TANGANUI,
KING COUNTRY, N.Z.
8th January, 1913.
MY DEAR DICK:
Have you ever ridden in a hearse? I do not mean as an inside passenger whose destination is the Underground, but have you ever taken a hearse along Piccadilly when no ‘taxi’ was available? Of course you haven’t, so I know it will interest you to hear the circumstances in which I was thankful to avail myself of that means of conveyance for the eleven members of the Merry Marauders Dramatic Company over seventeen miles of rough road in the interior of New Zealand. Eleven, I said? I meant twelve, for I didn’t count the manager of the company, who is now no other than myself. Yes; twelve souls in all, distributed as outsides and insides, for the men of the company, with a chivalry I had scarcely expected to find in the Colonies, courteously gave up the inside places to the ladies so that they could view the beautiful scenery en route more comfortably through the plate-glass sides of the hearse than the top, where the what-do-you-call-ems—the plumes—were but a poor substitute for strap-hangers, considering the bumpy nature of the road. However, the dear fellows did not complain, but made the lonely way ring with their merry songs as we dashed along at quite a brisk rate. I sat on the box seat with Irving Morrissey, our leading man (who hardly knows one end of a horse from another, but insisted on driving because he said it was not likely he’d get another chance of driving a hearse,) to distribute dodgers of the evening’s performance to any wayfarers we might happen to come across.
“It isn’t exactly the turn-out you’d choose to go coaching to Brighton,” remarked Morrissey to me as we started away from the Pukerunui hotel, with Mr. Kelly, the landlord, waving good-bye from the door. “But it is better than walking, anyhow. Good luck to old Kelly, I say.” I earnestly endorsed the wish, and with reason, for, indeed, if it had not been for the kindness of that country hotel-keeper, our company would have been faced with the alternative of walking 150 miles back to Auckland, or of settling in Pukerunui and growing kumeras, the Maori sweet potato.
The misfortune which had reduced us to this pass and elevated me to managerial rank was due to the truly awful conduct of Hivson, our former manager, who, after we had played Current Cash to a crowded house in Pukerunui, used our current cash to play three-handed solo whist with a couple of Jewish commercial travellers staying at the same hotel, when he was in such a state that he had to shut one eye to distinguish the ace from the deuce. Barney King, our comedian, who was downstairs late yarning with the landlord, and saw the last of the deplorable game—though he did not get there, in time, worse luck, to prevent the last of our performance takings and our fares to the next town falling into the hands of the Jews—declares that Hivson was finally cleared out through his eyes magnifying three small hearts in his own hand to a royal abondance. However that may be, Hivson lost every penny we had taken since leaving Auckland. He confessed the sad story to us the next morning, when he abjectly implored our forgiveness and bitterly cursed himself for not having gone an open misère on one particular hand he had held, which his half-drunken morning recollection now saw as an invincible combination. His might-have-been achievements were more exasperating than sad to us when we discovered that the Jewish birds of prey had winged their flight in the night and left us without a feather to fly with; salaries unpaid; no fares to the next town, and a sixteen-stone strange landlord to face, who had not yet seen the colour of our money.
Hivson said that the best thing would be to disband the company at once, and as none of us had friends who could be touched by telegraph for funds, there didn’t seem anything else to do. We, therefore, agreed to the proposal, and Hivson immediately set forth on his walk back to Auckland. He seemed so full of contrition for his misconduct that we all forgave him, and Barney King, who is the best-hearted fellow in the world, pressed into his hand a little book called ‘Through Picturesque New Zealand on Foot,’ calling his attention to a particular passage which stated that the route through the King Country to Auckland offered scenic charms to the pedestrian second to none in the world. Poor Hivson seemed truly grateful for the book, which, he said, would doubtless give him some useful hints on how to live on the way, and after exacting our solemn promise to write to his wife to apprise her of his impending return, as soon as we could afford a stamp, he departed, fairly content with our forgiveness. None of us volunteered to accompany him, though several of our company lived in Auckland, and Hivson had sufficient perception left of what was due by him to us—about the only acknowledgment of indebtedness we were ever likely to receive from him, by the way—to refrain from questioning us about our future movements. I noticed Oscar Grayson, who plays the old men parts, furtively examining the soles of his boots as if he were thinking of following Hivson’s example; but I knew we men had to consider the girls of the company, whose nightly sacrifices on the stage in the cause of melodramatic love did not necessarily equip them for long distance pedestrianism off it.
