SHORT STORIES

Otago Witness, Issue 3764, 4 May 1926, Page 84

SHORT STORIES

THE BUG HUNTER.

By

H. BRERETON.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) It really was the most awkward position, but as Helen said, I had nobody hut myself to blame. Not that that improved the position any; it merely meant that my wife washed her hands of the whole affair, and left me to clear up the muddle as best I could. At any other time it would have been bad enough, but under the present circumstances, as Helen kept repeating—impossible.” ° \\ hat on earth is the use of standing there gazing at the telegram like a stupid old owl, George? Do somethin" at once. Wire him we can’t have him—that it is inconvenient—that we have a full house—that we are away from home. Anything, so long as you stop his coming.” “My dear Helen,” I replied, “I am quite prepared to look like a ‘stupid owl' elsewhere, but, my dear, as for telephoning and stopping old Brunton; it can t be done, for the simple reason that by now lie is halfway on his journey to us; also I fail to see why it is impossible for me to have an old school friend to stay for a week-end, or longer if I wish.” “ Perhaps, my dear,” mv wife replied in honeyed tones, “you have forgotten that this is the week-end when June has arranged to stay with us, also that we have promised to go to the jockey club ball to-night, and to-morrow take up our residence at the bay with Charlie Garvin, also as one of the party. Perhaps it lias escaped your remarkable intelligence that I have planned all these details with the sole aim and object of bringing the said Charlie up to the scratch with June, and that a third man —an impossible, blundering, tactless ‘ bug-hunter ’ I think you called him, would be out of the question—quite.” I suppose other married men get into scrapes of this sort. The position briefly was: Some six or nine months ago I was glancing idly through the paper when my eye chanced to light on a half-column devoted to tlie honours then being conferred by the university and the society of naturalists, or entomologists, or some other variety of bughunters on one Maurice Fitzmaurice Brunton, who, it seemed, had succeeded in classifying some rare variety of beetle, thereby immensely benefiting posterity, who would now for all time know that it belonged to the family “ Doticus pestilens.” My interest arose from the fact that the said Maurice Fitzmaurice had occupied the same form with me many years ago in the old Otago High; lienee I was exceedingly interested to renew acquaintance witli a boy—rather lanky and awkward and dull, as I remembered him—who was now entitled to write about a dozen letters after his name, and was addressed as professor. Next day I looked him up at his club, and at my wife’s suggestion, mind you, extended him a warm invitation to spend a few days with us. Unfortunately at the moment I renewed our acquaintance the professor was filled with ardour, and was on the point of sallying forth into the wilds of New Zealand intent on conquering new bugs; hence my Helen had to be content with a promise that he would come and stay with us on his very next return to Dunedin. It only remains to state that the telegram i?. my hand announced his imminent arrival. By the time I was due to leave in the car * to meet him the atmosphere had cleared' somewhat, the second guest room had been prepared, and that ever delightful and sparkling example of her sex, June Renwick, had arrived, providing welcome diversion for my wife with countless news items—called by the vulgar, gossip. My first view of Maurice as he stood on the platform surrounded by tier upon tier of cases of every description caused a distinct feeling of vacancy in the region of my stomach, but I was immensely relieved to see these cases removed with great care to a van for delivery at the university, my friend ultimately having remaining to him “ one only, small suit* case.” „ . . „ Maurice was a big man—physically, I mean. His feet were huge, and to emphasise them he wore shoes with extraordinarily thick soles and wide welts; his hands were like young hams; his face, somewhat obscured by an abnormally large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, was what one would describe as rugged, and he was enabled to dispenso with a hat on account of an exceptional growth of long curly hair through which he incessantly ran his sausage-like fingers. Such was the man I delivered into my wife’s care some hours later, retreating as hastily as/decency permitted to the sanctuary of my dressing room. _ # Dinner was a ghastly affair—Professor Brunton had been so long “ far from the padding prowi ” that h« lacked touch

