In the Captain's Cabin.

Free Lance, Volume XVIII, Issue 972, 13 March 1919, Page 20

In the Captain's Cabin.

By Captain Walter Manning

(All Rights Reserved.)

("Jonto McQuade "),

Specially written for the Neto Zealand Free Lance.

No. IX. iC A N' phwat is yer soil Terence doing?" asked Mrs Shanigan. "He's doin' foine!" replied Mrs. O'Brien, with- an air of smug satisfaction. "He's a commercial traveller. He travels wid soft goods!" - 11 Faith! that's quare now!" exclaimed Mrs Shanigan, "me own bhoy Pat is a commercial traveller, too!" "An' phwat iis his loine?" asked Mrs O'Brien, in a tone of mingled surprise and enquiry. "Oil!" replied Mrs ' Shanighan, "lie travels wid—wid —wid a knoife-grind-ing machine." The foregoing well-roasted chestnut,, told me (with variations) by many •commercial travellers, would lead the uninitiated to assume . that the "knights of the road" might be divided into two classes—some class and no class at all! This, however, would be too sharp and hasty a classification to be accurate. Commercial travellers, like all large and important sections of the world's workers, are composed of " all sorts and conditions of men," and if a broad generalisation stamps them as a special type of humanity, it rests more on their best qualities than their worst. Before proceeding any further with iny composite and individual character sketches of men for whom I have aljways had the kindliest feelings, I wish to pay a tribute to those old friends who have passed "the great divide." To paraphrase Mark Antony, I might say: "I come to praise Caesar, not to bury him." So my mind goes back to the halcyon days of money-making in New Zealand), when Sir Julius Yogel's borrowed millions were flooding the .colony, and business men swimming with the stream; when competition was not keen, and the limited number of C.T.'s then "on the road," were, to use an Americanism, ' £ some pumpkins." The fluctuations making good or bad times were once described in a bit of doggerel by aii old friend of mine: — "After the rise, the fall. After the boom, the slump ! After the fizz and the big cigar, A cigarette—and ' the hump.'" The days referred to, were the days of " the fizz—and the big cigar." A steamer's saloon, at much or dinner, visibly evidenced prosperity—"one man, one bottle" being the rule, and almost " de rigueur," and > that bottle frequently contained champagne. The was bright, cheery, and •hopeful, the social atmosphere jovial

and companionship general and without restraint. And the commercials of that time (not to say that those of any period dressed badly, for they always recognised that though clothes may not " make the man, they classify him") were dressed in "purple and fine linen." The men of that time were mostly men of fine physique, of mature age, and of commanding and distinctive appearance. But, now! how many of my-nautical confreres, or even among the commercial travellers of to-day, ever heard of the names of Coutts, John Sothern, Daniel Jobberns, Nicol, Bishop, and a host of others ? There might, in those times, have been a few who, from the noise they made, justly earned the designation of " drummers," but the great majority were men I was always glad to meet and whose society was both entertaining and informative. To these men of the past I raise my hat and without being able to answer the conundrum '' Is death a door that leads to light?" hope that their ■'' lilies' 5 have fallen in pleasant places. As life's cinema is ii'eflected in my mind X have retrospective visions of pleasant hours passed with " commercials " who could talk anything from travel to tin-types, and from philosophy to pink pills. Their souls rose above the common-place details of business life. They were merry companions, kind friends and always ready with good advice or a helping hand. In fact (at the risk of repetition), if in any respect commercial travellers can be considered a special class it is in their quick sympathies with and their spontaneous generosity in cases of individual distress, and their readiness to come to the front—sparing neither trouble nor moiiey—in time's of national trouble; which hardly requires instancing by what they have done during the war, and what they are trying; to do now for the men- of the British Mercantile Marine. As story-tellers many of them were itinerant Scheherazades; a graphic realism in figures of speech and an elastic imagination having earned some of them the reputation of drawing the long bow, which reminds me of something that took place on the s.s. Mawhera. In the palmy days of that '' fire and brimstone route,?' the West Coast run, there floated around the "gag": "Who are the three biggest liars on the West Coast?" The answer was " F -'s one, and M-r—'s the other two I" This was considered very funny by those who knew the gentlemen mentioned. It so happened that at breakfast one morning F , who was seated at the after-end of the table, was loudly and somewhat excitedly dilating on one of his astonishing experiences to his vis-a-vis. While the attention of everyone at the table was attracted by the recital, Tom Mitchell, who was sitting next to me and had a caustic w.it of his own, looked down at F— and called out '' It's all right, F .. Go on! M 's not here!" F closed up like an oyster, took it badly, and afterwards when tackling Mitchell angrily, on deck, gave me t?ie opportunity to pose as a peacemaker, and throw oil on troubled waters.

