HOMEWARD BOUND:

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18617, 12 July 1930, Page 9

HOMEWARD BOUND:

AN OLD MAN’S GRATITUDE

“That, I suppose, sir. is very nearly your last sight of Asia?” The speaker was a bronzed young Australian who glanced up at his taller and elderly companion. The two men were leaning across the rail of the liner Adelaide and both of them were gazing across the expanse of sea towards the arid mountains of Arabia.

The older man nodded his head slowly. ,: Yes, in a very few days I shall have taken my last look at Asia. ’ He spoke casually, and yet young Summerhayes sensed the deep feeling behind the words.

“Must be a wrench, sir. after all the years you have spent in Asia. And yet you must be glad, too, to be returning to England for good." Marvin kept his eyes fixed on the distant hills. The setting sun painted them in tawny shades of brown and orange and their rocky wastes with a wealth of colour that was never theirs in broad daylight. They wore the garb of Romance, that Romance and mystery which had called him to the East so many years ago. “Glad to return to England!” Marvin laughed, but did not entirely succeed in concealing the bitterness with which the words were uttered. “Yes, young man, I am going home; but my life is

“Really, sir, you can't expect me to take that quite literally. Why, you must have the sort of feeling that a man has when he goes on a long holiday.” Summerhayes paused, and then added with a burst of confidence: “You see, I feel rather that way myself. This is my first real holiday. I’ve worked jolly hard for ten years and always my ambition has been to visit England, to take a trip home.” “And now you are doing it! Lucky fellow.” Marvin looked down at the younger man, and the corners of his mouth softened as he repeated the words “Lucky fellow!”

“I think I am.” And the Australian laughed. “My parents settled in Australia long before I was born and not one of the family has ever returned to England even for a visit. I am the first. Yet, of course, we have always regarded England as home When were you last in England?” “Several years ago.” As a matter of fact, it was over ten years, but Marvin was reluctant to acknowledge this. “You will find it changed, sir.” “Sure to.” They were silent a while and watched the light fading from the distant hills. The sea was very smooth beneath the windless air and stretched in an unbroken sheet of purple to the short. Already in the eastern sky there hung a star. Summerhayes pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. “A cigarette?”

Marvin shook his head. Then, as Summerhayes struck a match, he watched him. The youngster was capable. He had the hands of a man who would attain success; who already grasped it. . . . His lean, tanned face; the clean line of his jaw. A man unafraid.

The dead match between his fingers the Australian pointed out towards the coastline.

“Not like the part of Asia you know, is it? I’ve always heard that Burma is all pagodas, rice fields, rubies, and pretty girls.”

“Part of it. But it isn’t all rubies and pretty girls.” Suddenly the clangour of the dress-ing-bell broke out along the deck and Summerhayes swung about with a gesture of annoyance. “Damn!” he ejaculated. “I hate this business of climbing into a boiled shirt every night. And in the Red Sea evening kit is nothing but the livery of the Devil himself. It always takes me hours to get into my shirt if I want to preserve its beauty, so I’ll cut along See you at dinner, sir.” And with a nod he strode away along the deck. Marvin remained at his place by the rail for some minutes. And as he continued to gaze out towards the hills, now almost lost in darkness, he thought of the young man so recently beside him. Lucky fellow! How bitterly Marvin envied him. Summerhayes had spoken of Che feeling of a man who went on a long holiday. And to what was he, Marvin, going home? What?

What? He stared into the night as if seeking the answer. And yet he knew, but dared not visualise that answer. A holiday. A pin-point of light from some distant lighthouse stabbed through the darkness. Again and again came the tiny flash. It reminded Marvin that time was passing and that, no matter what lay before him to-morrow, he

must dress for dinner. He went below to his cabin.

As he dressed he congratulated himself for the hundredth time that he had the cabin to Himself. That was due to the fact that the Adelaide was carrying less than half her full complement of passengers; otherwise when he boarded her at Colombo he would certainly never have been able to obtain the exclusive use of a cabin.