with current events; hence his supply of small talk was limited. School days were so far away that both of U 3 found much difficulty in remembering the names even of the boys who were our confreres; hence conversation dragged somewhat, the only one of our party absolutely refusing to accept defeat being June, who returned undismayed to the fray again and again. It was perhaps a blessing in disguise that the dance, to which Maurice agreed to accompany us, necessitated our hurrying from the dinner table to dress; but my wife’s gesture of utter despa.r when we were again alone determines me on the moment that I would hear nothing from her detrimental to my friend. The professor, it appeared, was unacquainted with t’ e rudiments of fox trot, but insisted on dancing every dance. Helen, limping badly, gave up after the second da je, and though June stuck to her guns longer, she was finally wafted away by the dashing Charley, giving me an unparalleled opportunity of introducing my friend to those numerous ladies who in the past had, for one reason or another, incurred my enmity. Sunday found us nt the bay; our party, now including Charlie Garvin, having difficulty in squeezing into the little seaside cottage. Here, good old Maurice, as I had got into the habit of calling him, was much more in his element, peering, like a short-sight d gargoyle, under every piece of driftwood on the beach in search of the dreaded katipo, or rambling through the bush investigating out-of-the- ay nooks and crannies ai d with net ani killing bottle, and with his pockets bulging with cigar boxes, to which he transferred his finds. On one or t* of these excursions he was acco .lpunied, to Charlie’s chagrin, by June. What she saw in the old bc„. > was impossible to say, but Hficn slnewdly suggested that June, with the wile of her sex, was using Mau ' e as a spur \.o bring the lagging Charles to heel. That, I am sorry to say, was fast becoming my own opinion; but I had thought better of June, and ventured one day to remonstrate vvith her for her lieartlesaness, for it was evident to oven the most casual observer that the professor’s wa. a bad case of love u.i first sight. June’s eply was to g.are at me, and for the rest of that day ignore me as fa a possible. . Women, I think, are the cruellest things, the way they play affect-. of great, big, simple chaps like Maurice. During this time Charlie was far from idle, whisking June off to tennis, boating, and other pastimes on every opportunity, while poor, old, incapable Maurice was left on my hands, the personification of hopeless misery. The break came, I believe, one day when the professor had managed to commandeer June on the pretext of showing her some peculiarity in one of his specimens. Together they bent their heads over the tray, June, as usual, smoking the eternal cigarette, when the owl-like old chap gazed at her solemnly through his goggles. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” he blurted out. “I don’t like it in women.” “My dear man, why on earth not?” retorted June. “Surely I have a right to smoke if I like it?” “Probably,” replied Maurice, returning once more to a contepiplation of his bugs, “only, my mother did not smoke.” I could see no reason for June taking a remark like that so much to heart, but from then on she quite ignored the poor old bug-hunter, devoting herself and her charms to Charlie Garvin, whom, I regret to say, seemed to glory in baiting poor old Maurice on every opportunity. Came the second last day of our holidays, and Charlie, determined to give his rival no opportunity for a moment with June, whisked her off for a sail in a small fourteen-footer, which he had managed to hire from someone. I was rather nervous about agreeing to June accompanying him, as I did not know his capabilities as a yachtsman, and a sttffish breeze was blowing on the harbour, but he pooh-poohed my objections. We three—Helen, Maurice, and I—stood on the little jetty watching them start out. Away they went, skimming over the water, but even to my inexperienced eye Charlie didn’t seem quite to have the “feel” of his boat, and when he brought her round she heeled dangerously. I heard Maurice draw his breath in through his teeth with a hissing sound and glanced sharply at him. The misery in the old chap’s face in this unguarded moment determined me to speak seriously to June on the first opportunity, and chance offending her for life, and I was just conning over how to approach such a delicate subject when a terrified squeal from Helen attracted my attention to the boat once more. It was evident she was in difficulties, and that silly ass Charley waa trying to bring her round on a new tack just as a cat’s paw swept down on them. Round

■lie came, tlie boom swung over, and at that moment the gust struck them, and over they went. Before I had recovered myself sufficiently to look up and down the beach in search of a boat there was a splash, and there, ploughing through the water with long, sweeping, powerful strokes, was old Maurice. Whatever else the professor was a dud at, he was no amateur in the water. That was the greatest race I have ever seen. Half a mile through rough, choppy water to the upturned boat, rapidly drifting further out with, the current, and not a boat of any description in sight that I could take to their rescue. What Maurice hoped to do when he got there I did not know, for a swim of that distance, cumbered with shirt and trousers was enough to exhaust any man, but he seemed to know what he was doing, for he shaped his pourse to allow for the boat’s drift, and showed not the least sign of exhaustion in spite of the pace he was making. Then to our horror, almost as he reached them, one of the little figures clinging to the boat disappeared. He saw it, too, and redoubled his efforts. Then we saw him tread water for a moment or two. Then a rush towards the right and he, too, disappeared from sight —dived evidently. The seconds seemed hours till we saw the swimmer break the surface again, this time burdened with a helpless form, and then, turning on his side, strike out for shore. I thought the man mad; he could never make it; it looked a physical impossibility for anyone so burdened to swim the distance, yet I saw now that he was taking advantage of the current, swimming down the bay obliquely. Entirely forgetful of Helen, I rushed along to where I judged he would make a landing, shedding clothes as I went, but, bless me, my maximum distance these days is about a hundred yards swffn, and to exceed that would mean suicide for me. On they came, his stroke getting slower and more laboured now—he could never make it—and then round the point, the water foaming at her bows, swept a launch. They didn’t see Maurice at first, and made straight for the upturned boat, where they hauled a dripping and exhausted Charlie on. board. Then I think they must have heard my yells, for they raced towards the almost done man. We did the artificial respiration business there on the shingly beach, the men from the launch working like demons, and Maurice with a face like a ghost struggled to his hands and knees, and watched June’s swollen features until she drew the first struggling, coughing breath.' Then they helped him as they had Charlie, long before, to the cottage, and all I can remember of the rest of 1 hat day was heating blankets and water for bottles at my wife’s orders for the three sufferers! The rest of the story I have pieced together from little things my wife has unconsciously let drop from time to time, and also by employing the ancient art of putting two and two together. Though Charlie was still in a state of semi-collapse following shock, next morning Maurice was out to breakfast, and half an hour later, with his little suitcase in his enormous hand, declared his intention of leaving us “to keep an important engagement.” Nothing Helen or I could say would deter him, but before he left he hesitated outskle the door of June’s room, then sent in, per Helen, a small brown-, paper wrapped parcel. I was just getting the car out,, ana, acting under instructions, was doing a good bit of fumbling with the carburettor, when Helen, hatless and breathless, dashed down and bore off the feebly protesting Maurice, thereafter joining me in a state of excitement bordering on lunacy. The bug-hunter, I believe, knocked three times on the door, the while mopping perspiration from his brow, and after repeated invitations to enter, summoned up sufficient courage. A vision of loveliness awaited him, propped up in a nest of pillows, with brilliant eyes Bet in a pale face. “X wanted to see you just for one moment, professor,” she said, “ to thank you for your wonderful act of heroism, and I want you, too, to light this little sacrificial fire,” pointing to a little pile of cigarettes heaped on crumpled paper on a brass tray at her side. “ But —but,” he stammered, “ those are the cigarettes I sent you to show that I realised I was wrong.” «They are, professor, but may I not use them to prove that I wish to be more like the woman who reared a son like you! ” I don’t know what happened after that, but anyway they are the most absurdly happy married couple I have ever known She’s perfectly cranky about bugs, and she says she just loves Ins ugly old face.