s very busy,” she told me. “He’s trying to get the whole thing fixed up, but he has to see so many people about it! You’d think that they’d be glad to help a man who works so hard. I can’t see why they don’t let him have the land without all this trouble.”

“The land!” I exclaimed blankly. “I thought it was the bridge he wanted— for advertising.”

“Oh, that fell through. I thought you knew. Tom’s idea is to run a monster fair on the land still vacant near the bridge. All sorts of side-shows; it would astonish you to see the list he has. If it comes off it’ll be all his work; yet he’s going to give half the profits to the hospitals!”

“He’s got backing?” I suggested.

“Oh, yes! The side-showmen— what a queer lot they are, Mr. Hamer!— are behind him; and so is one of the men who was in the advertising scheme. The others seem to have lost faith. I don’t see why they should lose faith in Tom. He always means well— you know that, of course, as his friend.”

I was forced to a smile.

“As long as he has your faith, Mrs. Biggar.”

“He will always have that,” she said firmly.  There was something heartwarming about the loyalty between these two.

THE EXCITEMENT of the Bridge opening celebrations had fallen upon the city; and the day itself was within sight when—

“What about a bridge souvenir, Mister? Why, it’s you!”

It was Biggar— again a frayed Biggar, and now with a card of cheap souvenir badges in his hand in a case evidently containing more alongside him. And young Tom, similarly equipped, was with him, grinning a greeting.

“You’ll have a drink?” I asked.

“My oath! Young Tom can slip in and have a softee over the road.”

“How’s the game?” I asked him as we took our glasses.

“Well, you see what it is! I tried a monster fair scheme, but it fell through. A man has to do something, though, and I struck the idea of souvenir badges. They’re going like hot cakes; and the wife’s delighted— she says there’s real money in them!”

He gave that roaring laugh of his. After all, you had to like Biggar.

“What does it matter as long as we’re all happy— especially her and the kids?” he asked.

_______________

33: Uncle Bill Comes to Light.

The Bulletin, 26 Feb 1930

PRISCILLA CORRY put aside the dress which made her the nattiest of the typists in the employ of Hoggleby and Flinch, and, having got into her house frock, descended to the kitchen of the small and cramped Paddington house. In the living-room that seemed overcrowded with misfitting furniture, children and rough-dried washing she unwrapped the sausages she had brought from town.

“The butcher gave me two pounds by mistake ;so I thought you and the children could share them with me,” she said, and hoped to be forgiven for the lie. She really disliked sausages; but they were cheap and went a long way with a large family.

Not that the family was any real responsibility of Priscilla’s. She smiled grimly as she thought of how reasons of economy— the economy enforced by self-support on a junior typist’s salary— had led her to take a cheap room in Paddington. The economy had worked well up to the time the head of the Carter family had fallen down under the strain of maintaining it, and been taken to hospital. After that catastrophe Priscilla had tried to hide from herself the privation that the family below was enduring. She failed completely; in two days it was a complete capitulation, and the cares of Mrs. Carter had become almost her own.

So here she was making excuses for her two pounds of sausages and aproned ready to help the careworn mother with the Carter progeny that ranged down to babyhood.

“It’s too good of you, Miss Corr'y,” Mrs. Carter was saying. “You do too much altogether for me. I’ve got some vegetables an’ rice, an’ it’s good food, an’ the children’ll enjoy it.”

“But all those sausages would be wasted with me,” said Priscilla. “Besides, now I can have my tea with you. Have you milk? Here, Kitty, get the milk jug and run out for some.”

Kitty, obviously much relieved to be assured that the sausages, a moment in doubt, were a certainty, dashed for a jug whilst Priscilla produced from her apron pocket the coppers she had placed there for just this emergency. “Better get an extra pint— it’ll do for the baby,” she said as she passed over the coins.

“It’s kind of you, Miss Corry, ’elpin’ me like you do,” said Mrs. Carter. “I was wonderin’ whether, after, I could run down to S’in’ Vincent’s an’ ’ave a look at ’im. It’s lonely for a pore feller lyin’ there sick all day. But p’raps I can let Kitty an’ young Bill look after the babies.”

“You go by all means,” said Priscilla. “I’ll be here— I’m not going out to-night; and I’ll look after the kiddies.”

“It’s puttin’ too much on you,” said Mrs. Carter apologetically—“you’re young an’ pretty an’ ought to be out every night enjoyin’ yourself.”

