A WREATH AND A RIOT.

Otago Witness, Issue 4039, 11 August 1931, Page 73

A WREATH AND A RIOT.

By

Frank Condon.

It was exactly three o’clock when the police began running. People paused in chase and small boys shouted. In a few minutes the peaceful scene had become a seething riot. A police vah clanged down the street and into the milling hundreds, its crew leaping hastily down into the crowd which weaved about like an enormous spider web. In the centre of the web stood the criminal who had started the riot. Two policemen held him fast, one by each arm, arid the coat of the lawbreaker was ripped at the shoulder. His hat had disappeared and it was seen his hair was fiery red in hue. The policeman said nothing, but as the van moved off, the crowd talked loudly. “ What was he doiug a thing like that for ? ” said one. “ He ought to be shot.” “ We’re far too lenient these days with Reds.” “You’re right;'we are.” The magistrate, a large, serious man looked at the prisoner. “What is your name?” he finally asked. “ Aleck Kimball,” replied the prisoner. “Do you hold revolutionary opinions ? ”

“No, sir—l mean no, your Worship.” “ Have you a feeling of dislike for British soldiers?” “No, your Worship.” “It seems incredible,” mused the magistrate. “ Just what was he doing, Officer?” • P.C. Murray testified in a deep voice, followed by P.O. Brown. Their stories were identical. “What have you to say to that?” the magistrate asked. “ I suppose they’re right,” responded the defendant, “ T suppose I’m guilty.” “ Three months,” snapped the magistrate. “ Your offence is monstrous, and ” “Your Worship,” said a voice. “May I say a word ? ” His Worship glanced toward the row of spectators at the rear of the court and saw a tall, youngish man who had just risen in his seat. He was nervously twiddling his hat. “Do you know the accused man?” “Yes, indeed, your Worship. And I am in a position to tell a few facts about this case.” “ Come forward,” commanded the magistrate, who, in spite of his severe air, was an open-minded beak. As the spectator slowly advanced, all in the court perceived that he, like the prisoner, had a head of bushy red hair. “What is your name? ” “ My name is Chris Dowden.” Aleck Kimball and Chris Dowden were inseparable friends. To reach their re--spective offices they rode each morning in a train which passed a golf course. In amazement Aleck and Chris gazed upon plus-foured youths who chased a little white ball, looking excited and eager.

“ Do you suppose they get any fun out of this game?” Aleck inquired of Chris. “ Looks as if they did,” Christ answered. L-

“Must be something in it. People don’t keep right on doing a thing day liter day if there isn’t something in it.” “ You know, Aleck, I often thought I’d like to take a whack at it.’*

“ I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Aleck admitted, and two golfers were born on the spot. Next day they bought second-hand golfing club and limp bags. In their spare hours they took up the game. To be sure, they took it up rather gingerly, but at the end of the first year Aleck Kimball could hit a long, straight tee shot. He could do little else. On the other hand, Chris could hit nothing at ill, tee shots, iron shots, or putts. “ You are better than I am,” Chris complained. “ It’s your driver. If I had your driver, I could drive as far as you do.” “ Oh,” Aleck grunted. “ I suppose yon think I ought to give you my driver? Well, that driver suits me. I think I’ll keep it.” Then the war began and Aleck Kimball laid aside his golf bag with a sigh of regret and picked up a gun. They took Aleck, but refused to have dealings with Chris. Bands played, the troops marched, women wept, and Aleck softened up. _ “ Chris,” he said, “so long, old boy. I’ll probably never see you again. I’m going over to France, and I'm just the kind that gets killed in a war.” “Don’t talk that way, Aleck,” said Chris sadly. “You’ll come through all right, and anyhow it won’t be a long wa r.” “ Yes,” said Aleck. “ I’ll Just about get over there in time to step in front of a hurrying shell. My. golf days are over, so what about that driver of mine which you always craved and for which 1 now have no further use?” “Oh,” cried Chris, “You’re going to give it to me?” “ I’ll sell it to ySti,” said Aleck, who was softened by the war, hut not too softened. “ For how much,” demanded his comrade. and they argued over the price. Aleck beginning with twenty shillings and coming down to ten. “Sold,"'said Chris. “Here is five hoi. on account, and I’ll pay you the balance before you leave for the front.” The bugles blew with renewed ferocity, and Aleck presently steamed away to France to win the war. When he departed. Chris still owed him the five shillings. He tried using Aleck’s driver and discovered it held no magic. In a fit of annoyance he smashed it against a sandbox, the head flying far away. He thrust the remains of the shaft into bis battered bag. Over in France, Aleck shot diligently at the Germans, and Germans shot at Aleck, but little damage was done. Eventually they ordered him over the top, and he went with a will, whereupon the German army took Aleck by the slack of the breeches and stuck him away in a prison camp for the duration of the contest. Official reports had it that Aleck Kimball died in action, and dispatches were sent to England. The enormity of the disaster fell upon Chris like a pall, the thought that Jus comrade was no more and that he would never see him again. “ And I never paid him the five bob,” Chris mourned, stricken for the first time with a feeling of infamy. ' The first great shock being over, Chris Dowden moved gloomily about his daily occupations and often thought of his comrade and of the debt that remained unpaid. The one thing he might have done he had not done, and Chris remained low in his mind until one day, years afterwards, a solution appeal’d. He walked into a florist’s shop, under his arm the remains of a splintered golf

