Part 8
While staying at Wellington, New Zealand, I was invited to play at the Tararua Club, Pahiatua, some hundred and twenty miles away. I accepted the offer and, assuming that my stay there would be very short, left my wife at Wellington and travelled up to Pahiatua alone. I was met at the station by a number of gentlemen, and, after the usual liquid refreshment, went along to see the table on which I had to play. When I entered the room I saw a long, thin man squatting cross-legged in the centre of the table, stitching away at the cloth for all he was worth. Somewhat surprised, I introduced myself, whereupon the man explained that he was the local tailor, "jest puttin' things to rights a bit" for me.
[Illustration: "A WILDLY-SPITTING, FURRY OBJECT SWUNG ACROSS THE ROOM."]
[Illustration: THE TARARUA CLUB, PAHIATUA, N.Z., WHERE MR. INMAN MET WITH SEVERAL AMUSING EXPERIENCES.
_From a Photograph._ ]
The table itself wasn't at all bad, but when I looked at it closely I noticed that the billiard spot (the black spot on the table which indicates where the red ball is usually placed) was at least three inches too far to one side.
I had become fairly hardened to trying conditions by this time, but to attempt to play with the red ball inches out of its recognised position was more than I dared do.
"What's the matter with that spot?" I asked. "It isn't right, is it?"
The man of the needle slued around on the cloth and squinted at the spot.
"Seems sorter crooked," he agreed, slowly; "but the fac' of the matter is that we change the position of that yere spot once a week. Otherwise it'd work a hole in the cloth!"
That beat me. I fled for the hotel and sought out the gentleman who had invited me to come there. He listened to my tale of woe and then, asking me to wait for a moment, disappeared.
I don't know whether they balloted or not, but the spot was moved into its right place, and the situation--so far as I was concerned--saved.
I had been told when I arrived there that, although there were no passenger trains from Pahiatua to Wellington at that hour of the night, I should still be able to get to Wellington when the game was over, as a goods train, known locally as the "Wild Cat," stopped at Pahiatua some time about midnight on its way down-country.
When the game was over, however, and I got back to the hotel, I found that the "Wild Cat" was a very doubtful kind of train and only stopped at Pahiatua when it thought it would! This particular night, it soon appeared, was one of its "off" nights--it never showed up at the station at all!
[Illustration: "THE 'UMAN RACE STARTED FROM MONKEYS--AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!"]
Everybody was very kind to me and made me as comfortable as possible. While I sat in the bar, waiting for the train which never came, I noticed in a corner a couple of men with their heads together, talking very earnestly. One of them was an old squatter, the other an obvious new-comer, and their argument seemed so heated and absorbing that I gradually edged my way along the seat towards them to try and hear what it was they found so engrossing.
I half expected it would be sheep, or land values, or old-age pensions, but when I came within hearing distance the squatter was saying:--
"I tell you, sonny, the 'uman race started from monkeys--and don't you forget it!"
Darwin's theory in the back-blocks of New Zealand! I went straight to bed after that. To run up against a philosophical tailor, a movable billiard spot, a train with ideas of its own, _and_ Darwin's theory, all in the same afternoon, was putting too severe a strain on a mere perambulating billiardist.
Even then, however, I had not finished with Pahiatua. In the small hours of the morning I awoke and saw that the room was filled with a dense, pungent mist. It would clear away for a moment, and the daylight would filter into the room; then down would come the fog, and the same peculiar smell would rise to my nostrils again. I lay still, watching this peculiar phenomenon for some time. I had seen so many strange things happen in the country that I accepted this as another of them.
Presently I heard heavy footsteps crossing my room.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Only me, Mr. Inman," answered the voice of one of my friends of the previous night. "I've just come along to tell you not to be scared. The fire is nearly out."
[Illustration: "FIRE! I JUMPED FROM THE BED AND RACED TO THE WINDOW."]
Fire! I jumped from the bed and raced to the window. Immediately opposite the hotel I saw a huge pile of blackened wood, from which thick clouds of smoke were slowly curling. The mournful heap represented all that was left of a huge store, whose proprietor I had met and chatted with some eight hours before.
[Illustration: THE GRAND HOTEL, THURSDAY ISLAND, WHERE THEY HAVE EARTHQUAKES "ONLY ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK!"
_From a Photograph._ ]
I turned to my friend and saw that he was fully dressed.
"How long have you been up?" I asked.
"Three or four hours," he replied. "You see, the flames were coming over this way, and we all lent a hand to get it under."
"But, bless my soul," I said, "why on earth did you let me sleep on here?"
"Oh, you were all right," he returned, airily. "We didn't want to disturb you till the last minute. You've a long journey before you."