“You’d better come with me and see the landlord, Val,” said Barney King, breaking in on my worried review of the gloomy situation. “We can do nothing till we have squared him up, so we’d better do that at once.” I saw the wisdom of this advice, and reluctantly followed Barney towards the bar. The others sought the shelter of their rooms till the trying interview was over.
The landlord was in the bar, talking to an early morning customer. The sight of his huge head and shoulders framed in the open side window—not unlike a big mastiff in his kennel—had such a disturbing effect on Barney and myself that we turned simultaneously and strode out into the street. “Let’s take a brisk five minutes walk and get the cobwebs out of our brains,” suggested Barney. “I never feel in good trim till I’ve had my morning’s walk.” I agreed that a morning walk was the best of all tonics, so we made for and easily scaled a small mountain just outside the town, which the previous day I had believed to be inaccessible. When we once more reached the hotel, with lagging footsteps, the morning had almost gone, but the landlord was still in the bar, reading the local newspaper. We took a few hesitating steps towards him. He rustled the paper, and our nerves were at such a tension that we found ourselves in the middle of the street without any hesitation at all.
“It is disgraceful how these ignorant country hotel-keepers idle away their time while we actors sweat our brains to keep them in luxury,” declared Barney, with considerable bitterness. “I tell you, Val, doing ‘the smalls’ in New Zealand would be a profitable business if it were not for the extortionate bills of these cormorants.”
As Mr. Kelly had generously reduced his charges to four shillings a day all round for the Merry Marauders, and had but a remote chance of collecting even that modest tariff, I thought Barney’s denunciation of the whole race of hotelkeepers was rather sweeping, but I forbore to offer any comment because he appeared so angry. I endeavoured to direct his thoughts to the business in hand by remarking that perhaps we had better get the ‘squaring up’ done without further delay.
“If you had any common-sense you’d know that it is as much as a man’s life is worth to disturb one of these great hulking brutes of publicans while he is reading the morning paper,” retorted Barney, more crossly still. “It’s like the nerve of an English new chum, who’s been in New Zealand about five minutes, to try and teach a man who knows every hotel in the country how to approach a publican on a mission of extreme delicacy. Why, it’s part of a country publican’s religion to read the paper from the title to the imprint every day, and God help the man who disturbs him in the process. Did you observe how massive his bare arms are?”
I had indeed been painfully impressed not only by Mr. Kelly’s arms, but by the herculean proportions of his massive bull neck and shoulders, and I said so.
“He’s the largest publican in New Zealand—and the strongest,” said Barney. “The point is, as we wish to ask him to do us a favour, not to disturb him while he is reading his paper. Let us take another walk till he is finished.”
We walked through the little town and inspected the contents of its half-dozen shops with minute observation. Then we put in another half-hour reading and re-reading the inscription on the Maori war memorial at the end of the street. That exhausted our opportunities for delay, and slowly we retraced our steps.
“I think we’d better engage him in conversation before we break the news to him,” remarked Barney, as we once more neared the hotel. “Let’s try and smooth him down by praising his one-eyed town—all these old residents are as proud of their town as if they made it with their own hands. Tell him he’s got quite a good settlement here.”
“I wouldn’t say anything about a settlement if I were you,” I replied. “It will be better to keep the talk on less dangerous grounds. Hallo, there he is standing at the door!”
His bulk loomed so large in its completeness that Barney and I would have once more shirked the task if Mr. Kelly had not seen us and beckoned. We approached, to be greeted with a cordial invitation to join him in a drink. This was heaping coals of fire on our heads with a vengeance, but we could do nothing else but accept. Mr. Kelly specially recommended his house whiskey. We drank to his health, and then there was an awkward pause. As neither Barney nor myself was able to terminate it decently by returning the landlord’s hospitality, the landlord tactfully relieved our embarrassment by pretending to tidy up his little bar. The floor creaked beneath his weighty tread as he moved about among the glasses.
“Mr. Kelly!” said I, stimulated to desperate courage by the house whiskey, and determined to act before its strength evaporated.
He was up at the far end of the bar when I spoke, but he was at my side as soon as I had uttered his name. It is marvellous how agile and quick some of these big men are. I noticed with dismay that he had a folded account clumsily concealed within his hand, but I was in for it now, and no further retreat was possible.
“About our b-b-b-bill, Mr. Kelly,” I said, stuttering badly; “our little b-b-b-bill.”
“I thought ye’d be wantin’ it,” he replied, bringing the account forth from its place of concealment and flattening out its creases with the largest palm I ever saw attached to mortal hand.
