FUNNIER THAN FICTION.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 46, 23 February 1929, Page 10

FUNNIER THAN FICTION.

THE SHIPWRECKED SERGEANT

THE CHELSEA CHARWOMAN.

A FIGHT ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH.

(By VICTOR BRIDGES, tlie Novelist.)

Amongst' the many people who liave unintentionally helped to brighten my life, I recollect with peculiar', gratitude the personality of Sergeant Higgins A large, stolid marine, weighing about sixteen stone, he acted as chauffeur and valet to a certain distinguished general, by whom, for the time being, I was engaged in the capacity of secretary. The general, though a charming man, had one weakness. He was a teetotaller, and during our numerous excursions over the length and breadth of England,* Sergeant Higgins and I frequently found ourselves in a state of drought. It therefore became an unspoken custom between us that, as soon as our employer was happily engaged, wo should eteal away in each other's company to some convenient but obscure tavern. Seeing the World. One day, while we were sitting over our beer, I remarked, casually: "If you've been in the Marines, Higgins, I suppose you've seen a good deal of the world?" He cocked a rather bloodshot eye on me for a moment, and then replied: " I've seen all' the world, Mr. Bridgesall the earth and all tho sea—the top and tho bottom of it." "What do you mean? " I asked. "Mean! " lie repeated. " Why, I went down in that blasted Victoria." " Really! " I exclaimed, " That must have been nil interesting experience. What did it feel like?" Full Fathom Fifty. Ho spat in the sawdust. " Eotten," he said. "I was standing on the deck with a mate o' mine, and I see the Camperdown coming right at us. I turns to 'im and I says: 'She's going to run us down, Bill.' "'No, she ain't,' he says, 'Yus, she is,' I says. ' She's going to run us down, and I'll get a cold.' 'Cos I always get a cold when I get wet." He paused. " Go on," I said, encouragingly. " Well, I was right. In she come, slap, bang, crash, and down we went." " How far ' did you go down 1" I inquired. "Miles," he said, '"and when I come up the ship was gone. There they was, choking and struggling and drowning all round me, and I says to myself, I says: 'Now I'll 'ave a cold,' and I 'ad—the worst rotten cold I ever 'ad in my life." A Gentleman at Heart. Many years ago, when I first came to London, I shared a small studio in Chelsea with an artist, who was as broke as myself. We were looked after by an old charwoman called Jane. Jane had a husband, a red-nosed, beery-looking individual who, when he Was not in a pub, used to 6pend all day sitting on the Embankment contemplating the river. One morning, while she was cleaning up the studio, I said to her: "If I were you, Jane, I'd make that husband of yours get a job. Why on earth should you keep him?" "Oh that's all right, sir," she replied; "don't you worry about that. I knew wot 'e was like before I married 'im. 'E's a good 'usband, and as for 'is 'abits, well 'e can't 'elp 'isself. . 'E ain't not wot you" might call a scholar, but 'e's a gen'leman at 'eart. 'E 'ates work." Asking Like a Lady. On one occasion in those free and faroff days I was having a final drink just after midnight, when tho door of the pub opened, and an elderly woman in rusty black sidled unobtrusively into view. She advanced towards the bar in a slightly unsteady fashion, and- then pulling herself together, observed with considerable dignity: "A small gin—hie —liif you please." Tho potman eyed her coldly. " You've had enough to-night," he said. "You shove off 'oine." Without a word the visitor ambled back to the door, where she paused for a moment with her hand on the knob. "Hal" she remarked, bitterly. "That comes of harsking for it like a lady." A Bank Holiday Memory. Curiously enough my last and most dramatic recollection is also connected with what are known as "licensed premises." On an August Bank Holiday three years ago I was watching a crowd of revellers outside one of the historic inns which help to brighten Hampstead Heath. Presiding over a banana stall was a short, sturdily-built little man; who seemed to be driving a brisk trade. Suddenly ) without any warning, a violent dispute broke out between him and a large, truculent-looking coster who was declaring heatedly • that lie , had received the wrong change. The next minute they were squaring up to each other, and, following the best traditions of English sport, the rest of us immediately forming a ring. It was a one-sided affair, for, strive as he would, the little man was unable to get to close quarters. Every time he attempted to jump in he was punished unmercifully, but with extraordinary gameness he insisted on keeping up the fight. At last, just when it appeared to be all over, he made a sudden successful dive for his opponent's legs. Down went the coster,, half-stunned, and the next thing we saw was the banana merchant sitting astride of him, clutching him by the hair and niethodically pommelling his features. "You Brute!" We were looking on with sympathetic approval, when a stout lady burst her way unexpectedly into the ring. "You brute!" she shouted, brandishing her umbrella. "Let the poor fellow get up." Pausing in the middle of liis operations, the little man raised a puzzled and bloodstained face. " Let 'im get up! " he repeated. "Why, it's taken me 'alf an hour to knock the blighter down! "