I knew that it was kindly meant, but at the time, at least, I did not quite appreciate it. I had been a sort of unconscious Casabianca for the best part of the night, and that "last minute" might have been a very exciting one. Yes, Pahiatua is one of the places I shall _not_ easily forget.
I suppose one does get used to these little eccentricities of Nature. I remember, when I visited far-away Thursday Island, the landlord of the Grand Hotel, who had arranged a match for me, said in a confidential aside to me just as I landed on the quay:--
"I don't think you will find the table very straight, Mr. Inman. We had a bit of an earthquake here last night, which shook it up a bit!"
"That's nice, cheerful news," I said. "How often do you have earthquakes?"
"Well, we're not so bad as some places," he answered. "They only happen about three times a week!"
My stay at Thursday Island lasted exactly twenty-four hours; I am not anxious to acquire an intimate knowledge of earthquakes. I brought away with me as a souvenir a copy of what is proudly claimed to be "the smallest newspaper in the world," the _Thursday Island Pilot_, a facsimile of which is here reproduced. It is a single sheet, measuring about fourteen inches by eight.
On one occasion I "put my foot in it" fairly. It happened in Southern India, at a place where I was booked to play at the local club. The journey took twelve hours by boat, and when I arrived I was told that a gentleman was waiting for me. I thought that he was bound to be the secretary of the club, who had arranged all details with me, and chatted to him as we made our way towards the village.
Presently we passed a ramshackle-looking building, the walls of which, as far as I could judge, were made out of empty biscuit-tins and soap-boxes. It straggled over half an acre of ground, and troops of hungry dogs were sniffing around it.
[Illustration: THE "THURSDAY ISLAND PILOT," WHICH IS BELIEVED TO BE THE SMALLEST NEWSPAPER IN THE WORLD.]
I thought that I might venture on a little humour just to liven up the conversation, so, pointing to the building, I said:--
"A cow shed, I suppose?"
He followed the direction of my outstretched finger, and a pained look came into his eyes.
"That's the hotel you're going to stay at," he said.
I gasped, but blundered on.
"What a horrible-looking hole!" I cried. "I shall never be able to get my wife to stay there."
"It's not so bad inside," was the reply, in rather a peculiar tone of voice.
The rest of our tramp was finished in a strained silence. I thought that, perhaps, as secretary of the club, my new friend was afraid that the accommodation would not please me. On the steps of the club I was met by a dapper little gentleman, and my companion, nodding to both of us, turned on his heel and disappeared.
"I am Mr. ----, Mr. Inman," said the man on the steps, and mentioned the name of the secretary with whom I had been in communication.
"Then who was that gentleman I have just left?" I asked, in surprise.
"That is the landlord of the hotel!" he explained.
Then, of course, I saw my mistake, and, when I met mine host again, hastened to make my apologies and patch things up as best I could. I am sure, however, that, deep down in his heart, my thoughtless words rankled. Both my wife and I took it in turns to praise everything whenever we saw him listening, but, alas! to the very end of our stay he wore a look of anxiety and care. Only when we stood on the deck of the little steamer and waved our farewells to him did the faintest suspicion of a smile flicker on his brown face. It may have been the fact that he was seeing the last of us that conjured the smile up, but I hope not.
One other little incident, and I have done. While playing at Kalgoorlie, Australia, I was approached by a resident and asked to call at his house to give a few lessons to his wife. The terms he offered were so high that I could not refuse, and so, when I had a few hours to spare, he and I went to his home.
I was introduced to his wife--a charming woman with all the true Colonial hospitality and kindliness--and we sat down in what was obviously the best room in the house and chatted for about half an hour. Finally, thinking that I ought to be up and doing something for my money, I suggested that, if the lady was quite ready, we ought to adjourn to the billiard-room, so that the lessons might commence.
"_This_ is our billiard-room," said my host.
I looked round in amazement. "But where is the table?"
[Illustration: "THAT'S THE HOTEL YOU'RE GOING TO STAY AT."]
He went to one corner of the room, lifted a small three-feet-by-six miniature table top, and placed it on the dining-table in front of me.
"This is our table," he said, proudly.
I felt as though it was taking money under false pretences to try to teach billiards on such a makeshift affair, and said as much, but the old gentleman would have none of it, so I set to work and did my best. But it was an ordeal which I have no wish to repeat, for cue, balls, and everything else were in proportion to the size of the table. In fact, I believe that the old fellow could do more on the thing than I could. Anyhow, he seemed a little hurt at my inability to run up a three-figure break on it, and on the way back to town again regaled me with yarns of what several of his squatter friends could do on that table in the way of piling up centuries.