I took the account and immediately handed it to Barney, who returned it as though it burnt him. Seeing there was no help for it, I opened the bill and made a pretence of looking at the items, but the figures danced up and down in a tremulous jig. I tried to screw up my courage to tell the landlord the truth, but the words would not come.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the landlord, “Have I charged ye too much?”
“No, indeed,” I said; “you haven’t, but, but—”
“Is it that ye haven’t got the money to pay me?” he asked, quietly.
“Yes; we’re very sorry, sir,” Barney and I answered together, unconsciously and pathetically giving him the title of superiority with some vague idea of mollifying him.
That landlord was a trump. A trump? He was a whole pack of trumps. I’ve met white men in various parts of the world, but none whiter than Patrick Kelly, the licensee of the Pukerunui Arms—long life to him! He didn’t curse us, or throw us out of the hotel, or challenge us to fight him for the amount we owed, or do any of the other things that our cowardly consciences had anticipated. He merely said: “Well, bhoys, if ye haven’t got it ye can’t pay me,” and then invited us to tell him what the trouble was, over another house whiskey. “For,” he added, “ye had a good house last night, and I don’t think ye’re the kind of la-ads to turn me down if ye held it. I haven’t been keeping a country hotel for thirty years without knowin’ something of the way of theyatricals. Has the manager got away wid the ba-ag?”
We told him the painful story in detail, and when we had finished he asked us what we proposed to do.
“There’s nothing for it but to disband the company and get back to Auckland the best way we can,” said Barney; “unless we can get to Tekonga to-night and give a performance. That would put us on our feet, and the place has been billed. It’d be a pity to let the billing slide, for Tekonga’s the best show town outside the King Country on the way across to the East Coast. Could you not add to your kindness by helping us further, Mr. Kelly? If you could help us across to Tekonga you would not only put us under a debt of gratitude for life, but you would enable us to pay this bill and regain our self-respect.”
“Faith, bhoys, I’m willin’ to help ye if I can,” replied the kindly soul, “for it would be a pity to disband the company if a helpin’ hand will set ye goin’ again. It’s a pity ye left the King Counthry and the railway to come so far across counthry out of the beaten track, for, as ye no doubt well know, the Tanganui coach ye should have caught if ye intended to give a performance at Tekonga to-night, passed through at six o’clock this marnin’.”
We did know it, alas! Barney and I had got up early so as to hear its approach, and detain it for our company. We heard Hivson’s story instead.
After a few moments deep cogitation Mr. Kelly delighted us by exclaiming that he had thought of a plan to enable us to play at Tekonga that night. His plan, when unfolded, proved to be nothing less than the offer of a hearse to convey us there. I was at a loss to understand how he became possessed of such a vehicle till he explained for my edification that he followed a common Colonial ‘out-back’ practice of running several different businesses in order to make a living in a sparsely populated district. In a word, Mr. Kelly catered for the wants of the residents of Pukerunui by selling them drink when they were thirsty, meat when they were hungry, and burying them when they were dead. We need have no scruple in accepting his offer, he assured us with a sigh, as nobody had required the legitimate services of the hearse for the last twelve months, and it wasn’t likely to be wanted for another twelve, so healthy was the air of the district.
“The ha-a-rse is roomy and commodious enough for ye all,” he added, “and ye can pack a bit of your scenery on top as well—enough for to-night’s performance. The rest I’ll send over to ye in a dr-ray to-morry. And just think what a sensational ad-ver-tise-ment it’ll be for your show at Tekonga when ye drive into the town in my splendid ha-a-rse. One of ye could make a bit of a speech from the top to the crowd, and tell thim that ther’d be no deadheads at that evening’s performance, anyhow. There’s an idea for ye, now! Sure, I think I must have been cut out for the play-acting business.”
We gratefully closed with his kind offer, and while the hearse was being prepared for the journey we went upstairs and told the others of the happy termination of our difficulties. I was surprised to find that the lady members of the company showed so little gratitude for our efforts on their behalf as to assert tearfully that they would sooner die than ride in a hearse. But when we gave them plainly to understand that it was a question of doing so or walking back to Auckland they overcame their scruples, and consented to ride in a hearse without dying first. This being settled, we held a general consultation about the company’s future movements. Barney and I had been so heartened up by Mr. Kelly’s kindness that we now scouted the notion of disbanding, and advocated carrying out ‘on our own’ Hivson’s original scheme of doing the North Island ‘smalls’ thoroughly, The proposal was enthusiastically acclaimed, and it was agreed that we should all share and share alike in the profits of the tour after the expenses were paid. I was chosen manager in place of Hivson on the proposition of Barney King, and the pianist consented to go ahead from Tekonga, as advance agent, till we could make better arrangements. Till that time arrived I was also to act as musical accompanist. These business preliminaries having been amicably arranged, we went down and took our seats on the hearse, which was standing outside the hotel, to the great amazement of the sleepy little town. “The best of luck to ye all!” was Mr. Kelly’s farewell benediction, accompanied by two bottles of the house whiskey for our refreshment on the road, and as we drove off we gave three rousing cheers for our kindly-hearted benefactor, which sent the birds wheeling aloft from the pohutukawa trees with affrighted cries.
