THE LITTLE FRYING-PAN.

Observer, 9 December 1912, Page 4

THE LITTLE FRYING-PAN.

fHE old man with, the dreadful hat and stiff brown moleskin trousers that would have stood to attention unaided by any legs, walked down (Jueen-street, and stared at the shops, .tie halted in iront of a large, ornate outfitter's establishment, conscious, that to appear highly fashionable and citylike, he must crown his grey h* v's with a new hat. He was, therefore, attracted by a particularly hideous black telt among " Winkler's bargains." " winkier's ' and others perfectly understand that at the joyous Christmas season it is possible to please old yent.enien irom the bush with three and sixpenny hats at nine and elevenpence. Winkler's and others are deep students of human nature.

So the old man in the moleskins, gazing up at the sign, muttered aloud, " Winkler " —w'y me and Jim winkler was mates on the Shotover in '60. This bloke might be a rich relation." The old man brushed past the wax gentleman with the impossible chest and the irritating legs (marked in plain figures " 49s 6d the suit "), with a polite " excuse me, mister ! " removed the hat that had lifted many a boiling billy in the years that had gone, and said, " G'day, I wanter new lid/

The young nobleman behind the counter, who had been regarding the pimple of adolescence in a small-mirror, accustomed •as lie was to displaying the green sock to the haughty-.bank clerk, atui the puce tie to the exalted car-conductoi*, viewed the worker with some disdain, pulled a cardboard coffin from a shelf and rained the worst hats in the establishment on to the counter. They had been marked from 23 lid to 9s lid for the season .-of. goodwill.

The old man chose a black abomination, which appealed to him as the very latest thing in town headgear, tendered a greasy note from a small roll, received 10s Id change and a condescending stare, and remarked as he saw a number of superlative young persons dodging behind heaps of hats, clothes, ties, and other civilised barbarities, " Yer must do a big trade 'ere, mister 't I knoo a bloke be the name o' Winkler, on the Shotover, years ago. Me and 'im was mates. He giv' up fossickin , , tho\ and I never 'card no more of him. Funny 'ow yer loses track of yer old pals. Now there was Bob ■— "

The young nobleman evinced not the slightest interest in the person with the moleskins, but busied himself with startling vigour, as a large paunchy grey-haired man, attired in a shining silk hat and a nice frock coat emerged from the place where the sound of cash was heard. It was perfectly clear, from the dash the young nobleman was putting into his job that this was the boss. Advancing, the man in the frock coat addressed his hireling with great solemnity, "If anyone should call, Grills, let them know that I am addressing the Society for the Promulgation of Christian Fortitude among the Working Classes, at the foundation stone laying of the New Bethelite Church, this afternoon," and came abreast of the old man in the-moleskins, just as that person was avoiding the wax gentleman in the 49s 6d outfit. . The ancient from the bush, gave one quick, comprehending glance at the expressionless face, took in the silk hat and the nice "frocker" in one exposure, and said, " Bli'me—Jim ! "

The successful business man possessed a :glance equally keen.

It was a particularly frigid glance. "You -erinust be making some mistake, my good fellow/ he said.

"'An' aint you Jim Winkler, wot was on tho Sliotover in the airly days w'en we struck the little nugget wot looked like a small frying pan ?'" lie asked anxiously.

" Look here, my good man, unfortunately there are too many of your kind in Auckland. I suppose you want money for beer ? I never encourage persons of your sort. Stand aside, if you please. And Mr Winkler moved on.

Paragraph, written in the breezy style of the "Daily Comet":—"Because Thomas Sterling,-an

For The Obsebver Christmas Annual

By 149

old man of pugilistic tendencies and shabby appearance, was unable to induce Mr James Winkler, the well-known local philanthropist and business man, to supply him with money with which to assuage a chronic thirst, he yesterday attacked that gentleman, who suffered some abrasions and damage to his clothing. His "worship, stemming the old derelict's voluble utterances, remarked that begging would have to be put down. It was outrageous that reputable, citizens should be incommoded and attacked by persons of the type of the prisoner. Enquiries would be made as to how the sum of J615 had come into the possession of Sterling. The eccentric old pugilist was violent!; asserting that it was the proceeds of work in the bush, when His Worship sternly ordered him to be quiet. He will cool his pugilistic ardour by enjoying a quiet rest in gaol for one calendar month."

