WITHOUT DEFEAT

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22630, 23 July 1935, Page 4

WITHOUT DEFEAT

A STORY WITH A CALL TO A NATION , By Oliver Black. Chapter Four. (Continued.) 111. AXES TO GRIND The club consisted of a long, low room with an oblong table down the centre and wooden benches along the walls. In the far corner stood a side table, apparently doing duty for a bar. As they entered the room a general murmur of welcome arose from a group of seven or eight men round the table. Oliver, introduced to them all, caught no names, and pulled a chair up to the table next to his host. Mann explained that Oliver had just come out from Home, and Oliver was plied with questions about the Old Country. its circumstances, and prospects. A bottle of whisky passed down the table. “Your turn to sign, Willie!” shouted someone. “Hey, stcadv! I Want mortgagors relief! ” Everyone howled with laughter. Mann slapped his knee and spluttered in a very paroxysm of mirth. Oliver smiled feebly, feeling that something was expected of him. A little, round man with a cheerful smile, leant across the table to Oliver. “And bow do you find things out here? ” ... Oliver replied non-committally. “He finds them bloody rotten," said another. “Ah. they’ll be all right when we get our guaranteed prices,” remarked Mann with a side glance at Oliver. _ . There was ft general murmur in which assent and disagreement seemed about evenly mixed. Oliver could not refrain from saying that he supposed that the banks’ credits would be used for that purpose. A large serious-looking individual at the end of the table looked up. “Don’t you start on bank credits again. I’m tired of listening to people talking about them.” His eyes wandered round the table. Nobody spoke, and he went on: • “ But for once I’ll tell you what I think about them. Of course I’m only a bank manager and not a farmer, to I can’t be expected to know very much about it. You all want a. Government that will spend more money—cither in guaranteed prices or unemployment refief or what not. The only way a Government can get money is to take it by taxes or to borrow it —in our case almost entirely abroad. If they increase taxation you farmers ’ll have to stump up along with everyone else. If they borrowed abroad you’ll have to help to find the interest—and to repay the capital some day. You can talk about credits till you’re blue in the face, but you can’t, get away from that. And that’s, all there is to it. If the Government is to spend more money, even if it is got on credit, vou jokers are the people who’ll have to find it. Now, put that in your pipes and smoke it! I*m off. Good night all! He took up his hat and went out. There was an uncomfortable silence broken by a few grunts of approval. “A very sensible man,” remarked Oliver. . Mann muttered something about his being in the pay of the banks. “Ah.” replied Oliver, “ grinding his own axe, eh? Like so many other people. . . . Do you know, I don’t think you are being quite fair to him.” The whisky bottle came round again and tongues were unloosed once more. A man on the other side of the table began to talk. “Edwards may be right with our present system, but the whole systems wrong. If a suitable one were substituted it would be possible to guarantee prices to all of us the same as salaries are guaranteed to other people. Why should the Premier have a guaranteed salary any more than me? ” “And what is your ‘ suitable system’ ? ” asked Oliver.

“Ah, that’s asking! ” replied the other darklv.

“How about Douglas Credit?" suggested someone i _ “ Let’s wait and see how the major gets on in Alberta,’’ said Oliver’s neighbour, “ then p’raps' we can understand what he talks about.” “ I think that would be wise,” said Oliver.

A tall, thin man walked over to the side table and poured himself out a drink. He turned back, glass in hand, and addressed the company: “We don’t want any Labour fancy tricks. Our trouble is the gap between cost of production apd prices: we want the Government to help us to bridge the gap. First, they should revalue the land, writing’ off the loss that has taken place through nobody's fault and spgead the loss pro rata between the mortgagor and mortgagee. Then they should do something to help us get better prices.” He walked back'to his seat. “And isn’t that exactly what this Government has done? Look here, can anyone deny the actual casli gain to us as a result of the Ottawa agreement?” No one spoke, and he continued: “And the raising of the rate of exchange? ” “ That didn’t help us,” said three voices together. ; “Of course, it did. We got 25s here for every 20s paid in London.”

