EVENS

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 113, 14 May 1937, Page 13

EVENS

By C. W. MILES.

PHIL the Fluter was so called not because he was a flautist—he had

probably never even seen a flute — or because he was to any measure an instrumentalist; although on occasions he footled on a euphonium in the Llynfoel Salvation Armv Band.

There was really no apparent reason why Philip Philips should be called (except for alliterative artifice) Phil the Fluter. But he was.

Phil was a religionist. He had '"caught religion ,, in a local "revival, -, had given up all hie bad habits, harmless indeed as they were, had enjoined himself wholly to "the cause," and had set about doing good works.

So it was that he found a most fitting subject for reform, repentance and conversion in Bookie Johns.

Xow, there was an all too clear reason for Benjamin Johns being known as Bookie. He was an inexorable gambler. He would bet or make a book on anything. He would bet on the weather, on how many currants there were in a bun, on the length of a sermon, or the speed of a train.

He was once known to make a book among his mates in Lynfoel colliery on the exact hour of the day on which an ailing old woman would die. She lingered for weeks. Many bets were consequently scratched; many new ones entered. When the end came Bookie had made five pounds and sixpence.

Clearly a ease for Phil the Fluter. They worked together in the same colliery—a "level" cut into the Foel mountain about a mile up the side from the main railway.

Coal from the level was conveyed to the railway by mean& of trucks on a "gravity line," down a steep incline.

Full trucks came down, their weight bringing up the empties at the other end of a wire rope, circling a "drum" at the summit.

Fluter and Bookie usually met each morning and, if they were lucky, got a lift up the incline in an empty. If they were not so lucky they climbed to the level by way of a steep and arduous path beside the gravity line —a path worn into furrowe through years of foot slogging, and here and there, in the steeper portions, a series of rough steps to aid the climbers.

It was a bright morning. The air was crisp in a flood of early sunshine that was tempting to anyone—particularly if .hie work took him into dusty darkness, from which he would emerge only after the eun had gone down. At the foot of the incline an empty truck stood waiting to be lifted by the first descent of the day. Here was a chance for a lift. "Going to ride up, Phil?" asked Bookie. "Aay, I think so." said the reformer. 'Tm a bit tired like, 'smornin'; late meetin' at Bandervope lae' night. Come on; leave us ride." ■ "No, indeed, not on a mornin' like this," objected the gambler. "I'll bet it will be rainin' to-morrow, an' that there ont be a empty ready for us." It was Phil the Fluter's cue. "Why do you always bet, Bookie bach?" he pleaded. "Fancy wantin' to bet on that, now. Do you knowwhere that bettin' 'abit will land you. one of these days? 'Aven't you ever'r thought of the dishonesty, the evil, the corruption. . ." "If ypu're going to preach at me. I'm off," interrupted Bookie. "Walkin' I am, by myself, like." And 'he turned towards the pathway while Phil made for the truck. • • • • Impelled by an after-thought, Bookie swung round and called: "I'll tell you wot, Phil; you ride an' I'll climb an' I'll bet you 'alf a crown that I get to the level first." "Their you go again!" the reformed reforming one exclaimed. "Can't you see 'ow ridiculous you arr, when you know the truck will be up in 'alf the time ?" "All right, then." Bookie compromised; "ridic'loue it is, is it? Then make it a bob. Come on, be a eporrt." To the saintly-minded one a simple shilling seemed to be.less evil than the halfcrown. Phil the Fluter hesitated. Bookie forced his attack. "Tell you wot, then," he urged, " 'ere's ehowin' sporrt for you; I'll bet a bob that you won't bet a bob." Phil's reply came ae a bombshell. "Right you arr," he eaid, with a seraphic smile; "I'll take that bet; 'and us over the bob you've already lost; an' now I'll learn you a lesson by takin' the other bet. Tha's the kind of wot you call sporrtin' way to break you for all time of the pernishus 'abit."

Bookie was about to produce the shilling when he suggested doubling the two bets, and began to explain how much more Phil would win if he doubled.