The secrets of his wardrobe were such as he would not willingly have displayed before a fellow-passenger; patched and scanty underclothing did not accord with the part he was playing. Dr. Andrew Marvin retiring with a comfortable fortune acquired in Burma would be expected to boast something better than these darned and ancient socks, these shirts so aged that they required careful handling. His evening suit, though old, was, luckily, still presentable; but his tie must be knotted with great precision to hide its frayed edges and also to prevent disintegration. Of course, a man returning from the East could always make some excuse for his kit. And Marvin smiled grimly. The only place in the world where a man could get decent clothes was London, and, naturally, one made one's old things do for the voyage. That tale sufficed for certain deficiencies which could not be concealed.

The dinner-bell rang. He slipped on his dinner-jacket and went out on to the deck, and so to the saloon. They were a merry party at his table, and a pert young woman who sat beside him rallied him for his silence. “You are glum, Dr. Marvin! You should prescribe a tonic for yourself.” She laughed loudly and her ear-rings sparkled as she nodded her head at him. Then she called across the table. “Mr Summerhayes, what do you prescribe?”

“Oh, the best thing is to think of the future. Say about a fortnight from now, when the Red Sea will be nothing but a memory.” “There is something in that,” agreed Marvin. “In a fortnight I shall be in Paris,” and the girl smiled to herself. “Frocks?” asked Marvin. “Rather! And jewels!” “And I shall be exploring England in a Centaur two-seater. I have arranged to have the car waiting for me in London,” chimed in Summerhayes. )

“Ah, a Centaur!” exclaimed a fat, prosperous man who sat at the end of the table. “Rather too small for my liking. Mine will be an Argonaut. Expensive, but when one is on a holiday ”

All of them, with the exception of Marvin, began to discuss cars and the tours that would be made in them. And as the old man listened he wondered just how astonished these carefree people would be if he uttered just half-a-dozen words. How would would they regard him if he told them that all the money he possessed in the world was eleven pounds eighteen shillings and a few odd coppers? Before he boarded the Adelaide he had changed his Indian money and received less than thirteen pounds for it; and of that nearly a pound had already been spent. Yet he was expected to take a real interest in Centaurs and Argonauts, in jewels and Paris frocks. In a fortnight what would he be facing?

“And what are your plans, Doctor? asked the girl at his side.

“Well—er—really, I haven't made any. It depends.”

“You are one of those people who just make up their minds at the last moment. No set programme, eh? I must admit that certainly has attractions. But I suppose you are going to London?” “Yes, I am going to London.” Of course he was going to London! His ticket would take him there. And after that? Plans! Great God, could a man in his position have plans? After dinner, with the fat man's excellent cigar well alight, he sought out a quiet corner of the deck. The smok-ing-j-oom he always avoided, solely for the reason that it was apt to prove expensive. A man could hardly form one of a circle about a table and not stand his round of drinks. For the same reason he had declared that he did not play bridge. His money was going fast enough without his taking the risk of losing a few extra shillings at a sitting. There were the daily sweepstakes, sports subscriptions, an occasional tin of cigarettes. One could not afford to court suspicion by overdoing the economies. Keep up appearances to the end! At the other end of the deck beneath the brilliant electric lights there was dancing, and Marvin recognised the lithe figure of Summerhayes. He was partnered by the pert young woman. A couple who symbolised all the confidence and courage of youth! No sign now from Summerhayes of the heat of the Red Sea. The gramophone stopped just long enough to allow the record to be changed, then it recommenced with a jingling, catchy melody. Marvin had last heard that tune played at the Mudon Gymkhana Club by the native Police Band. That was less than a month ago on the night when In thought he was back again in Mudon, that neglected port in Burma, with its palm trees and its ancient wooden bungalows, its timber mills with their ugly go-downs of corrugated iron fringing ythe muddy waters of the Thandwin River. Above the palm trees and the house-tops he saw once more the steep jungle-clad ridge that overlooked the town. And crowning the ridge were three pagodas,