driver, “ Make me a wreath.” he told the flower man. “ and weave it around this busted golf shaft. For five shillings.” “Done,” said the florist and next day Chris " called for his wreath, made for the memory' of his dead pal He took it beneath his arm and wall'd with serious mien down Whitehall to the Cenotaph.

Looking solemn, he placed the floral piece amid a multitude of wreaths and backed away, feeling a bit better in h ; s mind. He had made at least a gesture. One week later, on a sunny day, Chris felt the blow of a flattened hand betw'k-n the shoulder blades. He recovered his breath, turned, and it was Aleck Kimball alive after all, and back from the Rhine. Chris stared Hard and incredulously, at first without any words, sunk in amazement. Then Aleck nounded Chris on the back and Chris pounded Aleck and they shook hands for minutes. “ Come in here and celebrate a glorious day,” Chris commanded, and for the ensuing hour they talked rapidly, skimming over the happenings of the years that had fled and drinking beer. Then Chris mentioned golf. “ That reminds me,” Aleck cried, his eyes brightening. “How’s my driver?”

A look of pain stole over Chris’s countenance. “No good,” he replied. “ I couldn’t hit a ball with it.”

“ I told you so. Didn’t I always say you couldn’t hit ’em with my driver! I want that club back right away because I’m going to take up golf in a big manner.” ’ ' :

“ You can’t have it back. I broke it against a box.” It was Aleck’s turn to look* pained.

“ The thunder you did! What did you want to do that for when you knew I wanted my club back ? ” “ Well, it wasn’t your club. I bought it from you, didn’t I ? ” “Yes, you bought it all right, but you didn’t pay for it. You still owe me five bob for that club.” “ I don’t. I’m all square with you. I bought you a wreath.” “ You bought me a what? ” “ A wreath —flowers on a wire.” “What in blazes for?” “ I thought you were dead, that’s why. I bought you a wreath, all wrapped around the busted shaft, and what more,” Chris added, looking shamefacedly at his beer, “ It was only a few days ago, when I walked down the street and laid the wreath. Aleck finished off his beer with a single gulp, glaring at his old friend, who looked moody and.stubborn. “ Where is this monument on which you’ve been laying wreaths? ” he demanded. “In Whitehall,” Chris said sullenly. Mr A. Kimball started for the door. “Where are you going?” Chris asked. “ That’s none of your business,” answered the returned warrior, passing rapidly from the scene. In no time at all, the police were chasing a red-haired man, who was dashing about the Cenotaph, throwing aside wreaths and flowers and in general desecrating sacred ground. His Worship looked down at the culprit, who looked guilty. “Is this true? ” ’Aleck nodded. “ Well, let me advise you not to do anything like that again.” “ Yes, sir,” Aleck said, “ I mean no, sir.” . “ Case dismissed,” said the magistrate. As Aleck was about to leave the adjourned court, the magistrate stopped him. “ You still have no satisfactory golf driver?” he asked in a kindly tone. “No, your Worship.” “ Well, just step into my private room and look-in my bag,” invited the magistrate. “ I have four or five drivers I never use. Have you tried a steel shaft?”—• The Graphic.