TRAMPS AND SUPER-TRAMPS: A STATION’S EXPERIENCES.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 471, 4 June 1932, Page 8

TRAMPS AND SUPER-TRAMPS: A STATION’S EXPERIENCES.

To-day’s Special Article.

How Travelling Salesmen Take The World to Their Customers Outback.

By

M. J. B.

No longer can the folks outback feel that they have lost touch with the world, for the world seeks them out, even the most remote country'homestead, during the summer months, hearing the buzz of a car or so at the gate. Charming, immaculate young men appear at one’s front door or track one down in the garden. Older men versed in the world’s ways, not quite as immaculate, not quite as spontaneous, ask for directions to a neighbour’s house, meanwhile casually mentioning that they hear he is interested in such and such. Hardly a week passes without a discussion on the world’s affairs, the price of wool, or the unemployment question—from the fate of the Lindbergh baby to the ultimate fate of our British Empire.

MONTH, having watched the wonders of an electric washer installed in my home, I was quite unprepared for a visit of one of the firm’s representatives, a charming, well-groomed young man; almost apologetically I conducted him to the washhouse, where, divested of coat and with sleeves rolled up, he dealt most expertly with my Yvashing. It was great fun. In between Robin’s grimy pants and tunics, which he tucked skilfully round the spiral, he talked of Shanghai, and described washings he had done in Canada, “ Where, believe me, one washed anywhere between the sitting room and the kitchen, so inadequate were a great many houses in the way of a washhouse.** > Thus was I flattered into considering the washhouse a sort of blessing—sojourns in that room in the past had certainly never given me a superiority complex, nor persuaded me that I was indeed favoured of the gods. Now books in which one signs one’s name and thereby magically becomes a shareholder in some super-business that will make all other firms simply vanish off the face of the earth, leave me stone cold. The pen that should rapidly sign a name refuses to budge. Opportunity Walking In.

Too vivid amongst farmers’ memories are the dead buildings of their all too numerous freezing works. Never mind if it is a luxury that has become a necessity—well, now!

“ Surely, madam, one has only to watch the pouch, so constantly refilled, to know the enormous possibilities in tobacco—the amount consumed!” Patiently does the young man plead with my stiff-necked folly in holding back, when here he is with opportunity, that dreadful opportunity which positively knocks only once at your door—here it is not only knocking, but absolutely walking in! The worst of it is that unfortunately all he says may be only too true—and yet there lurks in one’s mind bitter memories. The first deposit, the first call—then swift on its heels another call, then another and another. When with relief the last possible payment has been managed comes subsequent liquidation and the sad end of one’s handsome documents, worth so very much hardly-earned savings, and now, nothing! The pages lie on the hearth, turn over, catch alight, writhe in agony, show a gleam of bold signatures on the grey—then shiver into ashes. There in miniature you have the whole thing. The young man pauses, obviously searching for a new line to take with you, misunderstanding your dreaming face, poor tired boy, but nevertheless one cannot easily forget other shares, other times, other regrets. “How about some tea?” He hesitates. “Surely not just for me?” he inquires. ’“But certainly; I shall enjoy it, too.” Over tea and scones we dscuss the Chinese question, the long novel, the curious brain of Edgar Wallace. Over cigarettes he talks amusingly of the latest talkie, the latest robbery, the latest play. He knows, wise boy, fates are against him over the shares, and charmingly he departs. He leaves behind the uncertainty, too. Was this j'our opportunity? Could you have

raised the money somehow and sent him singing on his way? Dips and Separators. The other day a man travelling for separators and one for dip had a dead heat. The sheep-dip man spoke first to a station hand, and the owner cautiously tip-toed out the back way and made a hasty retreat to the house, only to walk straight into the arms of the separatpr man whom in desperation I had sent to the shed—thinking nobody would be there. Thus did my guile return upon itself, for the separator man perforce stayed to lunch and pursued and routed all other separators into the bottomless pit. Not so are the men who bring gorgeous and tempting linens to the doors of country women. The last thing they expect is that you will buy their things. “Just let me show you these lovely things, madam, absolutely no occasion to feel that one should buy—you understand?” Softly the lovely damasks unfold, and as if growing there are the shamrocks, the thistles, the ancient story of the Willow Pattern Plate. One looks and longs—then the creamy folds of a bedspread softly and ■wonderfully embroidered in a deeper shade falls bewitchingly over a couch. The thing is cruelty, and, wise young man, he understands, so presently he folds them all up again, except, mark you, the most alluring pieces —they remain draped about. You inevitably ask him to lunch, the time has flown. Hesitatingly he accepts, that is, if you - are sure it is no trouble. “Absolutely not!” you declare, and the clock ticks on. That other cup of tea leaves its dregs cold in the cup. News of Friends. He tells you of your friends’ likes and dislikes, how Ruth bought the pink bedspread that he had despaired of selling. “How like Ruth,” you murmur; “as if she won’t want to change her colour scheme next year.” He grins understandingly. You knew positively before he told you that wretch of a Dorothy would take the lovely damask with the hunting scenes; but the cream bedspread embroidered in primrose! But I thought—surely with wool down and all that! This acquaintance of the morning has dealt with your neighbours—just a hint and one can place each casually-mentioned sale. “ But do you simply leave what we want with us—without even a deposit?” one asks breathlessly. “ With people one knows,” he adds cleverly. “ Later when things improve, sav, in a couple of months, if you would just send along the amount.” Confidentially, too, he has heard of a sharp rise in wool. He whispers of a source that would stagger me if he could but tell. Prudence whispers possibly it would, but how can one disbelieve such clear, blue eyes, so frank a manner?

Thus the world comes to the outback, aiid one wonders at the end of the day why the silver spoon for one, the pick and shovel for the other. Success for one—heartbreaking failure for the other. Was the die cast generations ago or .does one make or mar one’s own destiny?