“I wouldn’t be going out in any case tonight,” Priscilla answered.

“Well, perhaps you don’t mind so much, that young Mr. Morgan not bein’ here. And you’re right, too. Give me the men from the country every time is what I say.”

Priscilla set the fat spluttering in the pan and hid her blushes. It certainly would be far nicer to be setting out in the cooling starlight on the arm of Jack Morgan than remaining in this rather squalid house caring for noisy and rebellious children. But Jack Morgan had gone out of the picture, back to his place in the country. Perhaps he had been all a delusion ; yet it had been a very sweet delusion whilst he was with her, making promises for the future in a voice in which she could have sworn there was honesty. She was less certain now he was gone about the honesty. There had been something so vague about it all, in spite of his firm promise that he was coming back. There was a talk of parental objections to be overcome; and now he had been away so long with only a line or so to remind her of him— if she needed to be reminded! Perhaps he had been honest enough, but his feeling had been only momentary. There would always be sweet memories; but Priscilla had a sinking in her heart when she considered the fading prospects of his return.

“Where’s the salt?” she asked.

“Salt? Oh. when I was at the grocer’s to-day I forgot salt,” said Mrs. Carter. “Perhaps we could do without it.”

Priscilla knew what that meant. Her hand dug into her apron pocket again.

“Here. Jimmy.” she called, “run after Kitty, and tell her to buy some salt, too.”

“It’ll be all right when Uncle Bill comes to light,” said Mrs. Carter optimistically. The prospect of Uncle Bill “coming to light” had become almost a tradition in the Carter family; from the first day of her arrival Priscilla had heard of it. Young Bob had “busted” a third-hand tricycle, and had been assured that it would be all right when his Uncle Bill came to light. And Carter’s last words when the ambulance men carried him from the house had been: “Write to Bill, Maggie ; tell ’im ’ow things are— an’ about the children. They’ll be all right when their Uncle Bill comes to light.”

“But you wrote to him, didn’t you, and his answer was a disappointment?” practical Priscilla asked.

“Yes,” admitted Mrs. Carter. “’E said ’e ’ad ’is own troubles an’ wasn’t goin’ to add Bob’s to ’em. But Bob says to give ’im time to think over it. Bill’s not a bad sort, Bob says, an’ ’e’ll come to light. I’ve never seen ’im meself; an’ Bob hasn’t more’n once or twice in twenty years since ’e went out to Burradoo an’ started to make ’is fortune. But Bob oughter know ’is own brother; an’ ’e says Bill’s a bit hard, but ’e’s bound to come to light sooner or later.”

Priscilla reflected that the sooner it happened the better as, the scrambling tea over, she proceeded to relieve the babies of their clothes, sadly threadbare and torn, and put them into equally timeworn nightgowns.

“There’s that young Bob not ’ome yet; but I’ve put ’is tea there over the pot,” said Mrs. Carter, pausing at the door on her way out. “The young himp doesn't deserve any tea, stayin’ out so late. But, there —would you mind givin’ it to ’im when ’e comes, Miss Corry?”

Priscilla said she wouldn’t mind, and, with the field left clear, went on with her mixed labors, gloating over memories of Jack Morgan and then, despairingly, trying to banish them from her mind.

In the midst of this struggle the front door, which had been ajar, was banged open and an excited scamper of feet projected the thin-limbed Bob, a size older than Jimmy, into the room.

"Mum, I’ve found ’im ! Uncle Bill’s come to light!” he cried. Then, looking round blankly, he demanded, “Where’s mum?”

A heavier but slower step had followed that of the boy ; and Priscilla, pausing, towel and plate in hand, found herself looking at a crisply-bearded man with tanned face and humorous eyes, a picture of the prosperous countryman. The hair and beard , were slightly greyed, but there was a virility even in that.

“Yes; Uncle Bill’s come to light,” said the newcomer with a quiet laugh.

“Mrs. Carter will be pleased,” cried Priscilla, delighted herself. “She has gone to the hospital to sec her husband; but she won’t be long.”

“You’re not, then—” began the man. “But of course you’re not. You’re too young.”

“I’m only a lodger ; but Mrs. Carter has so much worry that I try to help her through,” said Priscilla. “My name is Corry.”

“Corry?”

“Yes,” she said, slightly surprised at the way he questioned it.

“Miss Corry, of course?”

