FUNNIER THAN FICTION

Otago Witness, Issue 3912, 5 March 1929, Page 76

FUNNIER THAN FICTION

By

Victor Bridges.

Amongst the many people who have unintentionally helped to brighten my life, I recollect with peculiar gratitude the personality of Sergeant Higgins. A large stolid marine, weighing about sixteen stone, he acted as chauffeur and valet to a certain distinguished general, by whom, for the time being, I was engaged in the capacity of secretary. The general, though a charming man, had one weakness. He was a teetotaller, and during our numerous excursions over the length and breadth of England, Sergeant Higgins and I frequently found ourselves in a state of drought. It therefore became an unspoken custom between us that, as soon as our employer was happily engaged, we should steal away in each other’s company to some convenient but obscure tavern.

One day, while we were sitting over our beer, I remarked casually: “If you’ve been in the marines, Higgins, I suppose you’ve seen a good - deal of the world? ” He cocked a rather blood-shot eye on me for a moment, and then replied : “ I’ve seen all the world, Mr Bridges—all the earth and all the sea—the top and the bottom of it.”

‘‘What do you mean? ” I asked. “Mean! ”he repeated. “ Why, I went down in that blasted Victoria.”

‘Really! ” I-exclaimed. “That must have been an interesting experience. What did it feel like? ”

He spat in the sawdust. “Rott-en,” he said. “ I was standing on the deck with a mate o’ mine, and I see the Camperdown coming right at us. I turns to im and I says: ‘ She’s going to run us down, Bill.’ “ ‘No she ain’t,’ he says. ‘ Yus she is,’ I says. ‘ She’s going to run us down, and I’ll get a cold.’ ’Cos I always get a cold when I get wet.” He paused. “Go on,” I said encouragingly. “ Veil, I was right. In she come, slap, bang, crash, and down we went.” How far did you go down? ” I inquired. Miles,” he said, “ and when I come up the ship was gone. There they was, choking and struggling and drowning all round me, and I says to myself, I says:. ‘ Now I’ll ’ave a cold,’ and 1 ’ad—the worst rotten cold I ever ’ad in my life.” Many years ago, when I first came to London, I shared a small studio in Chelsea with an artist, who was as broke as myself. V e were looked after by an old charwoman called Jane. Jane had a husband, a red-nosed, beery-looking individual who, when he was not in the pub, used to spend all day sitting on the Embankment contemplating the river. One morning, while she was cleaning up the studio, I said to her: ‘‘lf I were you, Jane, I’d make that husband of yours get a job. Why on earth should you keep him? ”

“ Oh, that’s all right, sir,” she replied ; “ don’t you worry about that. I knew wot ’e was like before I married ’im. ’E’s a good ’usband, and as for ’is ’abits, well /e can’t ’elp ’isself. ’E ain’t not wot you might call a scholar, but ’e’s a gen’leman at ’eart. ’E’ ’ates work.” On one occasion in those free and far-, off days, I was having a final drink just after midnight, when the door of the pub opened, and an elderly woman in rusty black sidled unobtrusively into view. She advanced towards the bar in a slightly unsteady fashion, and then pulling herself together, observed with considerable dignity: “A small gin—hie—hif you please.” The potman eyed her coldly. “ You’ve had enough to-night,” he said. “ You shove off ’ome.” Without a word the visitor ambled back to the door, where she paused .for a moment with her hand on the knob. “ Ha! ” she remarked bitbedfry. “That comes of harsking for it like a lady.” Curiously enough my last and most dramatic recollection is also connected with what are known as “ licensed premises.” On an August Bank Holiday three, years ago I was watching a crowd of revellers outside one of the historic inns which help to brighten Hampstead Heath. Presiding over a banana stall was a short, sturdily-built little man, who seemed to be driving a brisk trade.

Suddenly, without any warning, .a. violent dispute broke out between him dnd ■ a large, truculent-looking coster who was; declaring heatedly that he had received the wrong change. The next minute they were squaring up to each other, ■ and following the best traditions of English sport the rest of us immediately formed: a ring.

It was a one-sided affair, for strive as' he would, the little man was unable to get to close quarters. Every time he ‘ attempted to jump in he was punished’ unmercifully, but with extraordinary' gameness he insisted on keeping up the’ fight. At last, just when it appeared to; be all over, he made a sudden successful dive for his opponent’s legs. Down went' the coster, half-stunned, and the . next 1 thing we saw was the banana merchant’ sitting astride of him, ’ clutching him by ' the hair and methodically pommelling his‘ features.

We were looking on with sympathetic approval, when a stout lady burst her way unexpectedly jnto the ring.

“You brute! ” she shouted, brandishing her umbrella. “ Let the poor fellow get up.” Pausing in the middle of his operations, the little man raised a puzzled and bloodstained face. • >

“ Let ’im get up!” he repeated. “ Why, it’s taken me ’alf an hour to knock the blighter down! ” —John o’ London’s Weekly.