their gilded sides a glitter in the evening sun. He was reading a month-old English paper upon the veranda of the club. There was a screen behind his long chair and it concealed him from two men who had just ascended the stairs, j They were, discussing him. . . . I “Old Andy Marvin is finished, I’m ! afraid.” i “Really! Of course it was obvious ; that he has been in a bad way for a ! long time. But what has happened?” ! “Babu Meera Buxx. who paid him a ■ couple of hundred rupees a month, has given him the sack and now he is just living on his furniture and on credit.” “Poor old chap! Looks like a case i of sending the hat round.” | An the two men passed on into the | billiard-room. Marvin had sat frozen with dread for several minutes. So everybody knew! 1 The secret he imagined himself to be keeping so well was no secret at all. Laboriously he lifted himself out of that arm-chair and crept quietly away , from the club. As he went he had heard the native band strike up that j jingling, catchy melody. In his own bungalow upon the veranda of which burnt a single oil lamp, he had glanced about him at the few' poor pieces of furniture which he could call his own. And they comprised all his worldly possessions. Little enough Ito shovr for twenty-five years of life in the East! “Living on his furniture,” had remarked the man at the club. It • was true enough, but there had been | little to sell. A discreet cough at his elbow' caused him to turn his head and his Madrassi i “boy” stood facing him with a couple of envelopes in his hands. “Storekeeper Ali Khan coming w'hen master out. He leaving this bill and letter for master.” Marvin had taken them knowing full ' well that the bill was large and utterly beyond his means. When he ; came to scan it he found it to be even ; larger than he had feared. The other | envelope contained a letter from Ali 1 Khan. It was written in vile English 1 but its meaning was plain. Ali Khan

• demanded immediate payment and threatened legal proceedings. In the

meantime and until the bill was paid he refused to give Marvin further credit. . . .

Marvin looked at his servant, but the face of the Madrassi was impassive. Of j course he knew' and did not care w : hat

1 happened to his master. He was a j poor servant, his only merit being that i he was content with a small wage. | Screwring the bill and letter into c.

i ball Marvin pitched them into the waste-paper basket. He was not a I man who did not honour his debts, but when a man was down and out — “Master w'ant anything?” “No. Get out.”

Alone, on the veranda, he had endeavoured to trace out step by step the path that had brought him to this end. There had been no outstanding

j incident in his life upon which he could place his finger and say “Here is where I erred. Here was the great mistake in my life.” It w T as merely a tale of a very gradual dowmward progress, the progress of a man with no particular ability and not possessed of

the great gift of seizing opportunities. When he first settled down in Burma he had practised as a doctor, but he soon found that in a small station like Mudon there w'as little to be made out of his profession. Then, to augment his income, he invested some of his money in buying a share in a rubber estate. The estate never prospered. There had been more than one deal in tin mines; one or tw'o proved tolerably j successful, the rest were expensive fail- | ures. He had turned his hand to the ! timber business and went into partj nership with a Burman who swindled j him. And. after three years in the i jungles, Marvin came out of that un- ! dertaking a very poor man and only I richer by the working knowledge oi j teak and other woods that his experi- | cnee had given him. As his resources j dwindled so, too, did his moral cour--1 age; finally he was content to accept j a small salary from the Indian babu. ! Meera Bux, whose timber mill he supervised. In addition, he carried on his medical practice and picked up such work as was not sufficiently lucrative for the Civil Surgeon. Thus, at an age when most men retired from the East with a comfortable fortune. he found himself struggling to maintain the standard of respectability required by Mudon on a precarious income of a lew', a very few, hundreds of rupees each month. His bungalow, a ramshackle wooden building with sagging floors and a leaky roof, his rattle-trap of a gharry pulled by an ancient little pony, were both the subjects of amused comment, by the men he met in the club. . .

Keeping up appearances! It had been difficult enough in Mudon. But by economising in servants, by existing mainly on curry and rice and bazaar foods, by rigid economy with re-

gard to club bills, he had contrived to carry on.

But when he lost his billet with Meera Bux he knew that the end was at hand. Impossible to put up a show any longer. Yet, hoping against hope for something to turn up, he continued to live in the old way.