We parted good friends, but I don't think he thought quite so much of my billiard-playing then as he had done at first. He was pained, perhaps, to find that it had limitations, and that a three-feet-by-six table was one of them!
[Illustration: When "Tenderfeet" Go Hunting Bears.]
"Tenderfeet," as our readers probably know, is the expressive term applied out West to new-comers, or greenhorns. When such men meet Bruin, or Bruin meets them, there is apt to be trouble sometimes ending in tragedy, sometimes in the broadest comedy. The instances here given belong to the latter category, and will be found extremely amusing.
AN EVENING CALL.
BY ERNEST LAW.
It was June, 1906, and I was working at a small portable sawmill near Armstrong, British Columbia. George (the boss), Frank, "Texas," Jim, and myself made the entire crew. "Texas" was so called because of his frequent references to the State of his birth. For myself, being English, I was dubbed "Charlie," though it wasn't my proper name.
We had rigged up a fairly decent shack, and, with Jim at the head of the culinary department, managed to make ourselves pretty comfortable. The country round was well settled and we were only about six miles from Armstrong, a rapidly-growing town. There was plenty of bush-land about, however, some of it very rough, and deer, coyotes, and cougars were frequently seen, but seldom a bear.
On the evening I am writing about Frank had ridden into town directly after supper to "have a good time," as he expressed it, and we didn't expect him back till early morning. The rest of us were sitting around telling yarns. "Texas" was giving us something extra fine concerning his good work with a gun. He could usually hold his own at story-telling, could "Texas," but Jim, in particular, always openly doubted him. On this occasion he related how he had once bagged a doe and two fawns with a single shot. Jim guffawed incredulously, and was rewarded with a look of mild reproach.
"Any o' you fellers seen them bear tracks t'other side the creek?" asked George, suddenly.
No one had.
"When did you strike them, George?" asked "Texas."
"Just this morning, when I was waterin' the cayuse. They looked kind of fresh, too."
Now, George was a quiet sort of fellow, but I fancy he knew as much about hunting as the rest of us put together, and wasn't taking much notice of the boasting.
"What do you say to a hunt, Jim?" I ventured.
"No, sir; not me," replied Jim, hastily. "I ain't lost no bear."
"You're not scared of a brown bear, surely, Jim?" observed the Texan, with a grin.
"Well," said Jim, "if there were three bears I'd maybe look around and have a plug at them, but I don't waste no shell on just one ornery bear."
"No, I guess not," said "Texas," dryly.
"D'you ever _see_ a live bear?" pursued Jim, offensively.
"Well, I guess I've shot more bear than _you've_ ever seen, Jim," retorted the American.
"Maybe you'll hunt this one for us, then," suggested Jim, sarcastically. "We're all dead scared to sleep here."
"If I run across him at all, I guess there'll be a dead bear around mighty quick," replied "Texas."
Jim was silent for a moment, then he looked up quickly, struck by a sudden idea. "Say, Texas," he cried, "s'pose the bear comes around here, will you take a shot at him?"
"You betcher life!" snapped "Texas."
Thereupon Jim rose, with a look of determination on his face, and proceeded to set fire to a few sticks. Next, going indoors, he brought out some sugar, which he threw on the blaze. I had heard somewhere that the smell of burnt sugar attracted bears from a long distance, and began to understand what he was about.
Meanwhile, "Texas" looked on cynically, suggesting that if Jim were to whistle it would have just as much effect. But Jim only said, "You wait a bit."
Well, we waited a bit, discussing the approaching festivities in town on the 1st of July (Dominion Day) until the others, I think, had forgotten all about the bear. About nine o'clock we turned in. We had bunks fixed up at the end of the shack farthest from the door--three in a row a little way above the floor, and two more above them. The table stood right in the centre of the room, and the stove in a corner by the door.
About eleven o'clock I woke with a start, aroused by an unholy racket outside. My first thought was that the bear had arrived, but soon I distinguished the husky tones of Frank, expostulating with the cayuse while he was taking his saddle off. In a few minutes he stumbled in, leaving the door wide open, and after a muttered conversation with the lantern managed to get it alight. By this time all of us were awake, and we could see that our companion had been imbibing heavily. He had brought a bottle of whisky back with him, and now, rolling it on the floor, he started to show us how they rode logs "back home."
After one or two futile attempts to balance himself on the bottle, he collapsed miserably in a heap, just as Jim flung a heavy logging-boot at him. He missed Frank, but smashed the lantern, leaving us in the dark. Frank was grunting and cursing on the floor, trying to strike the wrong end of a match.
