COACHING DAYS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 96, 24 April 1931, Page 1 (Supplement)

COACHING DAYS.

THE DRIVER-BLACKSMITH.,

COMEDY OF A COFFIN.

[<By M.EJS4]

It was a bad puncture, and my spare was •weak. There were forty miles of stiff toad ahead of me, and this was the last settlement. I pulled in at a smail iron Bhack before which hung a crazy sign. "Blacksmith" it had read once. But times had changed since I lived on the coast. Over Che original sign had been roughly painted "Garage." In either capacity it seemed inadequate. A prolonged search produced the proprietor. He was a young man, new to me, pale and delicate in appearance, capable, I felt sure, of coping with a punctured tyre, but not with the mob of half-broken kaiporkers (Maori horses) that we used to drive into Sam's yard twenty years ago. I looked at his drooping cigarette, his thin, nervous fingers, and I remembered Sam's short, black pipe, his "brawny arms." And then, sitting at the shed door, looking out across the quiet harbour to the distant black rocks and line of surf that meant the West Coast, the sunny afternoon did its work, and I fell into a dream of "them days" and of Sam Turner, blacksmith,, coachbuilder and ina.il contractor. Sam was one of the historic figures upon the coast, although uo_ one knew his antecedents, his age or his religion. He seemed indigenous to the soil, to the steep clay roads, the bush-covered ranges, and the hard, healthy life. Twice a week he drove the six-horse •coach across the forty miles to the nearest town and railway station. The following days he made the retura journey, and, on the remaining three — for we were not Sabbath observers on the coast then —he shod horses, mended broken wheels, adjusted faulty brakes and more faulty relationships, matrimonial and otherwise. Through no seeking of his own, Sam was general arbitrator upon the coast. His was a rough and ready justice, a caustif tongue and a disillusioned eye. The smithy was the place for airing grievances, settling disputes, "talking it over." On the cold winter days there was a warmth of glowing coals and of rough good fellowship in the long, low building. Hard Going. But horses were his first and last love. He understood them with that rare intuition that never overworked a willing beast nor spared a slacker. To see him bring; the heavy coach, His Majesty's mail and a crowd of passengers across the ranges in midwinter was an education. Once again I seemed to see'that lumbering vehicle w-th its straining horses, to hear its creak of harness and rattle of chains, ana t.he steady stream of amiable profanity that flowed tirelessly from Sam's lips. Ihe journey was 40 miles, but, leaving town at eight, we were lucky if we saw the Coast before night. Only, the first nine miles were metalled, and after that we averaged three or four miles an hour. There were two changes of horses on the road, and it was a sight to see Saml lead out his nags. His horses were always perfectly fit. However hard the times, however importunate hi 3 creditors, he shovelled the bright oats into the chaff with an unsparing hand. "Feed 'em well," he would tell his apprentices. "It's the only wages they gets and they deserves it. Likewise if 11 pay you." Nor would he permit overloading. Vainly the Coast might sigh for its goods, sternly the Post Office might reprimand him for delayed parcel hags, Sam was adamant about his load. "Tote 'cm yourself if you're so fussy," I once heard him say to a scandalised official. Many a time have I seen him sling the parcel bags off the coach, to repose trustfully in the shelter of a clump of bush till "next time." But Sam was human, too. T.iVa all the world, he loved a lover. And so, when Pansy Smith, the prettiest girl in the district, was to he married to her town lover, a sore dilemma arose. • A Full Load. There was a full load of passengers, ■with vast collections of parcels, mailbag, and even a sinister oblong box upon the roof. Sam emerged from the Post Office in that temper always induced by a delayed start and an overload. "Got to leave something," he meditated aloud. "I'm not overloadin' for no weddin' nor no funeral neither. Pansy's got to have her stuff, I suppose. Now what," turning to us, "would you sooner 'ave, if you was a young gel, your duds, or the swell cake your rich uncle was sendin' you from town?' This was beyond us. "Guess she wants both," one of us volunteered timidly. "Pansy's mighty set on that cake. It's the first shop cake we've had to a Coast weddin'." "That's so," he agreed. "Waal, I guess the clothes has got to wait." "Not on your life," said our one lady passenger briskly. "That dress has got a bit o' real lace round the neck and the satin cost two an' eleven a yard. "Pansy'd break; her heart if you left that." Sam removed his wide-brimmed hat from the left ear where it was wont to repose, scratched his head, spat accurately and swore. "Well, Pansy belongs on the coast an' a gel don't get married above two or three times in her life. Guess her things stays. One of you boys'll just have to wait till next time —Lor, it's no hardship, with the pub handy and ready to take you in—What about you, sir," he wheeled suddenly upon one of the two strangers, "your business hurgent?" "Well, I rather think so," said the young man gently, blushing deeply the while. "You see, Pm—er —I'm the bridegroom." / "That so?" Sam was quite imperturbable. "Guess she'd rather have you than the cake," though his eyes plainly questioned Pansy's taste. "What about the young chap, then?" "He's my best man," said the unfortunate bridegroom, clinging to his only friend in a wild land. But Sam was relentless. "Not hurgent," he said briefly, but finally. "I kin be best man myself. Come along, out with you, my lad. I'll be back Friday and they've got good beer at the pub. Tell you what, that there coffin can keep you company. It weighs as much as a man." "But surely that's urgent?" someone objected feebly. "There ain't no hurry for it. 'Tis for Mike Freeman, an' he's not dead yet by a long way. I told his missus not to be so previous, but she were that set on it ' We drove off, leaving the coffin and the best man forlorn in the middle of the read. "Love beats death," someone sententiously remarked, but, "It'll be all the better for Mike, you mark my words. He knows he can't die yet awhile, said Sam confidentially. Nor did he._ On the contrary, he danced at the wedding.