OFF THE SCRAP HEAP.

Press, Volume LXV, Issue 13597, 4 December 1909, Page 10

OFF THE SCRAP HEAP.

WHERE THE CITY'S WASTE GOES.

(specially written roa "the press.")

You mU6t have seen a battered old man, with a weather-eye continuously lifting, pushing, a handcart freighted with a jingling burthen of dirty bottles and greasy tacks, with something bulbous in them. You must have wondered where these things finaily went to— not the bottles so much as the old' rags, bits of zuic. and the bones. Well, they are dumped down on the threshold of the weirdest institution in tho city, where they hold tho Philosopher's Stone that transmutes garbage into gold. Come and &cc where the junk goes. Heavens! what a tangle—nay, what a tangle of tangles! Surely there is no money in yonder raffle of fractured metal ; no money in that pyramid of splintered) glass? But y<?6, there is money in all of it. The lord of the scrap-yard says so, end, having been in tho business for a quarter of a century he at least should know. '•What do wo buy?" he echoes. "Everything—just everything, except empty tins and second-hand coffins." A grisly jest, perhaps, but what would you ironi one who has toiled and moiled at the cecrepit end of things these five and twenty years? Hβ had much to tell, and more to show. His yard is a junk heap with tracks through it. Old sheas are everywhere, each stored from mem truck to keelson with a pitiful something or other. One such erection has diemond-paned windows in it. 'Those camo from somo church or other. I picked them twenty years ago," the proprietor explains. And so it is, right through the chapter. Everytning has had a strenuous past. Old doors, old perambulators, old grates, old -weighing machines, old tiles, old rags, old chafitouttere, old ropes, old bones, old bicycle tyres— everything very, very old; everything very, very dead, awaiting a glorious commercial resurrection in a new guise. Tho scrap-heap people merely wait. Everything comes to them. They let out handcarts to the rag and bone and , bottle virtuosos at threepence per day, and sometimes advance them a few shillings with which to purchase uhconsidered trifles from thrifty housewives. Most of the collectors have handcarts of their own, and make an army, fifty or sixty strong. The least energetic of them make from £1 to £2 per week, and only work a few hours each day. Tallies up to £3 per week ere not infrequent. School children (who know tho value of things to a halfpenny) bring along bottles and other odda and ends, while the firm-sends its own representatives out to promising auction aales occasionally. Nine men are permanently employed classifying and preparing the stuff for the market. 03d wheels, axles, and machines not too battered to be useful, are sold retail at the yard, but most of the material (excepting the bottles) is exported. Somo 400 or 500 tons of wrought iron (old horse shoes and the like) is handled every year. This is sent to Dunedin to be worked up again. Cast iron is sold to, the local foundries; old brass finds a Teady demand, while zino scraps are taken by the galvanisers. An immense shed was stuffed with rag&—old clothes, tatters of blankets and carpets. Phew! The open air, though dusty, was blessedly fragrant after a round of this a,ptartment. Some of the rags are transformed into flock for stuffing mattresses! Some of the very poorest specimens go to the paper mills. The better woollen rags go Home to make shoddy cloih. And perhaps come back again' Who can tell? Have you ever paused to wonder where all "the tailors' patterns of tweeds go toP They find their way heTe, literally tons of them, every year. The poorest rags are bought for 3s per cwt, while tailors' clippings Sind patterns are worth 225. Old sacking, rope and canvas, together with olo! bTown and other paper, go to the paper mills. Bones are cent to the manure works. Horsehair is purchased by the brushmakers, who, after they have used up what is best, dispose of the balance, which is curled andl again sold to the mattress makers. Cowhair is best for the purpose, and it is here in abundance.

Yes, and fat of all kinds, from household dripping to butchers' scraps. This is sold at the auction marts and goes to make tallow and soap. Old perambulators are bought for the wheels and the bodies are decently buried in suburban gravel pits. "Look at this perambulator," the proprietor is demanding. "It is quite a eood one, but is old-fashioned. A woman came in and sold it to mc for a couple of shillings. Said she wanted to buy one of these flash go-carts. Anything to be in the fashion. It's a shame, that sort of thing." Here is another shed packed with literally tons of old bicycle tyres. They look like sleeping snakes. These are shipped to Melbourne and Sydney, where they are boiled down and made into door-mate and inferior rubber goods. Old motor tyres are finding their way here, too. Old bicycle frames, stripped of their wheels, usually share the grave of the perambulator bodies. Sometimes, however, an enterprising young man comes along-and picks up a fairly good frame for a shilling, a couple of wheels for as many more.shillings, old inner and outer tyres at a shilling each, and a chain for sixpence. The scrape will be duly assembled, the outfit painted up, and finally sold! in an auction room for a couple of pounds, leaving a profit for the enterprising young man of £1 10s. Broken glass of any sort is put into double sacks and shipped to the bottle makers in Sydney or at Home. Old slates are purchased for use ac damp courses in buildings. Old railway and tramway metals sell readily for beams. But the bottles! The collection is indescribable. The proprietor reckons he has more than a million dozen. Now and then a rack containing a hundredi dozen comes down with a run, and then there is more broken glass for Sydney. Two men and a woman do nothing else but wash bottles, day after day, year in and year out. The pieces of metal capsules adhering to the necks are sold for lead, which is used for making leadheaded nails. Tea lead , goes the same way. Aerated water bottles bearicg the names of different firms all over, the Dominion are sent back to their original owners at sixpence per dozen. Beer bottles are most in demand just now, and one saw a pile containing no fewer than between 3000 and 4000 dozen of the size known a* "pinte." Medicine bottles are sold to the retail chemists, while the jam makers, sauce makers, pickle makers, and vinegar makers all have their requirements catered for from this vast aggregation of glassware.

As many straw envelopes as the firm can lay hands upon sell readily at twopence per dozen, while packing cases by the thousand are available in every shape and sire. There is nothing really old under the sun in this particular institution. There is nothing that cannot be boiled up or melted down and be made to emerge new and useful in some part of the world and be launched upon another cycle of utility, perhape again and yet again to find its way to the junk heap, awaiting a still further term in the service of man, the maker end the destroyer.