HAVE A CRAY?

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 726, 27 July 1929, Page 34

HAVE A CRAY?

Crustacean Tragedy on Tram T / FISH AND LITERATURE His weight was somewhere around 17 stone and he boarded a Dominion Road car at the bottom of Queen Street. He was very cheerful. From each side-pocket of his coat protruded the head of a flerce-looking crayfish. The car, which had longitudinal seats, was packed by a crowd of homeward-bound passengers. “’Do, everybody,” he said, swaying uncertainly in the centre of the car. His face, glowing with liquor, was wreathed in smiles. The car started with a jerk and the 17-stoner, caught unawares, did a lithe Charleston, grasped wildly at a strap, missed by an Inch, and collapsed on a youth, who gave a squeak of surprise and pain. “Why doesn’t the guard blow his whistle when he’s going to start?” asked the Cheerful One, as his injured victim emerged from the wreckage. The victim had no breath to spare. The Cheerful One took the passengers into his confidence. He had had one or two drinks, he said. Not that drink ever did a man any harm. “Mod’ration’s secret of success,” he murmured. Then he felt for his tobacco and stabbed his hand on the spiked body of one of his violentlooking crayfish. He brightened visibly. "Forgot all about ’em,” he confided to the car. “Good ole crayfish. Bes’

fish on market. Who wants a bit of cray?”

No one responded, so he decided to go ahead. He gripped the righthand crayfish by the neck and struggled to get it out of his pocket. But the spikes on the creature caught in the lining and roused his anger. “Don’t be hard, cray! Come out when you’re told,” he pleaded. The crayfish preserved a dignified silence, which infuriated its master. He took a deep breath and a firmer grip There was a slight crackle and the crayfish emerged minus a few legs, with a deep fracture of the chest and badly-damaged eye.

The Cheerful One appeared horrified at the damage, but maintained a firm air. “That’,'l learn you,” he said, reprovingly. Then remorse got the better of him. “Poof ole cray,” he whispered. "He’s no good now,” said the Cheerful One, addressing a lady on the opposite side, and referring to the crayfish. “Out he goes,” and he pitched the crustacean through the window. Unfortunately, the window was closed, and after striking the glass with a crunching whack the crayfish bounced back on to the floor with its head resting on a woman's foot. With a cry of terror she kicked the offending creature across the car, where it brought up under the seat, losing a few more limbs in the process. “Now, now!” said the Cheerful One, reprovingly. “Don’t do that. Never be crool to a crayfish.” He picked the creature up and examined its injuries. “Looks like a cot case to me,” he decided. He picked up the stray legs and put them in his pockets, remarking that there were legs and legs but the legs of a crayfish were the juiciest legs of the lot. “Has anyone ever read Edgar Wallace,” asked the Cheerful One, suddenly switching off at a tangent, and stuffing the wounded crayfish back in his pocket. No one answered and the Cheerful One dogmatically asserted that Edgar Wallace was the best writer in • the world.