“It was a direct breach of the Ottawa agreement,” interrupted someone. “That is absurd,” put in Oliver. “Has the British Government ever complained about it? ” ■ “Not that I know of.” Oliver went on: “If it had been a breach even of the spirit of the agreement you may be quite sure that they would have done so. . .

And by the present mortgage proposals the Government is doing the very thing suggested' by that gentleman over therereducing the debt on land to a figure which the land can carry. I can understand the mortgagee (I haven't mot any mortgagees yet) being reluctant to face the fact that he has lost money, and legal recognition being given to that fact, but what you gentlemen have to complain about I simply cannot understand.” “ Hear, hear,” said two voices.

There was a silence broken only by the gurgle of liquid being poured into glasses, and the splash of soda water. “Well, here’s another thing,” said a man who had not spoken before. “ Six years ago I started pigs and got a contract from my factory to take all its buttermilk. Now the factory has trebled its output—and I have to buy three limes as much buttermilk as I can use. My pigs are damn well swimming in it. I get enough for a thousand pigs—and have to pay for it; and I ought to have a thousand pigs. Why shouldn’t the Government help me to get them? That would be stimulating industry! ” “Heigh-ho!” laughed Oliver; “who would be a politician? They’ve got to buv pigs now.” There was a general laugh and the man looked at the bottom of his glass. By now the company was rising in little groups and making its way towards the door. Oliver followed Mann out. As ho reached the street a man whom he had not previously noticed took him by the arm.

“Sec liere, voung fellow,” lie said, “it’s been a fine summer.” Oliver looked at him. mystified.

“So we farmers caji't complain about the weather. You must let us grouse about something, and there’s only the Government left. You don’t want to take us too seriously, you know.” As Mann walked back with Oliver towards the hotel, he told Oliver what a real pleasure it had been to meet him. Oliver was astonished at the genuine feeling in his voice. “Yes,” went on Mann, “it doe-s us all good to have a yarn now and again and hear about things from other people. Come in and see me at home some time and we’ll have another talk.- I suppose, when you come to think of it. the Government has done Us best according to its lights, as they say . . . and things

certainly are better than they were a couple of years ago . . . and if the Labour Party did get in and its schemes didn’t work after all, there would be a hell of a mess for all of us.” “ There most certainly would,” replied Oliver.

“I don’t like the idea of rates and such like going up . . . well, good night to you.”

IV. “AND THEY ALL STARTED” It wag the following morning, a cloudless morning of clear bine skies and sparkling sun. Oliver drove slowly, hig thoughts dividend between trying to sort out his impressions of the day before and speculating on the probabilities of running across Mary in Wanganui. Curious how he could not get her out of his mind. And he did not even know her surname, much lesg where she lived. Well, he would just have to leave it to Fate, and fate had been extremely kind to him so far.

He crossed a bridge over a wide river. The banks were lined with willows, their leaves a mass of dull gold against the sky. They reminded him of Mary’s hair. The blue smoke of a wood fire rose in a steady spiral from a tiny cottage half-hidden among the trees. Wood smoke always made Oliver think of woodcutters in the Hans Anderson fairy tales.

He drove on through a deep cutting in the hills and began to pass houses. At last the road swept round to join the river. Oliver had a vision of a long, shiplesu clock and smokeless factory chimneys. The river, wide as the Thames at Hammersmith' and dirty as the Tyne at Newcastle, moved sluggishly by with never a reflection of the blue overhead. Across a hideous bridge, in the yard by the docks, a crowd of men were hanging about dispiritedly. Oliver was struck by the atmosphere of depression. Everything seemed eloquent of a past prosperity—and an unprosperous present. He lunched at an hotel in the main street and read the local newspaper over his meal.