Phil declared he knew nothing about eystems or terms or odds. He didn't understand and didn't want to under-

(SHORT STORY.)

stand. All he wanted was his shilling, which he had won fairly. And then he would make the other bet of half a crown on the race up to work. Ho only intended to teach Bookie a lesson that would bring the gambler nearer grace. A bell rang. The empty was about to start. ' Bookie, somewTiat reluctantly, passed over the shilling and ran for the foot of the pathway, whence he watched Phil the Fluter clamber into the truck and awaited the second bell which would mean "They're off!" "Ding-a-ling." '"Off!" both men shouted, as in one voice. Bookie was fifteen yards up the hill before the "up" line "tightened. The truck gave a shudder, a jerk as if trying to release itself from the buffers against which it rested. Another jolt and it moved slowly upwards for a few yards—then went back with a slight bump. Phil yelled to the sprinting gambler, who was now well away: " 'Ere 'alf a mo', Bookie; not a fair starrt!" Bookie, scampering over a few steps and leaping into a clear-cut run of the path, turned his head and noted that the "up" rope had stopped and then slackened before tightening again and beginning to pull upwards. He also hoard Phil's entreaty. He hurried on and upwards all the more.

">fot fairr, indeed," he puffed. "Hang that for a tale."

There wae no need to look round. The murmur of the guide rollers between the rails of the up track told him that Phil, in the truck, wae already gaining on him. Towards him, getting bigger

and nearer, was the loaded motive power, coming down the line ou the offside.

Bookie, panting, chuckling, tumbling, and jumping, had passed the half-way mark long before the down truck was alongside. That meant that he had the advantage, so far. And now, there was a doubled chorus from the guide rollers in both tracks. The "down" rope had tickled its hind rollers into motion. To Bookie's excited fancy, the ringing sound seemed like the cheering of a mighty crowd urging him on.

"If only those blinkin' rollers keep rinsing on both sides of the tracks for the next two hundred yards." he thought, between gulp* and puffs—"if only; I'll win as sure as coal is black. I'll "ave another bob on myself, with me, for luck."

With which partisan decision, he strained with increased vigour to get into "the straight" about a hundred yards from the summit. Phil's truck was closing on him. The drone of its easy, rumbling movement, sharpened every few seconds with a "plunkettyplunk" as it glided over sleepers, was louder with everv bound.

Other colliers, toiling slowly up the path, cheered and made room for Bnokie to pass. On the ofF side, black-faced men —the night shift—stopped in their downward course to make comment, caustic or comic. He was near enough now to see the man at the drum, lever in hand, eyes fixed on the line.

The shadow of Phil's truck was level with him. growing longer and deeper as the rumbling of his mechanised opponent grew louder. Phil wae singing a cheerfully sarcastic ditty. Bookie's pace was failing. On came the truck. The up rollers diminished their shriek; for the pulling rope was off the ground, reaching up. taut, to the shackles.

The truck was beside him. They were dead heat. He was in "the straight." Another fifty yards to go. The truck began to slow down, nearing the top buffers. Now it was ahead; now they were neck-and-neck again.

Bookie slipped over a loose chunk of coal on the path. The truck was ajrain ahead. Twenty yards to go. The truck slowed again. They were level.

Ten yards to go. Bookie gave one flying spurt to the railing beside the drum as a great shout of spectators drowned the groan of the winding wheels.

The truck, too, gave a spurt. As Bookie fell to the fence, the truckdashed with a sudden, unexpected impact on to the buffers.

A crashing rending of wheels and wires; a howling whirring wail; fifty yards of shattered wire rope, flung into the air like a- gigantic, frenzied serpent in a shrapnel of rivets, cogs and oily dust; a screech, a whistling roar—and the truck, with Phil the Fluter. had gone: hurled back, unshackled from the smashed buffers, down along the steep, dipping slope, to death.

On and down the mile-long slide ft went, gathering terrifying speed as it flew, riding the lines, splitting wood and metal as it rode, over points and brakes, in a trail of hurtling missiles, like a demented mastodon.

At a great price Phil the Fluter had achieved his little purpose.

Bookie Johns betted with himself that, after Phil the Fluter'e terrible end, he would never bet again. So far, Bookie has won.