LOCAL COLOUR.

Otago Witness, Issue 2902, 27 October 1909, Page 88

LOCAL COLOUR.

By M. Peacocke

"Whit I want is local- colour," said- the pretty novelist, waving her pencil with vague comprehensiveness. "That is the' thing nowadays" that pays." "Then you've come to tihe righ* place for it," • said the ex-st«atior> -owner, has manner implying that he had the exclusive 'ight of dealing in local colour. "If I mistake not, here comes a bit of it now." , . He took his pipe from his mouth and pointed to a« solitary^ black, figur© shambling across the sun-bakecf paddocks-. "The ex-owner had' parted witli the station, 'only a few days before to the novelist, and, her brother. They were to 'station -life — -~ so new that the creak had not departed from the stiff and leathern gaiters worn indoors and out byi "the boss, as his sister .insisted on calling him, and the pretty novelist was careful j to spsak as far as possible^ in wha-;. she fondly conceived to be the idioms of hei place and time. .flic shambling figure drew nearer, and resolved itself' into a walking bundle of dilapidations. It fumbled -a* the gate of the tation yard, and, pausing at some distance from the creeper-covered verandah, stood- with its ancient headgear in its bands, ol'l rags and deprecation-. TShe battered and brimless-felt spoke of Wamelesr adversity ; the mismatched ,boots, clumsily <Erawr tgether witfh twine, of decent poverty, and the wandering but ingenuous eye of a humble spirit. "A tramp !" said th© novelist, disappointed. "A 'sundowner' J" corrected the ■ exowner, sucking at his pipe in the shadow of the massed creepers. "Oh !" Her face lit up, and she made a note in her notebook. "Poor fellow," 'She added in a whisper ; "he must have 'hunched his bluey' a lonig way." "Humped !" suggested tihe^ex-owner, and she flushed petulantly. - "A 'hunch' and a 'bump- is the same thing/ ©he aigued illogioally. "Lady," began the visitor, "could you help a poor man what — — " "Good-day, Danny 1" said the ex-owner as he strolled into view The tramp started. " 'Day, Boss," he stammered. "I thought as you " "Had left?" Just sc ; but it's all right. You've come in the nick of time. This lady wants local colour. You'v© got it " "S'elp me," interruted Danny, "I ain't laid a finger on so much as a negg not fer " "No, no, Danny You haippeo to be jusfc the man we -want, though." "It couldn't 'a been me, Boss, 1 ' protested Danny angrily; "it must 'a "been some- other bloke who the lady seen." He was backing away in alarm. "What's the matter?" queried the pretty novelist, mystifiedi. .. -. '• 'Conscience makes cowards of us all,' " said tbe ex-owner. "He's afraid of your notebook. Thinks you something ir the lady detective line, 1 expect. Danny's a queer character — drifts about from station to station, and more particularly haunts me in a mysterious fashion. He's become such a nuieance I've bad- to threaten him with the police." "Offer him five shillings to stay." "Hi, Danny ! Like to earn half a crqwrt?" Danny was already shuffling to the gate. He paused irresolute. "Wot's the game?" suspiciously "I want you to give this lady the benefit of your experiencet. Don't be too taken in, Miss Meredith ; they're ' all rogues aiu? humbugs." Say, Danny, will you stay anr 1 chat to the lady i"f you have no very important engagement — a directors' meeting, or anything of that sort? No? Then we'll consider that settled." "You're kid-din', -Boss. The only chat I'd get is the right about, face, quick inarch." "Danny is n wit, you see," said the ex-owner, with his peculiarly sweet- smdle, and resumed : "Well, Danny, you're to be put in a book." His suspicions returned at once. "Me in a book — not me?" He turned away, muttering. The novelist's soft tones brok' in : "Please stay, Mr Danny. 1 only want to hear a little ol this country and thelives o* its people— a little of your life, perhaps." Danny stood turning his rusty old hat in his ha-nds and glancing covertly from side to side. "My presence, perhaps, embarrasses the laconteur," suggested the ex-owner, and i tossing a piece of "Derby" to the tramp, he strolled- indoors. Danny stowed a generous mouthful in ! his ;h©ek, shuffled his feet, spat in the dust, and began, glibly enough. His story was common-place — an old mother, i a sick wite, an appalling tale of childi-en, a, loving but distracted husband and father, misfortune visited again and again on a devoted head. The novelist was sympathetic, but unimpressed', and" was about to dismiss him, with the promised; douceur, when the voice of th- ex-owner broke in from th© doorway. j 'There, there! Danny, you Jd fox, no lies." Danny turned quickly, and , for a mon>ent jomething like the spirit o* a man ; looked out of the shifty' eyes. '•Lies, is it?" he snarled. "Perhaps 'X is. Perhaps I haver't an ©Id mother dependent on me and a missis and kids as adores me. You're right-;, it's lies^ — lies — all lies. You want the. tarufth, do-, you, aawJ you, missy?" turning so- suddenly: on