The first part of our journey was pleasant enough. It is true our pace was a bit on the funereal side going uphill, but each hour brought us nearer to our destination, so we ‘outsides’ beguiled the long journey with song and story and the circulation of the house whiskey. Occasionally we all scrambled down to ease the horses when some very trying hill had to be ascended, and endeavoured to cheer up the tired ‘insides’ by assuring them that we were ‘nearly there.’ Thus three hours passed, and just when I was beginning to think that we must be ‘nearly there,’ Barney King, who knew the country, startled me by expressing his profound conviction that we had lost our way. The thought was a disturbing one, because we were in a desolate, wild part of the country, with not a sign of a human habitation in sight, and if we did not get to Tekonga in time to give a performance that evening we should be hopelessly stranded indeed. Barney confided his fears to Irving Morrissey, but Morrissey, who is very obstinate, insisted that he had followed Mr. Kelly’s directions most carefully, and must be on the right track.
“I don’t care what you say,” asserted Barney; “you’ve lost your bearings now. I’ve been across country to Tekonga before, and we didn’t come this way. I believe we’re miles off the track.”
Morrissey persisted that he was in the right way, and he drove doggedly on for another half hour, when, according to our directions, we should have seen some sign of the town. But we found ourselves instead in an apparently endless maze of manuka scrub hills. They stretched out on all sides, as far as the eye could reach, like great green-crested billows. Their seemingly unending repetition caused Morrissey to lose a little of his confidence, I fancy, for he pulled up the horses on the pretence of giving the animals a breather, and gazed around him doubtfully. The argument between him and Barney broke out afresh.
“There’s a ‘swagger’ camped down by the river there,’ said Barney at length. “Let’s drive down and ask him where we are.” He pointed out the spot, and from our elevated perch we could see the temporary abiding place of one of those lonely nomads of the New Zealand bush called ‘swaggers,’ because they carry all their worldly goods on their backs in a bundle, or ‘swag,’ and prefer the privations of a life of isolated independence to the company of their fellow beings.
Morrissey acquiesced in Barney’s suggestion and put an end to further discussion by abruptly pulling the team of rusty blacks off the track and whipping them straight down the side of the hill, which was thickly studded with tree-stumps. It was undoubtedly the shortest cut to the river, but I doubt if even the most skilful driver in New Zealand would have cared to negotiate it, and Morrissey is the most unskilful. It was too late to remonstrate. Away we galloped down that steep slope, gathering impetus as we went. About half way down I heard the terrified shrieks of our ladies inside as we nearly capsized through colliding with a tree stump, but I hadn’t much time to think of their safety in looking after my own, for by this time the crazy old hearse had taken charge of the situation, and was bumping the terrified rusty blacks down the hill at a pace they had never dreamed of in the whole of their respectable funeral going career. Swiftly we rushed to the bottom, and all Morrissey’s efforts were powerless to prevent the maddened brutes from blundering right into the middle of the swagger’s primitive little camp.
The swagger was seated on a log in front of his hut, clad simply in his shirt, and smoking a meditative pipe as he watched his ‘billy’ boil over a small fire. I took in these little details as we dashed wildly towards him, but he didn’t see us or hear our shouts of warning till we were almost on top of him. Then, as the weird approaching spectacle was instantaneously imprinted on his vision, he gave one dreadful scream of terror, and ran right up to his neck in the river, from where he gazed with bulging eyes at our hearse, which had been fortunately brought to anchor by the tree which formed the background of his bush home.
I never saw a man so hard to persuade in my life. It must have been the best part of an hour before our ceaseless explanations of whom we were and what we wanted convinced him that it would be safe for him to venture ashore, and I believe it was more the coldness of the water than our protestations that brought him to land then. He was evidently a man of some original delicacy of mind, which a solitary nomadic habit of life had not completely destroyed, because he asked that our ladies should retire behind a tree trunk while he repaired his toilet by putting on his one pair of trousers, which he had taken off to wash shortly before our unexpected arrival and hung out to dry on his tree. This very proper request having been complied with, he scrambled out, shook himself like a water-dog, and dressed himself.