“Yes. It’ll be a great thing for the family to know you’ve come to its assistance, Mr. Carter. You’ve no idea the struggle poor Mrs. Carter has had since her husband became sick. She always did have a struggle.”

Sitting on a chair beside the table whilst Priscilla went on with the wiping up, Uncle

Bill drew young Bob against his knee.

“This young gentleman told me a good deal about it,” he said. “I might have missed him, only I caught what he was saying and turned back. He was standing at the station when the late Western train came in asking every man who passed, ‘Are you my Uncle Bill from Burradoo?’ Of course I didn’t know him from a crow; but he looked so forlorn as people brushed past him that I went back to speak to him; and then I discovered I was the Uncle Bill he was looking for.”

“You weren’t coming here, then?”

“Why, no,” said Uncle Bill candidly, his face a mixture of gravity and humor. “It was the kid got me. And when, as we were leaving, he told me he was going to walk to Paddington, he fixed me altogether.”

“I’ve been walkin’ to the station every day and back again,” said Bob, pleased to he in the limelight.

Priscilla got a vision of the forlorn little figure trudging the long distances and standing in his ragged clothes at the platform gate asking for the uncle he did not know, and felt a warmth for the boy who in his childish way had sought to bring Uncle Bill to light, and, strangely, had succeeded.

“He’s a plucky little beggar,” said Uncle Bill, patting his shoulder.

“But we came home in a motor-car,” cried Bob excitedly. “It was bonzer! And look at the suit he bought me!”

For the first time Priscilla noticed Bob’s new clothes, and then she remembered the tea waiting for him. Uncle Bill, after the other children, half-way to bed, had been introduced and. amazingly excited at the arrival of the long-promised uncle, had been hunted off bv Priscilla, looked on with sympathy as Bob ate ravenously.

“I’d forgotten that,” he said half to himself. “Miss Corry, for a stranger you seem to do a lot for the family”

“It’s nothing, really. Living in the same house naturally.... Besides, they are really nice little children, and Mrs. Carter’s so worried.”

“Well, if you’d do something more— to help me this time— I’d be glad. You know what the family needs most, and it’s late shopping night. Will you come and help me buy the things they most need?”

Uncle Bill had come to light without a doubt.

AFTER Mrs. Carter had returned, to be overwhelmed with surprise, and to be rather embarrassed to find that Uncle Bill was so different from what she expected the brother of Bob to be, the expedition Uncle Bill had projected was carried out. Foodstuffs and fruit were got in prodigal quantities; and then Uncle Bill suggested that the expedition should be continued next day “to get a few clothes for the kids.”

“But first you want to go to see Bob at the orspital, don’t you?” Mrs. Carter asked when Uncle Bill arrived in the morning.

“No. I don’t think so. You see, we had a quarrel; and the excitement might do him harm while he’s so ill. It’d be much better to just tell him I sent down some money.”

Jimmy and Kitty realised how completely Uncle Bill had come to light when, in newer clothes than they had ever remembered wearing before, they, with young Bob. Grown almost blase of motor-car riding, were included in the Sunday expedition that was purely an excursion. Priscilla and Uncle Bill sprawled on the grass of a green rise and watched the children playing.

“It must give you a lot of satisfaction to see the happiness you have brought,” said Priscilla.

“What about what you have done?” Uncle Bill asked. “I’ve only spent money and I’ve got a bit more of that; but look at all you have given, to entire strangers, in real work. Why, even if my money has done anything, you must have all the credit for that too.”

“Oh, you can’t say that!” Priscilla answered. “You gave it to help your people.” Uncle Bill paused a moment. Then he said slowly: “I was interested in Bob, of course —l’ll never forget how forlorn he looked there at the station, wistfully asking for his uncle. But I merely intended to give ’em a few pounds—until I saw you. Then I decided to do the thing properly.”

Priscilla felt a strange thrill— it had never occurred to her that she had the power to make others do good. Still, she protested that Uncle Bill had done it all out of the goodness of his own heart.

“Miss Corry,” Uncle Bill said earnestly, “I’m what they call a pretty warm man. I’ve got two stations ’way back, and investments besides. I’m not young, but I’m younger than a lot of men in the city who could give me ten years. And I’m a widower. I’ve got only one son to leave my money to, and I’m not too sure about him. It looks to me as if he’s going to make a fool of himself: to stop that, I’ve been trying to get him to marry a girl I know in. the district who’d make a very suitable wife. But he won’t. The young fool’s got himself entangled with some girl in the city.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with a girl simply because she’s a city girl,” cried Priscilla defensively.