Despite a damaged eye, and a greatly swollen lip, that conscientious philanthropist, Mr James Winkler, addressed his numerous family in the sacred precincts of his home that very, night. It was his desire that his sons should be worthy citizens—and successful, and after dinner and a short reading, he chose for the basis of his little talk, "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth."

In-the'privacy of his bedroom that night, Mr James Winkler,-rummaged in the drawers of a small and expensive bureau, bringing to light a battered pannikin. Prom the pannikin he took some unremarkable odds and ends. Among them was a small nugget of gold. Mr "Winkler muttered "He said it was like a little frying-pan—it is ! "

Mr James Winkler replaced the odds and ends, including the nugget, carefully locked the drawer, applied lotion to his honourable scars, assumed his pyjamas, knelt for fifteen minutes at hia bedside, and climbed under the eider-down quilt. Conscious that he had done his duty by donating J625 to the building fund of the New Bethelite Church,

he slept like a little child. The wicked old man Sterling used a lot of his night in profane addresses meant for a person not present. A warder looked into the cage. " You oughter be ashamed o' yerself—and at your age, too," he said. "Qβ to sleep, you old rascal ! "

Toiu knocked the tealeaves out of his pannikin on the toe of his boot, spat in the fire, looked up at the roof of the whare and said, " That's all right, Jim, but blokes changes. Mates'll give each other a fair deal, w'en they're on their own, tryin' to knock out tucker. But spos'n me rich uncle (I ain't got no rich rellytives, mind !) was ter leave me a couple o' million quid, might I turn yer down ? "

" Well, I don't know what you would do, Tom," said Jim, carefully brushing a candlebox with a bit of flourbag before he sat down, " but Fd see you through if affluence insisted in coming my way." " You'd go halves ? " " Yes, certainly."

"Then blokes don't change P "

" I shouldn't, anyhow. The only use I'd ever have for money would be to help my fellow man."

Jim picked up a bucket, and went to the creek for water.

As Tom pared a pipeful of tobacco into a very hard hand he moralised, casting an eye towards the bag bunk on which lay open Jim's wellthumbed Bible. "Me and him's different. Bli'me if I knows 'ow ever he come to take up with me fer a mate. He's the niO3t onselfishest bloke I ever knoo."

Jim came back with the water, set it down and felt for his pipe from sheer habit. He looked wistfully into the bowl. There was not even a " dog" in the bottom. He had smoked his last pipeful yesterday—and the township was thirty miles away, wtih a flooded river between.

Tom's face brightened perceptibly. He went to his bunk, lifted the few doubled flourbags that formed the mattress, produced a stick of black twist and handed it to Jim. " I thought you'd be hungry fer a smoke," he said with a pleased grin—" I've give up smokin' meself—makes me 'cart feel funny."

In bunk later, Tom remarked to himself, " I always was,a liar. Now, Jim wouldn't ha' deceived me like that"—and sniffed the pungent cloud that was wafted from the pipe of his friend, who lay reading that well-thumbed Book.

When the mates had first camped on the Shotover, they saw visions of wealth in the first dish of Avash that Jim panned off, for there were several bright specks that to the eye of the digger promised payable quantities of gold. For a few weeks enough specks to keep the distant storekeeper satisfied to hand out rations, came along, and then there was a long period of hard labour that didn't produce enough gold to fill a hollow tooth. Jim

had fastened on a claim in Rata Gully. Tom was working like a slave in a hole on Punga Flat. It didn't seem to matter. The bag of flour was attenuated the barrel of " salt-horse" was more barrel than beef, and there were often sharp words of disagreement between the mates. Cheerfulness and lank flanks don't live in the same hut. Perkaps Tom got thin from worry, or perhaps it was because he sometimes just prepared the scanty fare and went back to his pot-hole without sampling it, that his clothes hung loosely on him. Jim was too preoccupied with the miseries of blank days and the toughness of .the " salt-horse " to enquire.