“My word, mates, but you did give me a start,” he said, gaining some reassurance from our friendly looks. “When I seen that ’earse of yours comin’ a-plungin’ down straight towards me with the girls starin’ with white faces out of the glass sides, and you chaps on top a-swingin’ round and round the plumes like monkeys in a cokernut tree, I admit I fair lost me block.”
I again expressed our regret for the shock we had given him, and very sincerely too, for I felt that such an uncanny spectacle in the lonely New Zealand bush was enough to unnerve anybody.
“It’d take more’n that to frighten me in ordinary times,” he replied; “but I ’ad a bad shakin’ up yesterday, and I ain’t got over it yet. I was making across country from the Main Trunk in this direction, when I spies a big square looking house standin’ lonely by itself on a ’ill, with a big fence round it. I thought to meself that it was a queer place to have a farm, but I was glad to see it, as I wanted a bit of tucker to help me on me way. I had an orful job to find the gate, and when I did find it I found it locked. Very hard to climb over, too, with barbed wire something cruel on top, but I got over at last, and sees a lot of fellows a weedin’ away at cabbages as though their lives depended on it. ‘Any chance of a job, mate?’ I asked the first one. I didn’t want a job, of course, but I likes to create a good impression wherever I goes. ’E looks up at me with a silly sort of grin, but didn’t say a word—jes’ nods ’is head to the man next ’im in the row. I thought ’e might have had the decency to speak, but I went to the chap he nodded me to and asks the same question. He looks at me with the same silly grin, and nods ’is head to the next one just as the first one ’ad to him. Would you believe it—I went along the ’ole row that way without gettin’ a word from one of the silly coots. Each one, when he heerd my perlite enquiry, just grinnin’ like the first one ’ad and noddin’ me on to the nex’ one. I got so wild by the time I reached the end of row that I was just about to deal out stouch to the last fellow what guyed me—a big lubberly fool ’e was with a grin on ’im like a halligator—when my ears was startled by a ’orrid yell. I looked up, and what a sight met my gaze! Coming down through the cabbages straight towards me, covering the ground like a racehorse, was a big muscular man as naked as a baby but as savage as a lion, with a carvin’ knife in his hand. And close at his ’eels run two men in uniform.”
“What an extraordinary farm!” I interrupted.
“Farm! Bless yer, mate, it was a rat-house—an asylum, to be perlite. It come to me like a flash before one of the men in uniform yells out to me: ‘Run for your life!’ I tore for the gate with the big naked lunatic jumpin’ after me and swearin’ ’ow he’d carve my liver out for speakin’ disrespectful of His ’Ighness the Sultan of Turkey. After him come the two warders, and in this style we made the circle of the ’ole place three times, for I wasn’t more’n ten paces in advance at any time, and dursn’t try to get over the fence because the lunatic would have been a-top of me with his carvin’ knife. The fourth time round I felt my wind failin’ me, but the thought of that there carvin’ knife in me ribs give me an idea. As I run I picked up a ’andful of dirt, and just as I reached the gate the fourth time, I turned round and flung it in the lunatic’s eyes. While ’e was bellowing with pain and trying to rub the dirt out of his peepers, I just flung meself at the gate and over anyhow, leavin’ a bit of flesh behind me on the barbed wire on the top. Still, I was glad to get away alive, but I ain’t got over the shock yet, and when I see you coves tearin’ down on me in that there ’earse I made sure you’d got out of the rat-house and followed me hup, perticerlerly as that bloke there who was driving looks just like the naked lunatic that wanted to knife me. ’E’s the identical himage of ’im, only he’s got clothes on.”
Morrissey looked very indignant at this unflattering comparison, but it was very fortunate that we met that swagger, for we had got completely off the track, and but for his lucid directions we should inevitably have been bushed for the night, supperless, moneyless, and stranded. I regretted not having a coin to give him for his kindness, but he was very grateful for the contents of my tobacco pouch, which was fortunately almost full. I turned round to have a final look at him as we drove away, and saw him, a lonely figure in the gathering twilight, seated once more on his log, sending up wreaths of my sundried Virginia to the peaceful heavens. Then a bend of the track hid him from view.
Shortly afterwards we struck the road to Tekonga, and Morrissey sent the rusty blacks along at a pace they had never attained before in order to make that gum-diggers’ settlement before the hour fixed for our performance.
Yours, waiting for the dawn,
VAL.