“How many city girls do you find like yourself?” he demanded. “How many of them are willing, even if they’re able, to do what you’ve been doing for these poor kids— mothering ’em, nursing ’em, cooking for ’em and keeping ’em tidy? That’s real womanhood— a man who marries a woman who’ll do half of that is lucky. What chance has my boy got of meeting a girl like that?”

“Oh", he might!” Priscilla answered doubtfully.

“Your tone’s mighty uncertain, Miss! What I see is that, anyway, I’ll .be pretty lonely. I’ll want a wife. H'ow’d you like the prospect of becoming mistress of my places?”

A flood of strange feeling swept Priscilla as she sobbed : “I couldn’t!”

“Someone else?”

Priscilla did not answer, and he looked at her keenly. “Well, I’m not going to rush you. You’ve only known me a few days; but— well, I’ll leave it at this; it’s there waiting for you.”

The way he took it made matters easier for her; he was not a lover urging demands, but merely one who wanted to make gifts. Confidingly she revealed herself and the conflict within her to him ; he learnt about the young man who had stirred her dreams, of her sinking doubts about him now he was away from her. It was, she confessed, a temptation to her who had always been poor to put dreams aside for this attainable reality.

“But it wouldn’t be fair to marry you when I still care for him and can’t help caring,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to him either, supposing my doubts about him are all wrong and he expects me to be waiting for him.”

His hand patted hers.

“There’s no need to hurry,” he said. “We can go on as we are until you find out your own mind.”

He did not worry her after that; but without any assistance from him she was torn by her conflict. It was such plain foolishness to throw a big chance aside for the sake of a love dream; and, moreover, she thrilled every time she thought of his kindness. If only Jack Morgan would write! His silence seemed like betrayal when she needed all her strength to be loyal to her love-dream.

A couple of days later she found Uncle Bill waiting outside the office entrance of Hoggleby and Flinch’s as she emerged, and her heart beat faster as she saw him. But it nearly stopped when the next moment a young man literally leaped from his seat in a motor-car and dashed at her.

“Pris!” he cried.

“Jack! Jack!”

“YOU SEE,” Jack was presently explaining, “dad’s great idea was that city girls are a lot of useless creatures; and he wanted me to marry a girl in the country. It was some time before I got him to promise to come and see for himself; and I had to promise not to write for fear I put his plans away.”

Gradually practical Priscilla sorted out the tangled ends of the story.

“You’re satisfied now, I hope, Dad?” said Jack to an Uncle Bill who, far from appearing annoyed, wore a broad grin on his face.

“Well, my boy, I told her that she could be mistress of two stations, and the offer stands,” he said with a grin.

“But— Uncle Bill?” stammered Priscilla. “If you’re Mr. Morgan, you can’t be Mr. Carter.”

“No; I’m a fraud!” laughed Morgan, senior. “That kid looked such a forlorn little beggar standing on the station inquiring for his uncle that, when I learnt that it could be done, I decided on an impulse to be Uncle Bill. And after that I meant to spend a few pounds on putting matters right for the family; but when I got to the place I found a girl that interested me. So I remained Uncle Bill and went on inspecting her. With completely satisfactory results, I might say,” he added.

“It’s rather hard on the Carter family losing their uncle,” smiled Priscilla.

“Oh, I don’t know— I may adopt them, in a way,” said the elder Morgan. “That young Bob seemed worth it, anyhow. There’s no reason why Uncle Bill shouldn’t come to light now and again.”

___________________

34: “With Self-Clipped Wings"

Harold Mercer

Bulletin, 25 June 1952

HAROLD MERCER wrote this self-obituary for The Bulletin many years ago. On June 13, after having dinner at his son’s home at Bondi, he said a cheery goodnight and stepped out into the street. A moment later he was knocked down by a motor-car. Death was instantaneous. Although in recent years Mercer no longer drew his main income from freelancing— during the war he worked at Sydney G.P.O., and for the last four years at Lysaght's— his pen was never idle long, and he found in his last two jobs, as in all before them, plenty of material for Bulletin pars.

He was 70 at the finish; “Hamer,” “Hamfat,” “Percy Pawnticket,” “Harold Hardupp” “Exdig” “Spare Corp.” and a host of other pen-names die with him.