Jim spent a good deal of his time in the hut. Tom kept on sinking and washing and whirling to make him forget how hungry he was.

It was on the 20th December that Tom came home abotit three o'clock in the afternoon, with his gaunt face startlingly lit tip, and holding in his hand a piece of ancient blanket that was obviously very heavy. The remains of a meal were on the rough table of the whare. Jim was sitting on the edge of his bunk with his head on his hands.

Tom biirst in, thumped the blanket down on the table, pulled his mate violently by the shoulder, and roared " I've struck it ! "

There, sure enoiigh, were several beautiful coarse gold.

handfuls of

"Share an , share alike," he said, and roughly dividing the gold into two heap?, he shoved one heap towards Jim.

Perhaps it was the innate nobility of Jim's nature that made him look up and snarl ''When I want your charity I'll ask for it. "When I come crawling to yoii, I'll let you know beforehand."

It was then that the mates fought

When Tom had taken a couple of ounces to the township and had returned with a packhorse lo^d

of supplies, he found the pold still on the table !>nd heard the sound of Jim's pick in the distance.

Jim came to the whare at sundown without any gold but bringing a large appetite with him.

He remarked surlily that it was hard lines to have to satisfy it at someone else's expense.

Tom mentioned with a great deal of unnecessary language that Jim was "the most onreasonablest blighter, 'ed ever known,"—but told himself later on that " 'ed never seen a more independent and onselfish bloke/

For three months that pothole of Tom's literally oozed gold and for three months the pothole of •Tim's 00-ffd nothing hut mullock. TJtterly disheartened, Jim came home one evening to say that he was ''pulling out." "I'm going to sling it/ he announced, and began looking through his small belongings with an eye to a swag. "Give her another chnnst, Jim," said Tom—"yon never knows yer luck"—and with very bad grace indeed, Jim returned to his hole next day. .About quarter-of-an-hour to sundown, Jim came at a run up the rise towards the whare, holding something very carefully. PTe had forgotten to bring his pick, shovel, and dish with him. "Here you are/he exploded, letting a lumpy bag fall on the bunk—" about two pounds' weight of gold and heaps more where that came from. ' Tom showed not the slightest astonishment. He rose from his box, gripped Jim by the hand, wrung it till it hurt, and said " Good on yer section— never say die/

When Jim's pothole was worked out, he announced his intention of moving on. The parting wasn't affecting. Men who have lived and worked and starved together, don't go in for melodrama.

Tom stood at the door of the whare and watched Jim's small swag—which was, however, very heavy —disappear towards the distant township.

'"Es a onreasonable blighter," he muttered softly to himself, "but the most onaelfishest bloke I ever see." Then he returned to the whare, lay on his bunk, smoked his pipe and moralised. "If Jim knoo that I'd put all my gold into his no-class pot-hole, he'd be as angry as hell—l 'ope the onreasonable blighter never finds out." Saying which Tom knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the bottom of an upturned bucket, turned his face to the slabs and went to sleep.

Two days later, Tom left the worked out claim to itself. "I'll go into the bush at "Wangarata, and knock up a bit of a cheque," he said. So he gathered his belongings into a swag and rolled back the old bags of Jim's late bunk to be sure that nothing was being left behind. "W'y, 'ere's that flake wot looks like a little gold fryin'-pan," he exclaimed, picking it up. "Jim must ha' forgot it. When I get's 'is address, I'll post it to him."

"I've spent some rotten Christmusses in me time," said old Tom Sterling, when, once more a free man, he roamed the streets of Auckland, aching to return to the bush to get away from the city he had no reason to love. Perhaps he was too downcast to feel any great resentment towards that celebrated philanthropist, Mr James Winkler. He just wanted to hide. It was a bit hard that he should live a long life without police attention to be deprived of liberty in his mature age through a sudden loss of temper, "P'raps I

oughtent ter 'aye : 'it 'im," he said "ah, well, blokes do change,, after all."

Why old Tom happened to be sauntering along that aristocratic road, Kauri Avenue; on a particular night, cannot be explained. But he had a natural prejudice against the close confinement of the little stuffy boardinghouse in Hobson-street, where he stayed until he felt fit to tackle the bush again.