[Illustration: "WHEN HE LOOKED UP AND SAW THE BEAR HE LET OUT A YELL LIKE A REDSKIN WAR-WHOOP."]
George had just scrambled out of bed to close the door when we heard a rattling among the old cans and general _débris_ outside the shack, and a moment later we saw in the doorway, a black blot against the dark-blue sky, the bear himself! At that critical moment Frank struck a light. When he looked up and saw the bear he let out a yell like a redskin war-whoop, and I think he got sober on the spot. Anyway, when the brute started to come inside Frank knew enough to go round the other side of the table. Thence he dodged out of the doorway and off down the road at terrific speed.
Meanwhile, the bear went sniffing along on the other side to where our bunks were, while George, Jim, and I cleared out hurriedly. It was quite dark inside the hut, and we all thought "Texas" was with us. Jim was certainly scared. Once outside, he picked up an axe and went away down the road so fast that the tail of his nightshirt flew out stiff behind him. He must have flung the axe away after a while, to expedite his flight, for we found it quite a long way off in the morning.
Now, "Texas," it subsequently appeared, had slept right on till Frank gave his yell. Then he sat up, rubbed his eyes leisurely, and caught sight of the bear. Then he in turn let out a yell or two. Mr. Bear, somewhat startled, went to the other end of the hut. While he stood there, sizing up "Texas," and while "Texas" was wishing he was in mid-ocean, or on a cloud, or some place where there weren't any bears, George crept in and grabbed his rifle.
Fortunately, he kept his head and didn't fire, or "Texas" might have got hit, for it was impossible to distinguish objects plainly inside the shack. Instead of shooting, he started to throw all the small articles he could lay hands on in the direction of the snuffling and grunting, and finally the bear went out again. During the latter part of these proceedings "Texas" had been trying to tear a hole in the roof, and, standing on his bunk--one of the top ones--had been successful in ripping off a shingle or two.
Directly Bruin got clear of the shack George let drive. He must have hit him in the leg, I think, for the brute seemed to limp afterwards. I was up a tree at the time, and when the next cartridge jammed I fully expected to see George have a lively time. According to precedent the bear should have got savage on being hit and made things interesting; but he must have known better, for he just walked calmly into the bush and we lost sight of him.
When we tried to get into the shack again we found that the door wouldn't open. We hammered and yelled, while George showed his mastery of English idiom, and after a while we heard "Texas" inside moving one or two pieces of furniture away. You can imagine how sheepish he looked when we went in, but nobody said a word as we put back the table and things.
Frank was sitting outside on a pile of stove-wood, ruminating deeply. I think he had an idea he had seen an imaginary bear, for he vowed eternal teetotalism for about ten minutes on end. Jim came in last, shivering with cold, for the evenings in that part of the country are chilly for a promenade in one's nightshirt.
We all climbed into our bunks again and went to sleep, and I don't think any of us felt inclined to boast about our evening's work. George was the only one who had kept cool. But the figure "Texas" had cut, after all his boasting, was lamentable. He left us a day or two after, and none of us heard any more of him.
We followed up the bear's tracks next day, but lost them in the thick bush after a few hundred yards. I think, however, that it was "our" bear a Siwash Indian shot a little while afterwards about half a mile off. This tale has now been improved beyond recognition in the neighbourhood, but mine is the correct version.
TWO "GREENHORNS" AND A BEAR.
BY A. WRIGHT.
In Chatham Straits, Alaska, only a stone's throw from the mainland, there is a little island called Kilasnoo. It boasts of a tiny Indian village named after the island, and a factory where they turn out fish-oil. At a little wharf belonging to the factory, in the summer of 1895, lay the United States survey steamer _Patterson_, on board which Charles Henderson, a native of Gefle, Sweden, and myself were able seamen. We were fast friends, and had agreed to be sporting companions whenever we got the opportunity. Up to the present time we had never done any hunting, although we owned two guns. The only things we had shot at so far were condensed milk cans, which we threw into the water and fired at from behind a bush, at a distance of about fifty feet. I regret to add that we never hit one. It was our first year up there, and so far we had had no chance of showing what we could do against big game, but the chance came along rather sooner than we expected.
One Saturday afternoon, seated in a canoe, Henderson and I paddled off to the opposite shore. Landing just above a large inlet called Hood's Bay, we hauled our canoe up into the edge of the wood, and then, taking our fishing-tackle and guns, we started off along a trail which brought us, after a three-mile tramp through the wood, to the shores of a lake where we intended to fish for trout. Although we had brought our guns, we knew that no game had been seen around there for years--at least, so the Indians told us. We carried our guns, therefore, but there was no likelihood of them being required, and I believe in our hearts we were both glad of it--I know I was, at any rate.