—The Bulletin

IF with my passing a few words are written about me they will probably repeat the charge, often made to my face, that I was a humorist; as a humorist and also as an enterprising, hard-working freelance I claim the right to write my own obituary. My practice, always has been to live, financially, in advance; and by dying inadvance I shall run true to form

And, after all, I probably know more about myself than anyone else.

The fact that I am writing my obit., however, must not be taken ais a definite promise. But in world grown so tough that it breaks the point of a freelance there is no knowing what will happen. First, to sum up:

He sang, a bird with self-clipped wings.

Dull often, but quite dull flashes;

He made a hash of many things,

But now there’s peace to all his hashes.

It is left to every man to make his own hashes; and there is one detail about hash that is a compensation for any ill aftereffects— spice is an ingredient. I must have had a fondness for hashes or I would not have made so many of them. But it may be said that usually the materials for every hash are well prepared for the maker before he starts upon his job.

It has been said of me that I have been “the most successful freelance in Australia,” and I have frequently been asked for advice by people who desire to be successful freelances. It has always seemed rather a joke to me. Often, as I have given the advice, I have been cogitating desperately about where to obtain the cheque necessary to keep the domestic pot, and other pots, boiling.

There is printed and documentary evidence— if in the course of a careless life it had been collected— to show that I have been a successful scholar; a successful actor and theatrical manager; a successful hotel-manager;  something similar as commercial traveller and an accountant (I knew all about accountancy except how to keep my own accounts); and an exceedingly successful union-organiser at a time when an enthusiasm for such matters led me into work which resulted in the organisation of twenty-eight unions, many of them still in existence.

The word “success” had been thrown at me quite a lot; and the varied experiences gathered have helped to make the successful freelance people say I am (or was), whilst within myself always was the consciousness of failure.

Failure is of course relative, but the fact is I have not brought to fulfilment a single point of the promise kindly people have seen in me; I have not done any of the work I really should have done. It has not been lack of industry; my crime against myself has been overwork. I have probably written more verses than Rod Quinn; and probably not a single one of them will be remembered. I have never had time to polish, to perfect. Since, at the age of eighteen, I began to pile upon my shoulders responsibilities that have made my life one of servitude, the spur of necessity rather than attainment has kept me struggling.  The Kaiser’s war gave me the only holiday I have ever had in my life, for even when I was in staff positions the urge to make money for liabilities to be met was still with me.

There is joy in battle, of course, as long as the battle can be fought. There is an exultation even in a temporary success in a battle that is hopeless and lost. No man who has money at his command can have the satisfaction from it that comes with the cheque won unexpectedly to save a desperate position. Despite my full share of sorrows, life and living have always been beautiful to me. I have no grouch against anyone, even those who have not returned when needed the aid that was freely given to them. My hashes have been my own; I have so much for which to thank my forebears that it would be folly to blame them for their aid in the hashes.

My name actually was not Mercer, but Bailey, or more rightly Bayley, my grandfather having been an estimable minister who wrote some tomes of a purely religious nature. My father broke his articles with a solicitor to fight for the South in the American Civil War, and, having won his captaincy and a couple of wounds at Gettysburg, kept thereafter the form of the name which was shown on his papers. The Bailey v. Bailey divorce, a Sydney sensation of 1893,* accounts for the Mercer, my mother having reverted to her maiden name and taken me with her, so to speak.

__________

*  Australian Star, 16 Nov 1893, p5

That incident was one of fear in my early life. My father, a genial good fellow to his friends, was a merciless bully to those who opposed him in any way. He had a way with creditors that might be envied; after one encounter they avoided him. How he became a railway-magnate in India I do not know; his position was sufficiently important for him to be made the guest of the Australian railway systems when he reached Australia on furlough— from which, having left a mountain of debt behind him, he did not return; the free  travelling privileges were used for something like six years!

I was born in a three-roomed, sparsely-furnished cottage at Kelvin Grove, Brisbane, and my early years were passed in extremes of near-poverty and bursts of affluence, when my father, having floated some company, proceeded to spend the spoils on lavish entertainment.

When I was six my mother took me to England, where I had my first schooling, and met a family in which the military tradition was very strong, and there were patches of considerable wealth; thirteen different brands of religion, ranging from Buddhism and Freethought to the belief of the Baptists and Plymouth Brethren, leading to much verbal war; an intellectual grandmother who wrote her last article for the “Westminster Gazette” at the age of 85, but who had a fatal belief that a boy should be taught to “spend money like a gentleman”— i.e., as if it did not matter; and a warrior grandfather wedded to the ideas of feudalism.