“Going to the trots? ” asked the waiter as he paid his bill. “ The whats? ’’ inquired Oliver. “ Trots—trotting races. Good meeting to-day, over on the old course.”

Oliver decided that Mary was as likely to be at the races as anywhere; also he had never been to a trotting meeting. Yes. he would certainly go. Ho found the course without difficulty, and left his car on the grass outside the gates. Slightly staggered at being charged 5s at the turnstile, he paid his money and went in. He walked up a concrete path lined with trees and bushes to the enclosure. A large, well-built stand on his right was packed with people. On the left, a loud-speaker erected halfway up the totalisator was filling the air with raucous sound. “So now it’s up to you,” bawled the announcer; “make your choice and get your money on before it’s too late. You’ve only got four minutes left, so pick the winner and make your bet. Plenty of room at the windows round the back! ” The crowd surged round the giant betting machine. <•

Oliver looked on in astonishment. Accustomed as he was to the careful covering of hypocrisy -find injustice under which the people of England are permitted to adventure money on the result of a horserace, this open, unashamed inciting of the public to lose their money left him speechless. Ho also observed with interest that whereas at Home only the most optimistic or plutocratic patronise other tijian the two shilling booths, here the minimum bet acceptable to the management was ten shillings. A bell was ringing continuously and a substantial queue formed outside a window marked “ £5.” It occurred to Oliver that someone in Wanganui had some money to lose. . . . A scoring board in front of the tote proclaimed tiiat the public had invested over 1000 half-sovereigns on the ensuing race. A rapid mental calculation enabled him to make a guess that over £SOOO must change hands as a result of every day’s racing country. It seemed a lot of money for people who couldn’t pay their mortgage interest, or who were being ruined by the sales tax or who were in debt to their bankers. ... He strolled down to the rails. On the course, right in front of the grandstand, eight hue horses, each hauling a pair of wheels on which a man in white trousers and a coloured jacket was precariously balancing, were turning in short circles. They were presently stopped, placed on their handicap marks, and the race began. The horse on the back 'mark, trotting as though he were drawing Lord Lonsdale’s coach instead of a pair of bicycle wheels, passed the rest 50 yards from the finish and won easily. The onlookers cheered with modified enthusiasm. A man in shirt sleeves appeared on the tote and chalked up an announcement to the effect that the dividend on a 10s stake would 10s 3d. It seemed fairly short odds. “ Give me roulette every time,” said Oliver to nobody in particular. A large man in a cloth cap turned round indignantly. . “ Eh, what? ” Oliver explained that he was speaking from the point of view of the betting, not of the racing itself, which he found both interesting and exciting. “There’s a big pool in the tote,” he continued.

The large man laughed scornfully. “You ought to have been here a few years ago when times were better; why we used to get pools two and three times as big as that.” “You’re very keen on racing in New Zealand, aren’t you?” asked Oliver. “ It’s one of the only things worth living for,” said the large man, with simple faith. “ But it isn’t like it used to be.”

“Things bad around here?” “Round Wanganui, yes. Town’s as dead as mutton these days. Even travellers don’t come here much. I can’t complain myself. I’m on sheep country, and fat lamb prices pull me through. But for the wool people things are pretty hard.” Oliver.,remarked that he thought that high prices for wool had ruled a year or two ago. “ They did for a year, but wool didn’t see the wave of prosperity that swept over the dairy industry in the boom period. And now it’s largely the dairy farmers who are squealing.” Oliver pointed out that a proportion, at any rate, of the dairy farmers were in very real difficulties. “The ones who bought land in the belief that butter-fat had risen to two bob to stay there? I grant .you that. But you’ll find a lot of noise being made by the farmers who are not weighed down with interest rates their land cannot carry. I like Forbes and Coates, and I admire them for their courage in getting to grips with the real problem—the farmers’ overhead expenses. I think that Coates’s handling of the mortgage legislation in the House was a tour de force, worthy to rank with the way in which Sir Samuel Hoare dealt with the India Bill at Home. I must look for my wife." He disappeared into the crowd. Oliver sauntered in the direction of the grand stand. “’Ave you got a light?” said a broad Lancashire voice in hie car. Oliver turned and handed his matches to a short, fat man with an enormous red face.