the' novelist that "she shrank. - "Then tak« it. I'm not mealy-mouthed., an' you :a&ked ,, ,f ef it, so etan't- flinch and turn pale an' look shocked. ~ It ain't pretty, oh, noj t » Did "you 'expect a prett\ l si<fh when you asked a man to dtag lxis }iflk#d -heart out •of .his." breast, an* ' burst open old wotands? i/6dk v at me in" my ddvt a-V fags," a r 'broken-down, beggdng, sodden wretch. What d-'-y^ ?want rme to s£y| To tell you 61 Vlail — two lads — in an Enffc lish village, one a gentleman born ,an.' the other a gardener's son. Friends, tooi in a queer way. if you call it -friends, where' one was like a young lord an' the other bis humble slave ; where one domineered an' ordered an' the other fetched cwi' carried, loved an' looked up to, an<s m ould } a died to serve him. For what ? A Voyal nay o' flinging favqrurs, .a sniile as sweet as a woman's, ai*?^ a -careless ,«£feetaen'.vii£p~>he dido;^-. forget the. very sxisteiice of hi^ jmnisSl.e' playfellow T&sy 'gr&fjrnp together, wjJd youn« "blood^, , tljo •pair l^ them. v «;Whetaeve.r < jthe master "ffaa "•honie ?; fe.x)m sciool or .e^Srege there !^"aa the other- ready to follow, in ,ariy ' devilment, [ihi the maiter was always leader ; reacly, too, to shield the gentleman's nam« an' beai tha, blame -ox . shame when tbiuga grew warm." The ex-owner, sitting with his elbow on his knee and: his fine eyes shaded with one hand, moved uneasily. " The gardener's eon fell in love. ' A pretty, gentle creature she was, an' &h« loved him — till the Master came. He — ■who could blame her? — with his handsome face and gentlemanly way stole her bear . an' broke it." The ex-owner half rose, breathing nard. "No, no!" he said- hoarsely, but sank back again, and was silent, while the other went steadily on. " Aye, broke her pooi heart. The two friends .bad quarrelled for her cake. It was fierce^ — their first quarrel — and when I the humble lover rushed away, blind with misery an' anger, he hardly knew which hurt was dn.^epest. the loss of his love or his boyhood's friend. TJhe Masted g» r into trouble and debt.- Desperate at last. he stole hi:} mother's jewels to pay hist debts, hoping to redeem them. When the hue an' cry was raised, an* the net eeemed closing round Lim, he came to the friend who had never failed him. An 1 he forgr-t his anger an' the "other's black treachery, an' lenrembered only it was the friend te had loved an' serv-ed all his iife wh was in trouble. Help him? Why, of course he'd help him. What matters that a slur should lie on the name of the common gardener's son, so long as the honour of the gentleman was left unstained. ',' ' I'll never forget 't, long as I liva.' the Master said, wringing '.he other's rough hand, "and I swear they shan't jail you. Sooner than that I'll make a clean breast of it at the last moment ; but it won't come to that, neve* fear. We'll get you 6ff, an' the disgrace, which in my case- would mean ruin, you'll - live down in a year." " At the last the gardener's son aakaihim: 'Be good to my girl an' love her as she deserves.' He swofe he would always love her, and things was arranged that suspicion should fall on the innocent man. The trial lasted three days, an' from the first things looked black for tho prifioner. On the third day— he kep' uj heart till then, thinking his friend would ?urely find a way — the Master never- camtt to the court at all, an' he was sentenced to three, years' hard. It killed his 6kL mother an' broke his honest father's heart. When he came back to the villaga hie father's doors were shut againet him. The girl he had loved wa v s there, sad an* 1 strange, but the Master was gone — married to seme fine lady, they said, an' g.>r.e abroad, an' net so much as a message or word -left for the man who had taken the consequences o* his sin. That was hardest of all." His audience wae silent: the novelist in tears, and her companion with -ii& head bowed into his hsnds. "No one had a good word for the jail-

