THE SOUTHERN CROSS SETTLERS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3655, 1 April 1924, Page 69

THE SOUTHERN CROSS SETTLERS.

The good that is in the worst of ns. By Carlson E. Holmes. (Copyright.—For the Witness.) 11. The mailman called one day yes, even we had a postman. His visits took place on Tuesdays and Saturdays. The Royal Mail and its guardian travelled in a gig, the propelling power for which was supplied by an equine antique named Bess. And everywhere that Bessie went our mail was sure to go.

We anticipated Tuesdays and baturdays.

Our share was never much. Always the same old accounts —a different footnote perhaps, —but the same old billheads shouted “Cheerio” to us month after month. It’s great how friendly one may become towards an “ In-account-with. More than once I have asked in a worried voice, “ * Have you seen bo-and-so s blister? ” and Rudolph, my guide, philosopher, and friend would say, “ Oil, I do hope it has not strayed ’’—and his usually calm face showed signs of worry. But on this day of days there was a real letter. Its appearance was one to inspire that I-wonder-what’s-in-it feeling. This pearl of great price was addressed to Rudolph. Little matter whose letter it was: its arrival made the day one for celebration, and to that end we laughed, we sang, we swore —anything to make the occasion an auspicious one. Even our dog Glen fell into the spirit of the thing .and rejoiced—in a doggy way —by sauntering out and biting Bovril, our neighbour s bull, just when the latter was wondering what style of nose-rings appealed to the ladies of his kind the most.

The tumult and the shouting having died, Rudolph decided to open his letter. This he did with all due reverence, our eyes following his every movement. His face pale—his body trembled, and with a choking voice he gasped: “ Reggie! He—e—e’s coming.” After imbibing a fair amount of that liquid which. makes Scotland so bonnie (we always had a bottle in case of untoward happenings) Rudolph was able to speak so as to he understood. His explanation was brief, lurid, and to the point. Reggie, it seems, was his youngest brother, who, in mistaken kindness on the part of his parents, had been allowed to survive. He found an outlet for his energies on the staff of the Morning Standard, where he conducted “ Our Girls’ Column " under the nom de plume of “ Aunt Flo ” —“ and lie’s cojning Thursday. Good Lord! ” lamely coricluded Big Brother. -ri

Thursday arrived. So did Reggie. An obliging neighbour drove nim to the place where our gate is going to be — some day,—and left him amid various suitcases. With the Christianly fortitude of the late William Tell, Rudolph advanced to meet his relative.

“ What, ho! Rudolph,” yelled Reggie “Come, kiss ‘ Aunt Flo.’ ”

With a supreme effort of will Rudolph shook hands with him, and then did the honours as far as James our trusty henchman, and myself were concerned.

But after Reggie had been with us an hour or so I was forced to admit that he appeared to be not nearly so bad as he was painted. True, his quest for knowledge and enlightenment was beyond the average, but, then, so was Reggie. To me he was but a joyous lad with a leaning towards striking socks. To James he was the founthead of wisdom and humour. When Reggie started raking up the past of “ Aunt Flo ” the straw left James’s mouth, and the vacant look vanished from his face.

Now your New Zealand farmer has one exclusive characteristic. After breakfast, or dinner, or tea, as the case may he, he does not say to his guest, “ Have a cigar ? ” No, his after-meal invitation is, always, “ Come, and let me show you,” etc., etc., etc. As I was now one of the vertebrae in the backbone of New Zealand I did as convention demanded. Collecting Reggie, we started off on a miniature Cook’s tour.

