WITH THANKS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22318, 16 January 1936, Page 15

WITH THANKS

liV E. JIARY GUItNKY

This, with the possible exception of the goat episode, is probably the most unrefined thing that ever happened to that harmless but curiously likeable male old-maid, George Riceyman, of Windy Ridge.

If George hadn't been such a con- 1 firmed ass, the secret of what hap- J pened down in the vicinity of tho old 1 timber mill, on Stranger Creek, would ; probably have been buried with him, but one or two things we heard in the township, coupled with the very odd episode of his undressed, not to say unrehearsed, return from Maketu, made us even more curious than usual, so that in the end, after somewhat exhaustive inquiries, we managed to piece the whole deplorable event together. George, in all other respects moderately normally developed, retained a childish inhibition for dabbling in water. Since he was absolutely convinced that somewhere in the ranges there was a pretty rich gold-bearing reef, whatever tho rest of us did, he, personally, was going to keep his weather eye open; since he did not propose to remain a blooming hired shepherd for the rest of his days. Every creek in tho range, he declared, had several different sources, and anyone of them might, someday, hand him the key to the mother lode, since in flood or storm, "colours," or even quartz might bo washed down the bed. So George spent a great deal of his time, spare or otherwise, puddling in creeks; which he advanced as the reason why, on his way back from Maketu, where ho had gone to get a new set of shoes for Stranger, ho left the main road and went off down the old mill road, to Stranger Creek. He went past the mill, long since deserted, and falling to decay, but down by the creek was an ancient whare, once inhabited by one of the mill hands. It was still in fairly good repair, for tho rabbifers used it periodically. Georgo left Stranger tethered near it and went off up tho creek, "prospecting." An ideal placo, so George declared. Stranger Creek, the merest trickle in summertime, is a raging torrent through the winter. A capricious stream, it rushes through a series of deep gorges that fan out into wide beds of drop lied shingle, through which it scours, channel after channel, making a new one through the original bed, with every storm that plays. As George earnestly assured us, if there was gold anywhere in the streams of tho Ruahine Ranges, it would be in Stranger Creek, for, during flood times, Stranger Creek took the drainage from three major, and heaven alono knew how many minor, watersheds. I Though all the big timber had long ! been cut out of the bush round and | above the mill, there was still a tre- ! mendous growth of secondary stuff re--1 maining and through it, Stranger Creek had scoured a deep channel that i spread out below the mill. When he got there, it was this bank of shingle that George had in mind, but I after tethering Stranger, he decided to work up through the bush, and what was at the head of it. Since, as he argued very reasonably, if there had been "colours" or quartz in the bank below the mill, surely to goodness, during tho years the mill had been working, someone would have discovered it; whereas, up above, it would have been quite likely to escajx; any close examination, since the mill hands either went out to the plains on Sundays, or slept and loafed about the mill.

Besides which, argued George, it was more than probable that somewhere above tho bush there was a bay or whirlpool, wherein tho creek would drop its load of gold. So George, instead of employing the shining hours which belong, of strict right, to Old Man Burgess, who employed him, in sleep, blessed sleep, like a sane and sensible man, or in virtuously hurrying back to his job, spent them in toiling through tho dense bush that overhung the creek. Tho going was particularly trying, being exceedingly steep, and festooned with creepers of a virulently clinging kind, lawyer and blackberry predominating. It took him the better part of two hours, through tepid, steamy heat, to achieve his objective, and a further two to convince him that, wherever the gold-collecting whirlpool was situated, it wasn't there.

By then it was considerably past noon, and thundering on tlio left, so George decided that it was high time he beat it; since a cloud hurst on the water sheds served by Stranger Creek, would probably make it extremely awkward for him, and so would Old Man Burgess if ho didn't roll up in time to assist with the filling of tho shed for crutching, on the morrow. By the time he got back to the mill, the worst was about to happen, but grabbing his saddle and slicker in transit, he managed to beat tho terrific downpour, by a short head, to the wharc.

Then tho heavens opened: It rained as it can rain in tho ranges on a hot late spring day, when thunder is in the air, and it lias been rather drier than normal on tho lower levels. Somewhere higher up, there must have been a cloud burst, and when the storm was at its height, the water came down Stranger Creek in a solid wall of dirty yellow water.

As it went by. the wash from it lifted above the banks and came right up to the wharc door, filling George with a new nervousness, and dispelling his original fear that the whare or Stranger would be struck by lightning. It occurred to him that another fresh of the same dimensions would just about flood him out.

It was about then that he got his first bite; or, to be strictly accurate, tho first of the fleas lelt by the last rabbiter's dogs, got its first bite of tho season. A few seconds later, George was scratching like a mad lieu. Fleas! Gcorgo says they came in their hordes and their legions, streaming from tho four corners of the whare in a black procession thicker than midges in Miil-summcr. . .

