A BIRD OF PASSAGE

Otago Witness, Issue 2924, 30 March 1910, Page 89

A BIRD OF PASSAGE

By H. A. R.

He first attracted my attention by offering me a copy of Scraps. " 'Ave a look?" he said. Scraps is not a paper I am in the habit of reading, but since the orchestra was seeking; to hide its attenuated numbers by producing uncouth noises, I sought distraction in the paper he had held out. It Happened to be a belated summer number, and seemed full of nothing but badlyexecuted sketches of girls in bathing costume. The curtain went up, and I was able, without discourtesy,., to lay the; yellow sheet down and look at my neighbour. We were in the second row of the stalls, so that the light from the stage fell upon his face and shoulders. His hair was unkempt and ragged about the ears, his eyes sunk in his flesh, which was of a uniform muddiness; he had rather high oheek-boufts, and a slanting chin, and his lips announced that a smile or a. laugh would be forthcoming on the slightest provocation. He wore a turn-down collar, which I judged to have seen many days' wear; his tie was clumsily tied, and did not conceal ,a bone collar-stud; the collar of his coat was greasy, and the whole man. teemed shabby.

" An ordinary working man " summed Mm up to myself.

'—thus I

During the first half of the performance I did not take much move account of him;

except to note how K« craned forward W look at the stage, sitting on half of his seat only, and holding his cap in on'o hand; which caused mo to think that be must be from the country, and had noo often been to a theatre before.

At the interval he rose. I had not. intended to go out myself, but L Kate to have people brush past my knees, so I rose too, and he said, " 'Ave a drink with nie?" • '• '-••

For a moment I hesitated. Thoughts of sharpers and the " confidence trick " crossed my mind, But then sharpers, one would think, are always sleek and wellgroomed, and now that the lights in the house were turned up, the owner of Scraps appeared almost, disreputable. "All right," I eaid. We received our pass-out cheeks, and emerged on to the street. " I dunno where we go," he said. "I myself am not very conversant with the topography of Dunedin—esoeoiallv at night," I replied ponderously, '" but l think the Grand is the nearest place." He was silent a moment, digesting the first part of my remark, perhaps, and then he said, " I'm only jest out from England." .- ~, " Bo am I," I replied, ' at 'east Ivs been out nearly nine months how."j " I've only been out eight days.' He spoke humbly, as though to plead that I should not bfe hard upon him, and I felt ouibe like an " old hand." " How do you like the country? was mv inevitable question. '" Oh, koti'EN"," no said. By this time we had reached the Grand, and'he called for our drinks. After taking a mouthful, he resumed the conversation. "And I'm going back on Monday. Sailing from the -Bluff." "What!" I said. "Only been nere eio-ht davs, and going back on Monday . He nodded. "To England! And then Igo to Monte Video. I might go direct from 'ere, but I don't like the lood on the Shaw Savill." 'I Well, but . . • " I said. ±lO seemed an extraordinary being. He must have understood what I was too delicate to rmt into words—that dress and speedi were not those. ot n. wealthy globe-trotter. For he drained | his jrlass; " and said quite cheerfully : "Mv father died and left me a lot o money. And th*m~-why my ; mother went'and died too, and left me a lot more. I've been in South Africa. -Aus- , tralia. ah, grand place, Australi*! .Mel* bourne' Ah, that's like Londonn " But Sydney " I called to the barman to hll no' onr'glasses. '_' Sydney, is tue centre of amusement, is "Oh no! Sydney s too huH.; • .Aeir I as one. who had discovered an infallible standard of comparison between town ana town. "Well, here's luck!'' he spiVin- upon his replenished glass. .He St his fiad in his breast Poland clvew oat a piece of blue paper. That a my ticket to England by the Orient, he explained. "Got it this morning. . He held it out tor me to examine, but «. T "suggested that he would be wise to keen it safely in his rocket. "That's it! he eaid, with sudden heartiness. "You're a pal! Let's .:git back to the theayteiv' . __ ~-Vi As we walked back he criticised; the New Zealand railways, and in the same sentence told me that he had forgotten the name of his hotel. " Begins with a « C ' though "—he clucked with his tongue as though to recall the name that way. "The City?" I suggested. " No, no! C ;; . . Clem . . Clementina ! Is Inert' a Clementina Hot/el 'ere ?"

I said I thought not. I "Never mind," he said. "I ordered; a cab to meet me and drive me back, so it doesn't matter." During the remainder of the performance he talked with me so much that I felt I was failing into disrepute with my other neighbours. "How much do you think I spent to- j day?" he asked. I shook my head. " How much'do you think I spent yes- | terday?" Again I professed myself at a loss. " £lB 10s to-day and £9 5s yester- !

day." "Whatever did you spend it on?" M Tailor yesterday, and my ticket to--1 day." . This last dispelled the impression, which had been growing stronger and stronger the last few minutes, that I was hob-nobbing with an eccentric millionaire. . £lB 10s could. only be the price of a I steerage ticket, and the most eccentric millionaires do not as a rule travel steerage. " And how much money do you think I I !ave now in my pocket?" He seemed 1 to take a delignt in exposing my shame I ful ignorance on matters of importance. B He put his hand in his • hip pocket and drew out a handful of gold and silver—- : about £7, I thought. " That's to last me till breakfast. Tomorrow I goes to the bank and draws out more." : • The performance attracted his attention for a while, but presently he returned to . the charge. "Is there any entertainment 'ere in the day-time?" he asked* "I love music'.", "I'm afraid not," I said. "Dunedin's awful slow.- To-day I • didn't know what to do with myself—so I drank all day." -"Do you drink much?". I inquired naively. "-.Horrible. That's why they sent me % out here—they thought it might cure 1 me." ' .

■ TJvis seemed at variance with his story of the recent demise of his parents. At any rate, whoever sent him out here must have had a strangely credulous trust in I the efficacy of New Zealand as a panacea I for all social evils. "And I don't know what I shall do I to-morrow. I wish there was a band I love music," he repeated rathVf -pathetically. H The performance came to an end, and both stood up. As I moved put. of .my row into the stream of people setting towards the door, he shot a half bashful, half wist'ful glance at me: I did not say "Good-night" then, because. I hoped - to • catch . him outside and have further conversation with nim. For he interested J -me. But somehow I missed him. True enough, a :cab was drawn up on the opposite side of the street, and I saw him walk across, enter it, and push up the trap to speak to the driver. Whether ht , told him to drive to the "Clementina" Hotel or not, I cannot say. •■■...■•:

Twenty years on, -where will he, and where shall I, be? I have a weakness for' stray' acquaintances. Against this eight-day visitor to New Zealand (who was, as it AveTe, but a pipe for conveying the savings of his dead parents into the coffers of shipping companies), I can only set, for subtle charm, a work-' man whom I encountered one day in a "bar at Portobello —a staunch admirer of Dickens, who entered into a controversy with me respecting " David Copperfield.'' Of him I may write anon.