I was expelled from a dame’s school to immediately score a “very good” conduct report at a school where men were my mentors. I think it was the relief occasioned by that report which caused an uncle to give me a tenner, which I spent in a way that fully gratified my grandmother. I also narrowly escaped adoption by a wealthy female relation, with a living in her gift, who would have liked to make a parson of me— a fate to which my infantile objections were raised very strongly.

My stay in England lasted three years; the divorce that came after the return was preceded by ten months’ imprisonment in a boarding-house, where I had my first experience of war behind barricades. The fear was that my father, by seizing me, would force my mother to return to him. Incidents of the campaign included a revolver, a battered-in door and a badly battered clergyman uncle.

My child-life was dominated by fear. I saw many instances of my father’s violence, and I was an important witness at the divorce hearing. A bullet through my cap as I fled for home some little time afterwards made it certain that mine was an unforgivable offence. However, my father’s violence had by that time given the police such cause for action that he was warned out of the State.

The fear lived, however. When I made a little fame a couple of years later as “the boy chess-player” and “the boy reciter” it was as Harold St. Aubyn; in the same name I passed a university exam. —very well, too— but the minor publicity gained so scared my mother, who lived in fear of my father’s return, that I was withdrawn altogether from school.

My first introduction to The Bulletin arose out of the divorce, a friend drawing attention to comments, one of them being upon Judge Windeyer’s description of my mother’s conduct as “angelic.” Just four years later my first verses were published by The Bulletin; might have tried it earlier but for resentment at the sarcasm of that comment.

Probably an inclination to write was more or less an inheritance—with a grandparent on one side who wrote religiously, a grandmother who was a constan contributor to the reviews, and a grandfather on that side who belonged to a family which from generation to generation burst into verse.

It was the surprise of my young life when postal-note arrived from The Bulletin one day for some verses of mine an elderly friend had sent in. I was fifteen then the joy that every writer has experienced over his first-born was mine. That, and the greed for gold the eight-bob inspired, set me writing vigorously. The success remained isolated for some time, and once there was a rebuff when (anent some verses signed flamboyantly “H.StA.M.”) “Answers to Correspondents” informed me: “We would not print that— not if  your name was X.StA.Z.” But after that, instead of replies in “Answers,” matter came back with little notes of encouragement, such as “Try again,” pinned to them.

Somehow I found that money was to be made from paragraphs; and I began to exploit other avenues. In some ways the comparatively small village of Sydney was more virile from an artistic point of view in the late ’nineties than it is today. Australian plays were being staged; the pantos were local productions— I made a little money by sending in words for songs of a topical nature; Australian books were being published. I found a remarkable market for advertising verses, then very popular. One set brought a £25 prize.

All this was triviality— mere potboiling. Winning a half-share in a prize for an essay on the future of the Australian Commonwealth (then impending) was something of an event. The essay-competition was run by an English magazine, and the also-rans who gained mere honorable mentions flaunted many degrees. I was really a serious-minded youth who fled from cricket directly a match was finished to continue a search which went from Professor Draper and Robert Ingersoll to Swedenborg for the truth of things and the real meanings of life; even when I went sailing I took tomes with me, and argued points of theology with my elders. My serious writing took a political and social economic form, and the articles were published— quite often. Amongst a mass of uncompleted novels written with serious intent was actually a book of philosophy! And Angus and Robertson returned it with suggestions for alterations and resubmission!

Yet my first venture in story-writing was inspired by a spasm of jealousy about the favor won, particularly with a pretty girl of my acquaintance, by a friend who had had a schoolboy story published in the “Sydney Mail.”

I resolved to show that I could do better than that— nothing less than The Bulletin was my aim. The writer’s road may be a hard one, but it has its compensations. Even in the blasé days when production had to be in the mass and the main spur was necessity, the knowledge of some particular point well made, the appreciation of someone who stops in the street to say how he enjoyed a particular story, verse or paragraph, exalts the heart. The ecstasy that came to me when, turning over a copy of The Bulletin on a bookstall, a mere couple of weeks after writing that story, I saw it on the back page, was something that it was worth living a hard life to experience.