It unnerved George, so tliat ho bolted out of tho wbare. Foriiinatoly the rain passed on as suddenly ns it had arrived; so suddenly that tho stillness was almost ns awe inspiring as the lightning and the creek had been ten minutes previously.

Rut by then, George had forgotten the lightning and tho creek. The fleas had got him beforfe he saw them, and in a moment his body was on lire, and ho felt ns though he had developed a dreadful, malignant fever. Indeed, so George said, ho was convinced that ho would die of anemia if he didn't get rid of those hungry brutes in half a minute less than no time, which perhaps explains why, with a most unusual and lamentable lack of modesty,

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lie proceeded to strip on the spot, instead of seeking the seclusion of the bush. Jn less tlinn no time, George was standing in the clearing in front of the uliare, naked as Adam, and as unashamed. Garment by garment, ho shook his apparel with commendable vigour, ! turned his socks, emptied his boots and mover! on to a fresh spot, where he repeated the operation. Five times he shook everything fore and aft, and had I just decided that it woidd be safe to get down to a closer inspection, when Stranger snorted. The next second, clad in nothing but, a boot in one hand, George was hitting the trail for the tall timber. He went into it iike a jack rabbit into its burrow, fell flat on his face and lay there panting and terrified, while, beside his clothes, a female, reminiscent of Ariadne after her immersion, but neither quite as young, nor half as beautiful, stood staring after him in shocked bewilderment. George says that while ho lay there, a mighty hush came over the bush. Then Stranger snorted again, and George rallied himself and sat up, and peered through his screen of leaves. The lady, who streamed water from every seam and line, was busy over his nice, dry, white shirt. George sat up and goggled, and an antagonistic ant began a militant investigation of his invasion of its rights., George yippod, leaped to his leet, and moved on, cursing with every step^ Presently he stopped again, shivering. The bush was humid, but it was also exceedingly wet. Whenever he moved, it dripped 011 him in abundant, icy trickles. George stood on one foot, and attempted to put on his boot, overbalanced and sat down on a rotten log, covered with lawyer-berry. He wont through the lawyer-berry, and stuck in the log. Getting out was a long and painful process. While he was doing it, a colony of sandflies, humming with joy, discovered him. George yelled. When he finally succeeded in breaking free, he made a wild dash for the creek, but it was too muddy and full for indiscriminate bathing. By the time he had discovered a spot where he could let himself down, hand over hand, on a vine of unknown vintage. be was even less sane than usual. Everywhere that George went, the sandHies were sure to go. They surrendered him to the water inch by inch, but, though checked, they were undefeated. When he was submerged to the nose, they sat several deep 011 what was left of him, and, situated as ho was, George could not .-pare a hand to dislodge them. Finally one too many alighted, and the added strain broke the vine. George went under. When, dazed and bruised and halfdrowned, the creek finally yielded him up to the harsh embrace of the shinglebank, the sandflies had decided to call it a day; and the female, having evidently also decided that she was de trop. had likewise gone away. Stiff, cold, aching and itching in every limb, George waded ashore, and made for his clothes. It was only when he had the garment actually in his hand that he realised the ghastly truth. Gone was his lovely dry shirt and his beautiful dry trousers. Gone were his dry singlet and pants; and in their place George had had bequeathed to him: — Item. —One sopping wet and fortunately voluminous red and yellow frock. Item. —One alleged petticoat. We gathered that there were other items, but the nature of them George resolutely refused to indulge. Mercifully, tho lady had left him his slicker. Ungallantlv, George abandoned all items but the frock, which he wrapped around him after the manner of a loin cloth. Then he donned his slicker and rode home. A painful ride, we gathered. Tho frock was wet, and it stuck, and George ha d been sitting on a lawyer, arguing with it. . . . We, being up at tho sheds, filling tho night pens, did not see his coming home, but Larry had to go down to tho stables for something, and spotted the light in the bunkhou.se. Being Larry, ho had to go over and investigate, and offer a few pungent remarks to Georgo about slacking. Ho burst into the bunkliouso just as George stripped off his slicker. Doing quite merciless, he spun tho miserable creature out of his gay loin cloth, and bolted up to the woolshed, waving his trophy round his head, and bawling that George had been involved in a particularly juicy murder. Tn faco of the unmerciful ragging to which the poor mutt was subjected, he let drop the hints that enabled us to piece together the true story of Stranger Creek. Some days later his clothes arrived home in a neat parcel containing a little printed note. "With thanks." George, by the way, is a confirmed misogynist.