I always preferred to use a little diplomacy in such, cases. On a. Saturday night's run, in the Penguin from I/yttelton, in the days when my dog Watch (a beautiful collie) travelled with me, I once had an opportunity to side-track a flow _ of fervid imagination. After breakfast, joining a little coterie of C.T.'s, accompanied by the dog, admiration of my canine friend gave rise to dog stories. A number of anecdotes, more or less marvellous, were related, illustrating . instances ' of companionship and affection between dogs and hens, ducks, monkeys and other animals. It was a good Sunday morning; reverence for the day may have influenced me in telling the following stox-y: — : Some years ago I had a very big St. Bernard. His size restricted his amount of liberty. And the fact that he sometimes attempted to eat women and children, necessitated my relegating him to the seclusion of the back-yard. Loneliness-, and a craving for companionship brought about a remarkable friendship between the dog and an old buck rat. Well ! to see that dog lifting; the rat gently into his kennel, and lying there with him, and at other times to see the rat picking up the St. Bernard in his mouth and carrying him into the inner recesses of his hole, was a sight at once touching and pathetic. That broke up the show. The moral was obvious! To digress for a moment. (Dog stories are to me as infectious as hayfever is to a solitary male passenger among a saloon-full of grass-widows.) Well! I always liked animals, and whenever I meet , a lot of spoilt and unruly children, I can quite understand why so many married women prefer—dogs! , I wouldn't go so far; as Voltaire (the, Erench cynic), who said: "The more I know of. men, the more I like dogs," but I know; a dog won't fawn on a person it doesn't like! I once , quoted Voltaire's remark to a lady-pas senger who admired my dog. She said "Voltaire? Is he a

conjuror ?" I found out afterwards she was on a vaudeville circuit. Not Fuller's, of course! To return to C.T.'s.—l always admired them for -their winning ways. They know what they want, and generally get it I Their sang froid and their ready wit and diplomatic action in trying or delicate situations are admirable. Take the following yarn as an instance: — ° When the s.s. Mangana, commanded by Ciaptain Lambert, was running the Onehunga-New Plymouth-Welling-ton service, my old friend Mr Dunk (a C.T.) was a pasenger on a trip when the late H. M. Stanley, fresh from his achievements of having found Livingstone and penetrated Darkest Africa, was also on board. Tho sea - , 'was smooth, but the day cold, and. the drizzling rain incessant. Sheltering where best he could, vainly endeavouring to get a comfortable smoke, Stanley finally discovered the smokingroom. Entering cheerily, pipe in hand, he abruptly brought up at the sight of four figures stretched' out full length on the settees, occupying every inch of seating space. He retreated, took a turn on deck and then in a hesitating manner, looked in the doorway again. Dunk,, at this moment appeared on the scene, and accosted Stanley with the enquiry: : " Do you want to go inside?" "Yes, I want to get a smoke; but of th© wind.": ■ '' Then, why don't: you tell them to get up?" asked Dunk. "Well," timidly replied the great explore?:,. " I wouldn't like to do that." " Oh, be d—- —d. Come on in.". Together they entered. In a voiqe as penetrating as a diamond-drill Dunk called out: "Is this a hospital or a morgue ?" The startled sleepers awoke, rubbed their eyes;, drew up their legs, and made room.. Stanley dropped into. a seat Dunk made himself comfortable in the i opposite corner. Then, after lighting a cigar, he winked at Stanley in a knowing way, and observed:'— "That's the way to do it. You haven't travelled enough J"