First of all we visited the dairy. (Note: “ Dairy ” in this case is more or less a complimentary term.) Our separator (1911 model) at once attracted Reggie’s attention. He looked at it from every angle—north, south, east, and west, also starboard and larboard. With a childlike expression he gazed at me and asked : “ Where does one put in the penny ? ”

Then I began to understand why Rudolph did not love his brother too much. From humour Reggie drifted into sarcasm, and from sarcasm to downright rudeness. Why didn’t we send our implements to the Early Settlers’ Museum? If the authorities there refused them, surely there was a foundry somewhere willing to do a little business in scrap* iron. Why didn’t we sell our cows, and put the money towards a tin of condensed milk? We would certainly receive more milk by adopting his smiggestion—and look at the time we’d save! Why not obtain a piano case from somewhere, and tank it on to the house? It would be an improvement over the accommodation we offered our guests at present. And then ho finished up a morning of terror by tacking un a notice in the fowlrun. It read : “ This way to the nests, tlease. ’ Our fowls avenged themselves in a novel way. The only hen that ever did its best to earn its keep was found dead one morning. An inouest failed to reveal the cause, blit violence was suspected. Days passed. Reggie was still with us—and lived.

Morning and night our cry arose io | the heavens: “How long, O Lord, how long? ”

We received an account from the grocer

In itself that was nothing. For months they had been arriving, and received a right royal welcome. But the footnote of this one was different. At first glance it conjured up the inferno by Dante or somebody, and at a distance of six feet there was a- decided odour of brimstone to which had been added a tablespoonful of sulphur. Did we know that it was over three months since we had paid a penny off our account? Did we think that he was in business just for the fun of it? Did we know that a paternal Government provided courts anu gaols especially for those who did not pay their grocers?—“and please note,” he continued, “ I will be out to see you on Friday afternoon next.'' The mouth-organ was silent that night. Friday! The grocer’s car, a superb thing, with wonderful nickle fittings, that twinkled at us derisively, stopped out on the road. Further proof of his diplomacy was apparent in that he did not come himself, but sent his son—who was also his junior partner —a lad aged about 23, 6ft 2in in height, red-haired, and with a face as sympathetic as a tin of Dundee marmalade. We also knew that this same young gentleman was very handy -with his fists, and it was an open secret that he was hard in- training for something big. Nearer, nearer came Retribution—smaller, smaller we grew with the exception of Reggie, who with a great shout flung himself headlong at the young hopeful of the purveyor of eatables.

“ Ginger! ” “ Reggie! ” A miracle had happened. Of that we were dimly aware.

Even then Reggie appeared to bungle. Instead of leading the large and capable red-haired young man away from the house he made what is termed a “ beeline ” for our door. One hand was on his companion’s shoulder, and from where we were it sounded as if each was trying to talk the other blind.

“What, ho, within!” came to us in Reggie’s dulcet voice. We crept out of our respective hiding places.

Reggie rose to the occasion. We were formally introduced to Ginger. “ Isn't it great, meeting old Ginger like this? ” murmured Reggie. “ I was telling you chaps about him only the cAher night (he had never mentioned Ginger’s name, hut we did not remind him of that). Why, old Ginger and I went through school together—indeed, we were kicked out together.” Then to me he added: “Won’t you ask old Ginger to stop for tea? ” I asked “ old Ginger.” Under the circumstances we were poor company, hut Reggie and “ old Ginger didn’t seem to care. For a while they were back at the old school—and what else mattered? At last Ginger said he really would have to go. Pleasant afternoon, and so forth, but business was business.

He drew me aside for an instant. “ Look here, he whispered, “ I’ll see that the firm keeps you going for another month or two. Had I known you were friends of Reggies you would "not have Teceived that letter. In the meantime don’t worry.” It was then I realised that all the real Christians were not thrown to the lions.

Reggie and he walked out to* the car—still talking. A hearty handshake, and “old Ginger” was gone. # * IT * Another week passed. Reggie, now our pride and Joy, was leaving. Reggie was returning to his paper—“ Aunt Flo ” was returning to the love troubles and requests for recipes of “ her hundreds of neices.

James drove him to the station in a gig borrowed for the occasion. Rudolph and I watched them speed down the sunbathed road.

“Some hoy! ” I said, half to myself. I should say so. Look whose brother he is,” came from Rudolph in a rather forced attempt at levity. But his joke fell very, very flat. (To be contnued.)