At anyrate, he was startled when he 3aw a great flame leap from the roof of a palatial two-storey villa, and, with a small crowd of people hastened to the spot. The inflammable house was well alight, and a small crowd standing oh the lawn were gazing in a horrified manner at the figure of an elderly man framed in flame, looking from an open window of the house.

As is usual, the crowd lost its sanity and (as is more usual still), afforded help by giving vociferous commands to the nearest neighbour. The old digger was probably impressed with the feeling that, disgraced as he was, nothing mattered much, and almost before the crowd knew what was happening, the still sturdy old man had pushed through them, and was lost to sight through the front door. Fighting his way upstairs, he saw a fainting old man lying limp against the window frame. Dashing to the towel rack, he thrust a towel deep into the water jug, twisted it with one quick movement round the man's face and literally dragged his heavy burden out of the room, down the stairs, and through the door, falling with him on to the lawn. The Brigade had rattled up, had discovered instantly that the rest of the innifites had descended by the fire escape at the rear, and were soon engaged with their hoses. When the ambulance arrived it took two greyhaired men to thp Hospital. The man in the pyiamas v~s deathly white, but his face was unscarred. Hi 3 garments were charred here and there, and there were wicked scars about his legs and body. The face of the man in moleskins was unpleasant to see. No sun that ever shone on it had burnt it so black.

Paragraph in the "Daily Comet " -.—" Last night the residence of Mr James Winkler in Kauri Eond was gutted by fire. Fortunately, Mrs Winkler, her family and the servants, escaped by the fire escape at an early stage of the conflagration. Mr Winkler, however, who occupied a bedroom in th« front of the house, would undoubtedly have been burnt t'Q death, had it not been for the heroic conduct of an unknown man, who dashed into the burning building at the risk of his life, and rescued him. Enquiries at the Hospital elicit that Mr Winkler is not badly injured, but it is thought unlikely that his rescuer, who is badly burned about the head, face;'and body, and suffer-

ing from shock, will survive. The insurances on Mr Winkler's dwelling are .£2,500 in the State Office, and on the furniture and effects, .£1,500, in the same office. Nothing of any value was saved." * * * *

"And who," asked the much-subdued Mr Winkler, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed and addressing the nurse, "was the noble man who rescued me ? "

"He is quite unknown, Mr Winkler," replied the nurse, "and as he is still unconscious, we cannot find out. Do you feel well enough to see him ? He is only two beds from here/ , pointing tft the opposite side of the ward.

Mr Winkler tottered over to the bed, and looked down on the singed beard, the scarred and blackened features and the poor, withered, knotted hand lying like a cinder on the white counterpane.

"My God ! My God !" he said—"Tom Sterling— !Oh God forgive me ! —God forgive me ! " The astounded nurse put her hand gently on the shoulder of the philanthropist. "Sh sh ! " she whispered.

Maybe the presence of Mr Winkler stirred the sleeping brain. The worn patient, moved painfully, and opened bleared eyes. "But blokes do change—Jim— Jim Winkler, me old mate—he changed.' ,

Winkler was down by the bedside, sobbing like an overwrought child. "Tom—Tom ! forgive me ! —say that you forgive me ! The dying rescuer turned his head, ever so little, and babbled "He useter be the most onselfishest bloke 1 ever see. P'raps I done wrong p'raps I did—but I sent 'im the flake like a little gold fry-ins-pan—wonder if he ever got it Oh-h-h I" " Come away, Mr Winkler/' whispered the nurse " he's dead. ,,

But Mr Winkler did not come away voluntarily. (The doctors subsequently said that the shock of the fire was too much for a weak heart).

Last December, Mrs Winkler, then well through the sorrows of widowhood, visited the Safe Deposit to remove some jewels placed there by the late Mr Winkler.

Among them she discovered a quaint little flake of gold. "How very curious/ , she said, "it's so much like a little frying pan. I shall have it made into a neck-pendant this Christmas to remind me (although I am never likely to forget) of a noble-hearted husband whose unselfishness enrlpnved him to everybody. , '

"Why. mother," said the eldest Miss Winkler, when Mrs Winkler came home, "you've been crying/ .