And now the men in the club were discussing him, talked of passing the hat round. . . .

At last his servant reappeared and inquired if he wanted dinner. Dinner! Angrily he waved the man away. Impossible to swallow even a mouthful of food.

And next morning there had come jO see him young Fielding, the District

Superintendent of Police. He drove up n a car. Smart and alert, cool in his khaki shorts and tennis shirt, he ran lightly up the bangalow stairs. “Look here, Marvin. I’m damnably' sorry, but it is quite evident that you are doing no good in Mudon. Hopelessly in debt, aren’t you?”

Marvin bowed his head an muttered. “Can't see what it has to do with you?” “Sorry! I didn’t mean to be offensive, but when a sahib comes to this pass something has to be done. Last night some of us at the club decided to help you.” Very good of you. Fielding. But supposing I consider your action as damned impertinence?” At that the younger man had smiled. “It is no good your adopting that attitude. Marvin. If you don't accept

pur help you will end up by being shipped out of the country under the Vagrancy Act. And it would be my unpleasant duty to do the job.” “A pistol at my head, eh?” And Marvin laughed angrily. “Well, Fielding. what are your terms?” His friends would pay his debts, buy him a passage home, and give him a little money to tide over his expenses on the voyage. This, said the D.S.P., was all they could offer him. The alternative was—and Fielding again hinted at the efficacy of his powers under the Vagrancy Act.

“It’s rotten bad luck. Marvin, but T :ou must admit that you are beaten. Not that any of us think the less of you for it.” “Thank you. Yet your feelings for me hardly soften the blow.” The old man threw out his hands in a gesture if despair. “Of course, I appreciate what you are doing. I am very grate;ul. but—my God. Fielding, what an ?nd to my life!” Then he had comiosed himself somewhat and added, in i calmer voice: “That, however is not a matter with which I should trouble "ou. But there is one favour I ask. ket me tranship at Colombo to an Australian liner. I couldn’t bear to go ' home with people I know.” “Oh, quite! I understand, Marvin.” And again apologising for the unpleasant nature of his mission, Fielding ook up his topee and went downstairs to his car. He whistled a cheery tune as he swung the starting handle. Marin heard him. . . .

They had finished dancing and aleady several of the passengers had ;one below to their cabins. A few jaced the deck, and from the direction if the smoking-room there came the jound of men’s voices and laughter. Marvin fingered the dead stump of us cigar and then tossed it overboard. Time to turn in. Rising from his

.ieck-ehair he went to the ship’s rail. The deck was deserted. A glance over his shoulder showed him that. Vhy not end the whole business at once? An easy matter to drop over he rail into the darkness below. All wer in a couple of minutes. Better hat than the poverty and starvation hat lay ahead of him. Finish his life .s a sahib.

Of course, there was always the hance of something turning up. All is life he had struggled and now, at

he age of sixty, there was no reason vhy he should not still find something o keep him going. He could manage on very little.

Yet he continued to peer over the rail. Very little chance in England for a penniless old man without friends! He was only buoying himself up with false hopes. Excuses. Not enough to jump overboard. A coward!

Marvin braced himself for an effort and gripped the teakwood top of the .•ail with both hands. Now for it! juddenly, voices and the sound of footsteps. “Hullo, sir! I thought you were in bed.” He turned about to face Summerhayes and another youngster. “Er—well—l was just thinking of turning in.” “Then I’m glad I caught you." And Summerhayes drew a pencil and a slip of paper from his pocket. “I’m in charge of the sweep on to-morrow’s run. Collecting entries to-night to save time in the morning. Of course you’ll take a ticket, won't you?” “Yes, you can put down my name. Half a crown, isn’t it?” Marvin felt n his trousers pocket for his loose cash and gave the young man a coin. “Thanks. And now. what about a drink before the bar closes? Come along, sir, just a quick one.” “Well, I don’t mind if I do.” And Marvin walked along the deck with the two men. Plenty of time still to -ttend to that other little mater. Beides, one never knew, things might ight themselves yet. Never say die! Not to-night, at all events.

By RAY CARR.