From Lancashire? ” he inquired

“Blackpool, eh; but you’re from the Old Country too. Shake hands.”

He gripped Oliver's hand in. a huge, moist paw. Oliver asked him how long he had been in New Zealand. “ I came out with a horse in ’99.” Oliver raised his eyebrows at so odd a choice of a travelling companion. “ Yes. I was in horses in those days. My son’s a jockey in Australia to-day.”

“And are you stiU, er, in horses? ” asked Oliver. '

.“I’m in skins now. I buy hides and skins for America—sort of gamble in them.” Oliver asked whether his business was suffering from the depression. “ I've never noticed no depression.” said the man. “I’ve never been depressed. My business has had ups and downs, but it's grand to-day.” “Then yon. at any rate, don't complain about the Government? ” “Oh. I don’t*-take no notice of politics. Don't follow them, so to speak. I don’t mind' telling you it’s years since I read a newspaper —except, of course, the racing news. And the Lancashire League results. I’ve got no time for politics, and they don’t interest me so long ae no one stops me buying and selling my skins, or tells me what price I’ve got to give for ’em. Excuse me, I haven’t had a bet on this race.” Oliver wandered about deep in thought; he was, certainly getting different points of view. 4'id he found considerable food for thought. He went behind the stand for a cup of tea. A surging... jostling crowd was areo struggling to get cups of tea “ Guaranteed prices—that’s the only solution. Give the farmer a higher price for his foodstuffs,” said a man in a loud voice. Oliver pushed his way further along , the counter.. Two women were whispering just behind him:

“What’s the good of them telling us to give the children more milk, with milk the price it is? ”

“And butter! Why, they tell me you can buy New Zealand butter in London cheaper than we can get it here! It’s a shame, the farmers charging all that for our food! ” Oliver gave up the fight for tea, and went back to his car. “ Hra! ” he thought,

“a great many people seem to be asking themselves the ‘What am I going to get out of it?’’

Oliver was sitting in the lounge of his hotel before dinner smoking a contemplative pipe when a musical laugh fell on his ears. He jumped to his leet. “ Well met!” he cried. “I conldn t mistake that laugh!” Mary smiled across at him and came over to his corner. “ You here.” She sank into the sofa. “Any more adventures? ” “Lots. You left me in Palmerston in a great hurry.’’ “ You were very rude. But I’ve forgotten about that.” She told Oliver that she had been very busy in Wanganui over the affairs of the new party. Oliver asked whether it was prospering. “Well, we’re meeting with a good deal of sympathy.” “No doubt,” replied Oliver, and told her about his experiences with the farmers. He spoke well and with considerable feeling.

Mary wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes.

“It isn’t funny,” said Oliver. “It’s pathetic and rather serious. Tanner said that everyone was at sixes, and sevens. He's perfectly rigid,. A great many of the people I’ve met with so far seem quite unable to think beyond their own bank balances or overdrafts (as the case may bo) at the moment. Also, most of them think they know how to solve the problems that confront a Government bettor than all the members of a coalition Government put together.” “So you haven’t found the spirit of the country yet? ’ “It is there, but it seems to bo so buried beneath selfishness and talk that it’s being suffocated. But it’s there all right. I’ll tell you where it is one day, but not now. . . . Alary, will yon

dine with me? Do. please. I’m rather miserable and disheartened to-night, and I feel terribly alone.- And I promise not to say a word about myself or what I’m doing ... or about polities! Will you?”

“ Thank you, Oliver,” smiled Mary “ Let’s go in now. I’m terribly hungry.” They went in to dinner. . Their conversation during and, after dinner is nobody’s concern but their own. (To be continued.)