THE HOMING OF JOHN WILLIAM

Dominion, Volume 10, Issue 3124, 30 June 1917, Page 8

THE HOMING OF JOHN WILLIAM

. A SYLVAN NOCTURNE .(By "Wi.") Do Quincy smoked opium. Sherlock' Holmes, when ho wanted to think furiously, smoked shag dottels on an empty stomach. When there was nothing do-, ing in tho criminal business he pushed cocaine into Ins system. John William Henry drank so that he could drown the memories of vaulting ambitions of youth. Thus docrf Fate, Nemesis, or the Devil, whichover you please, hand it out to tho\Artistic Temperament Do Quincy is a library classic, hut it is conceivable that if he had never smoked opium there might have been more of him on the library shelves. Sherlock Holmes could give you the chest measurement of a garrottcr two minute-? after that individual's cigarette-butt had been picked up in a drain two miles away, and tell you, from a casual examination of the said carrotter'e false whiskers', found in a tree in. a lonely churchyard, whether he spoke Spanish. But it k inconceivable that if he had left the shag dottels and cocaine alone ho could have foiled the Woman in the affair of the Royal Portrait, instead of which sho foiled him. Thus doth Genius pay for its side-slips. The -odd part of it is that while Genius may err and survive, mere common people like you and mo and John William Henry are cast into the outer darkness. Which remindß me that you don t know a thing about John William Henry. Well, he was a musician, he had a wife, ho had the Artistic Temperament, and he drank. With tho first three he might have hitched hie wagon to a star and lived to ravish the senses of enraptured audiences. Hβ had it in him. But tho fourth attribute of John William Henry sufficed to keep him close to the ground. He drifted here and he drifted there, till finally ho came to that outer beyond which is called the backblocks, where dead giants of. a paradise that was raise . their blackened scarecrow arms to high heaven in protest against the vandals of civilisation, stumps and logs make queer dote and dashes in the cow-paddocks, and women grow old before their time.' He found the people yearning for- ■culture. For years they had danced to tin whistles, necordeons, villainous fiddles. Now they wanted crashing chords, ripplim; runs, to enhance the glamour or Terpsichore aud whoop up the tmgle in: the toes as the M.C. clapped his hands for the First Set in the brand-new hall. And what is home without a piano, or a harmonium ? Social culture, home ciu-hire-that was what they wanted. John William Henry was the man they had been waiting for. He came, he played, he conquered. At first he looted it. Then, his clientele becoming more extensive, he rode. Finally he bought a motorbike. He got so busy that he had no time to think, or do anything else. He established a comfortable little home, wore batter clothes, his wite lost her worried look, and everything in the g—I mean to say, the face of Mature took on ita proper hue. ■ But John William Henry fell, and great was the fall thereof. It was the time of the long summer weather, lne school was closed, and the teacher had fled south to feel the touch of the pavement under his feet, see his girl, and banish from his mind for a glad space the soul-distracting "M-myaw-huli i from the cow-bails, the logs, the stumps, ■ and the MUD. The youngsters ran wild in the bush and down by *he river. ■ Then it was that John William Henry declared a recess from the labours of musical culture, and went on a wild and spectacular burst. They talk about it to this day. But the period of his burst wag also the period of his regeneration. The Boss told mo the story in front of a blazing log firo in the wee ema' 'oors ot a recent Sunday morning. "It wns just after we shifted down by , I the river," he said. "I'd been, up at the old place havin' a look round, and I m : comin' back home along the Ridge Eoad, when suddenly old Paddy stops, and starts talkin' with his ears. I looks up and I see on the side o' the roatl euminink 'at looks like a whole heap o* bikes. I couldn't get any sense out o' old Paddy, so I got oft, tied 'im up, and had a look. Damme if it wasn't John William's motor-bike, all twisted up, and lookin' five different ways for Sunday. A little further on I see his nibs. He was leanin' -up. against a stump, deac to the world. His feet was stretched out nice and comfortable, and it didn t look like he'd hurt himself. There he was, with his arms across 'is chest, eyes shut, drivin' pigs! I goes up to him, an' kicks the sole of his boot. "Hey!" I sez. With that he came to life and looked up at me, and I dropped to him—full as a tick, he. was, an gone a Million. So I didn't ask no quesi tions, but got him going somehow, till I 1 got him as near home as dammit.: Then ho reckoned he was all right, so I left him to face the music on his own. Well, it come bed-time, and I hadn t been drivin' pigs long before I has a dudge on the ribs, and tho Misses sez: 'There's somebody in tho yard!' '"Go on!' I sez. 'It's a cart goin along tho road.' However, she would liavo it there was somebody there, so I got up, lit the candle, and went to the back door. I was in my shirt-tail, mind Ve, I thought there was nothin' there, "only tho Missis's fancy. I opens the door, and sings out: "Who's there?' ]ust to kid the Missis, like, and then Isees a wheelbarra'. Somebody says: 'Run 'im into the kitchen.' So with that the wheelbarra' runs ap to the door, tips up, and—hee! heel—out pops John .William! When I last eaw.hia nibs his nose was pintin' for home, but it seems that he met somebody just by the. gate, and then went round the corner out o sight, and that was the end of it. They (I wandered down our way somehow, and as he couldn't go homo the other chnp left him and fetched the wheelbarra. It was all uphill to John William's place, so they run him in on to me. However, wo got him home at the nnish. 'Conrse, next day, his nibs etops in bed, hoklin' his head on with one hand and drinkin' the jus dry with the other, awl trvin' to remember what had. happened to'him. 'Bout a couple or so days after, his Missis gets a letter. She opens it, and stares. ■. • , '"John William,' she sez. 'whatever s "His nibs pulls 'imeclf up in bed and has a look. It's a bill: To liiro of ambnlnnce ... £1 Is- . "'Can't understand Hγ he sez, scratchin' his head. However, they give it up. Next "month, along comes another bill, with 'Please settle' at the bottom. By this tiino hints had boon dropped romic, •Mid his nibs took a tumble. Ho took a pull for good, then. Never touched it since. Tho next time I see him, ho slicks me up and passed tho time o day. I sen he's got soniothin' on his chest, and by and by he gets it off. , '"Wine", en,' he eez, 'is a mocker. " Tou'vo struck it,' I sez. "'And,' ho sez, 'an ambulance is a •wheelbarra'.' " 'Shouldn't wonder,' I sez. • "'I just want to say,' he sez,, that 1 am much obliged.' Then he grinned a bit. 'But I've thought of sometlun bet-, tcr than i> wheelbarra'.' he sez. " 'What's that?' I sez. '"The water-wagon,' lie sez.