A copy of the paper went with me to the solicitor’s office where I toiled. I tried hard to conceal the joy and triumph surging within me. When another member of the staff remarked “See you’ve got The Bulletin. Any thing specially good in it this week?” I returned casually “A pretty good number. By the way, there’s a little thing of mine on the back page.” The paper went with me to Wynyard square during the lunch-hour; I wanted to sit by myself for a while, and, although I tried to read the rest of the paper, time after time I found myself staring with exaltation at my own work.

The yarn inspired an old and very dear friend to remark that “Instead of being written by a boy like Harold it might be the work of an old roué of 50.” My mother, after reading it, had, I think, a wild idea of trying to buy up the whole issue of The Bulletin in order to destroy it, and hide my shame. Then pride triumphed.

The story, incidentally (it was “At the Crossroads,” published September 22, 1900), lost me my reputation as a white-headed boy amongst the fond mammas of our set. I was no longer asked to act as escort for precious daughters from late parties; on the contrary, when I called upon girl-friends the fond mammas often made a point of remaining very determinedly in the vicinity.

That story brought me my first Bulletin payment that took the form of a cheque; and it occasioned my first call at the office. Suspicious of my identity, Tom MacMahon, the accountant, got me to write out a slip of copy, which was compared with the MS. before payment was made.

My habit was to drop my MS. on the counter of The Bulletin and fly before I could be charged with the offence, but on my next visit Tom MacMahon intercepted me with the remark that Mr. Archibald wanted to see me. No need to repeat what he said, but Archibald had a remarkable memory about small things, forgetful as he was over many. Only a few months before he died he said to me with a sharp suddenness, “Where’s that book I told you to write the day I first saw you?”

The book is not written yet—  one of the phases of my failure.

Some time afterwards Archibald sent for me again. He had a little pile of my paragraphs on his desk. “They are not up to your best; sit down there and rewrite them,” he said. Most of those paragraphs subsequently appeared.

At that time I was working in a solicitor’s office, rebelling against the prospect of adopting the law, which I hated— and still hate. An uncle— the same who had gifted me with a tenner for my school achievements— had undertaken, if I made up my mind to become a lawyer, to provide me with an income until I was on my feet. He now wrote a stern letter objecting to the “socialistic tone” of some of my articles my mother had proudly forwarded to him. I wrote expressing my gratitude for kindnesses received from him, but declaring that I didn’t intend to allow anyone to interfere with my opinions. In that way I cut off my wealthy uncle with a postage-stamp; he never wrote to me again.

To get away from the hated law I went on the stage. I had been a fairly distinguished amateur, and an offer was made to me. I was never a good actor; the fact that the stage is full of bad actors probably accounted for the notices I some times secured. In three months I was linked up with the business side, being appointed assistant manager— which meant a regular weekly salary instead of payment for six performances or a week’s work. In ten months I was managing a company. At 20, it was the worst thing that could have happened to me— especially with my early training in despising money. As one result, I landed in Sydney, after a two years tour in N.Z., to which the term “successful” could be (and was) applied, with 3s. 6d. in my pocket. The stage never held any glamor for me; and I left it quite willingly when I married at 23 and decided that married life and the stage would not work well together.

By that time I was making a fair income as a freelance, but found that with all my time my own, the money made went rather too easily. So I took a position as a clerk, and in three months was accountant to a Waterloo firm. With my salary and freelance earnings I had the most prosperous period in my existence; but plunging with enthusiasm into the formation of the Clerks’ Union I experienced the sack (actually, I sacked my self, but I could see the sack coming following a refusal to withdraw from my union activities) and the boycott. That treatment only stimulated my enthusiasm. I became a commercial-traveller when I found the boycott well set against me as a clerk, and I was doing well when my new guise was discovered and the boycott applied again.

The battle was rather enjoyable, although bitter at times. I emerged with a practice as auditor; did a tremendous amount of freelance work; my knowledge of labor affairs got me a staff job on the Sydney “Herald” on terms that were excellent; as a labor organiser I organised 28 new unions besides definitely establishing the Clerks Union and helping to found the Writers’ and Artists’ Union, from which sprang the A.J.A.; and had success as an industrial advocate.