bird, aaid after hanging about for a week or so he drifted away. For a while he tried for honest jobs, Init his story foilered him, ou' he was always gettin' fired He took to drinking, an' eank lower an' Iow«r, drifting from place to place, getting raggeder and dirtier an' more shameless. A charity shipped him off to the colonies, an.' there hie simply tramped from station to station, begging, drinking w'»e:i be could get it, stealing whan he got l-he chance. One day on. a new beat (most of the stations had got to know him an' was sick of him) ho came to farmhouse. A jnan stood on the poich, a big handsome fellow, an' tbe tramp felt his l*eart jump into his throat. He knew the Master tigain, in spite of the beard an' the broad shoulders ; it was the old sweet smile an' the old royal way in which he flttng him a shilling an' ordered "the servants to gwe the "poor devil" a good dinner. »The blaster didn't recogniss liim. How' should ha recdgnise dirt an* lags, bloated face, and ragged beard for the freeh-faoea decent country lad he had known? But the strange thine was this — though thetramp had brooded over his wrongs for years, and hatfd the man that caused 'em, so that be only waited for a sight of him to kill him with his naked hands, now the tima had come his heart melted soft as a baby's. It was his old Master, his old friend and playfellow standing there, and bo wanted to go and touch his hand and say — never mind what he would 'a' said. But be felt suddenly ashamed when he thought of how he'd fallen, an' he sat eating the dinner they gave him, though every mouthful choked mi, with bis eyes cast down. The/ offered him a bed by the Master's orders, but in the middle of the niprht he- sneaked off, ashamed to fac-s hie 'old friend asrain. But he couldn't keep away. Old times kep' returning on ham an' softemn' his heart — times ;\s they'd fished an' birdnested together ; the day the Master fell from the big pine, an' he bad carried him home unconscious, wild wdth grief. Ihinkin' him dead ; the nights they had run together from the keepers in tho Squire's covers :- later days when they went on mad pranks together, an* t-ho^e days when they loved the same woman. So the tramp hung about the station, an* eomefcimes the Master riding bj- gave him ti carelciE* good-day an' sometimes told him to 'be off.' He never lifted so nru^i as a turkey eg? of the Master's, though stealing was his trade by now. But the Master wearied of seeing him hanging about. P'r'haps it was a case of ' give a dog a bad name,' an 5 he couldn't believe he was there for a 115* good purpose Anyhow he ordei^ed him off again an' again. An' at last the tramp went without the courage to cay what had been on his tongue-tip for many a day: 'Why. Master Jim, don't you know me — your old friend Dan?' '* The ex-owner sprang down the steps " Dan— Danny Martin — my good ol.'i Pan!'' There were tears in his tycs, rtnd emot'on choked him, while again and again he wrung the other's grimed hand in both his own. The sundowner, simply as a blubbeTi-ig schoolboy, laid his bearded face in the hollow of his ragjjed arm and sobbed : "Oh, Master Jim, if you'd only left a word."