THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 240, 10 October 1934, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

The world is full of cushy jobs—and the other fellow has them all. He, for his part, wonders how you yourself have the cheek to hold out your hand on THE CUSHY JOB. Fridays—and generally the feeling is mutual. You know the story of the Welsh skipper and the Scots engineer? They clashed, as seafaiers s0 often do. The captain angrily said that if the old boneshaker had an engineer who was worth his salt they could get something done, while the engineer suggested that what was wanted was a skipper who knew his job. They slanged each other somewhat, and the captain at last suggested that they should swap jobs. Mac came up from below and Taffy descended into the heat and carried on. Some time later Taffy, sweating from every pore, covered with grease and foaming at the mouth, emerged from the engine room and climbed to the bridge. "Scotty," said he, "you can have your blasted engines." "Taffy," said 'Scotty, "y& can lia'e ver old ship —she's on the rocks. Apropos the upset in Spain, it will serve to remind Dominions people that the Spaniard rarely strays into British Dominions —and if does come hitherward he THE WIFE is usually mistaken for MARKET, an Italian. Eskimos, too, are as scarce as live moas, although one has met one of these people keeping a hotel in New South Wales. He was as astute as the next -one, and, as a matter of fact, made quite a fortune —and did not return to liis own land. Still, there are simple Eskimos. There is the story of the Eskimo who saw a Hudson Bay advertisement of a dress displayed on a life-like model with the price—twenty-five dollars—attached. Extremely excited, he went to the trading post and presented a fox skin valued at the necessary twenty-five and 6aid, "Please send this skin to the store, and ask them to send me 'the woman marked twenty-five dollars, because I want to make her my wife." The fox skin was, of course, returned to him. He couldn't make out why the white man should mark the price on wives if they were not for sale. The lamented death of that rugged political veteran, Roderick McKenzie, will possibly remind many old-timers of other rugged Scots in Parliaments and their THE RIPENED Ministries. Has, indeed, GRAIN. reminded many of "Tarn" Duncan, of a Seddon Cabinet, who also passed full of years and honours. Mr. Duncan was perfectly natural. Even when he received deputations he met them as he would meet a bunch of settlers on sale day—and spoke the Doric on all occasions. On one occasion in the House the Minister ministered to a shooting corn by removing his boots, tying the laces together and suspending them thus linked over the end of his bench. He was the ministering angel in the lobby of the House when the BedellSivright Rugby team came to New Zealand. This was the occasion on which Mr. Seddon, arriving late (as was his custom) breezed down the lobby, seized several reporters by their hands, and asked them cheerily what sort of a voyage they had had, a tribute to their physique. They modestly disclaimed the honour of being English footballers. Mr. Duncan presumably saw Mr. Seddon make the slight error. Later Mr. Duncan was selected to confer champagne on any of those present who deserved it. He was making no mistake between footballers and reporters—so with bottle in hand he went from man to man and asked, "Are ye a footballer?" If the man answered, "Yes, sir," the Minister would serve him. If the reporter admitted he was no footballer the Minister ministered not. Still, non-footballers did not retire unassuaged. Mussolini, the man who marched on Rome that time with the peaceful and edgeless fasces carried at the head of his legions, is a man w 7 ho would BUNDLE rather seize the imaginaOF STICKS, tion of Beppo and every-

body else than sneak his belongings. He is a journalist in reality and at heart, and that is perhaps why he lays aside the fasces now and again and shouts that if adorning rifles with olive branches won't do, then Beppo and Co. will adorn them with bayonets. This is exactly the kind of thing every leader would say if he had the cheek, or was of Latin blood—and if he didn't say them he'd think them. Garibaldi was the beginning and base of all the new brotherhood of mixed fascia, sword and shirt. In Vicenza —one of the world's loveliest cities —there are buildings which are "like frozen music." On the walls of one is a tablet which, reads: "It was from this balcony in 1867 that Garibaldi urged to the people of Vicenza that Rome should be the capital of Italy." Garibaldi prescribed red shirts for his followers—thus beginning the extraordinary manufacture of coloured garments as emblems of a cause all over E'irope and further. There is 110 doubt about the strange power of the shirt —you have only to look at the aggregation of the starched fronts at evening time to believe it or to recall the universal Crimean shirt of our colonial progenitors to be sure of it. The shirt is mightier than the gladius or the fasces —and if you can find your collar stud—what a blessing! Dear M.A.T.,—Just as the best stag is never shot, so is the best story never told. A Wanganui colleague made my journalistic mouth water the other UNRECORDED day wlicn he told me of HISTORY, a long yarn he once had with Earl Jellicoe, and all about the Battle of Jutland, if you please! Silent John was having a rest from his gubernatorial duties, and, sitting by the riverside at Wanganui, he got into conversation with my friend, and, with his walking stick and a handful of twigs, explained to him what reallv had happened at Jutland. '"Could ho uso it?" asked my friend. "Would it bo copied by the English newspapers?" asked the Admiral. No doubt it would, was the reply. (Wouldn't it just!) "Bad luck," said the Admiral, "but I'm afraid you musn't publish it." And that was, and still is, that. It reminded mo of an episode in naval history which I myself received, not in confidence, from an officer at Home. In 1916, British credit in the United States became very low, and the pound sterling fell to nearly ten shillings. It was urgently necessary for the governor of the Bank of England, and Lord Reading, to be in New York. How they got there in record time is worth telling. H.M.S. Courageous, then the very latest battle cruiser (27,000 tons and about £5,000,000 worth), had just completed her steam trials. They used her. The boilers were "gagged," that is to say, the safety valves were locked, and the ■ship was given forced draught, and a lot more besides. lam not at liberty to say how long it took her to reach Sandy Hook, from Liverpool, but it astounded naval experts on both sides of the Atlantic. And mark the sequel. Within five hours of the arrival of England's financial heads in New York the pound sterling had risen to over 15/. Within a day it was stable at 16/8, never to slump again. The engines of the battle cruiser were ruined by the terrific strain "chat had been put on them, but she had done what was needed. —The Brigadier. NICE WORDS. Dear M.A.T., —The words referred to in your column of Saturday, written on a wooden cross in Mesopotamia., were written by Lillian Gard. I also copied them, years ago, thinking how beautiful they were.—L.G.