The world seemed at my feet in those days; although how I managed the work is now a mystery to me. My office in Post Office Chambers was known as “the Little Trades Hall.” Offers for my exclusive services, upon wonderful terms, came to me constantly; many of them I regarded as bribes to lure me from my union work, and rejected them with scorn. And then my own pet union, the Clerks’, demanded my exclusive services at £4 per week. In one way and another I was at that time making— and spending or giving away— fully £30 p.w.! The resolution making this demand was carried by a majority of only one vote, and I could have defeated it if I had not been too proud— after the work I had done— to organise my own support. There were other incidents that damped my union enthusiasms, but as I was withdrawing from activities that were often quite unpaid, I crashed generally. The “Herald” wanted me to go definitely on the staff, offering to make the sacrifice of other work worthwhile; foolishly I refused, and we parted company. The “Herald,” which I found an excellent employer, allowed it to be resignation instead of dismissal.

After that I let most of the other work go and concentrated on freelancing, which I continued even during my services with the A.I.F. (in fact, some of my best-paid freelancing was done in London, after being invalided from France). There were gaps. For a while I was publicity officer at Sydney Repat., a sub-editor on “Aussie” and Melbourne representative of The Bulletin, but really I have been freelancing all my life; the varied other experiences have merely been the mines that provided the material for my real career. There have been few periods in which, as a sole means of livelihood, it has been easy; the path trodden by the free-lance is usually cruelly hard.

When I commenced the work even The Bulletin rates were very much less than they are today. The daily papers’ rate was 1¼d. per line, and there were queer ideas about verse. A Queensland weekly, having been approached for payment for some verse it had published. protested that it was not usual to pay for verse unless specially ordered ; it forwarded a whole 2s. 6d. The likeable editor of the now-extinct “A.A.A.” (“All About Australians”) printed and paid for (at low rates) several stories, but told me that he expected verses free as a sort of makeweight. There have been periods of real affluence in the freelance world, but they are infrequent and shortlived. The freelances have, indeed, always been used as the shock-troops of every new newspaper enterprise; soldiers to be petted and encouraged when they are wanted, and then forgotten. The brief period of their affluence passes once the newspaper’s position is assured.

To make my living I have written verse and stories, paragraphs on all subjects, leaders, special articles and mere jokes. I have written sermons and prayers; advertisements; articles of a technical nature; yet only in one or two periods have I made such an income— from freelancing alone— as anyone described as “most successful" might expect.

My own weaknesses probably have defeated me, although my waywardness has been less great than many people suspect. I have never yet met a woman who was as interesting to me as a good book. I have never known what loneliness is; life is too full. But Nature has provided that he who does not pursue is pursued. Mistrained to be careless of money, I have never actually wasted it dissolutely; yet I have let it go, with the opportunities it might have given me for the real work I have never done, in order to secure peace.

My own wants are simple. I  recall in the depression years meeting a friend who talked despondently of suicide. His money had gone, and his wife had left him. Checking my inclination to congratulate him, I shouted a whisky and then a couple more, and provided the four-bob that was necessary to save him from a sudden end.

Wondering afterwards what had caused me to let go money which I actually needed very badly myself, I was forced to a laugh when I recalled the pathos with which he had told me that he had been forced to pawn his other suit. I myself had no other suit to pawn.

I have carried rather heavy burdens and have landed in failure. Life is a beautiful thing, and I have enjoyed it fully: when it can no longer be lived it ends. I have no grouch.

__________

Table of Contents

- 1: Doing the Right Thing
- 2: The Honor of the Family
- 3: Checkmate
- 4: The Work of Brother Petherick
- 5: The Romance of Ginger Mick
- Unnamed
- 7: A Bit of 'Bacca
- 8: Reardon’s Rhapsodies
- 9: The Good Samaritan
- 10: The Grave of Pierre Lamont
- 11: The Fairy Godmother
- 12: Grigson With the Wind Up
- 13: The Tragerigal Bobgetts
- 14: Old Maudie
- 15: The Melbourne Cup Mystery
- 16: Biggar in a New Suit
- 17: Glubson— Realist (verse)
- 18: Disembowelled Spirits
- 19: Cutting a Long Story Short
- 20: The Fakir
- 21: The Climax
- 22: The Confession
- 23: Unleashing The Lease
- 24: The Lottery Ticket
- 25: Everybody Dies
- 26: The Man With Hair Like Mine
- 27: A Memory of Morbecque
- 28: Non-Union Ghost
- 29: The Crabbiness of Miss Cripps
- 30: Honor Among Thieves
- 31: Biggar and Better Times
- 32: Uncle Bill Comes to Light
- 33: Marketing our Bridge
- 34: “With Self-Clipped Wings"