A BUSHMAN AFLOAT.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8410, 26 April 1907, Page 5

A BUSHMAN AFLOAT.

By ALBERT DORRINGTON. (Author of "Along the Castlereagh," "Children of the Gully," etc.) (Published by special arrangement. —Copyright reserved.)

lII.—THE STEWARD'S 'AND. The life of a deep-sea steward is crammed with incident—and tips. I noticed that the young gentleman who looked after our cabin wore a lint bandage in the palm of his right hand. Asked whether he had been bitten by a land agent or octopus, he replied somewhat huskily: "Some of the gents what come aboard like their money's worth," he said, after a while. "An old toff named Bullaman 'ad me runnin' all over the ship last trip. He wp « holy terror for 'ot ;v«te? an' lemons. I Wore out three pair o' sneajcers tearin' up all' u6wh Stairs for hiftl< "He'd plenty of money; an' I was" told by the chief to see that the gangway was 'all clear' when he left us at Sydney. "He looked a good mark for a big tip, an' the chief cautioned me not to hold out me 'and too far for fear of offendin' his eyesight. Young stooards have a bad habit of lettin' .their 'ands hang over the ship's side when the passengers are goin' off. "After carry in' Bullamafr's lugj gage ashore, I waited respectfully on the gangway with 'ardly th?ee inches of me 'and showing|on the skyline. "Down came Bullaman, breathin' like a cheap Panh&rd, an' winkin' at the ladies. I noticed that his eye was fixed on me 'and. " 'Ho yes,,' he says pullin' up. 'Ho, yes, stoord; I'd halmost forgot you.' 1 "He was holdin' a 'andkerchief in his 'and. There was a tin snuff-box wrapped in it; an' when he stopped he opened it like lightnin' an' spilled five 'arf crows into me 'and. I nearly jumped off the gangway. "Everyone of 'em was red 'ot. The skin of mo palm curled up an' blistered when I gripped 'em. Yer see, it's against human instinct to drop money, especially when yer liable to drop it into deep water. There was nothin' to do but dance up the gangway an' blow on me 'and. "That's how I come to be wearin' lint on me fist, sir. I hope you ain't keepin' a few 'ot uns for me when you go ashore, sir?" I explained briefly that my tips were given cold, and that my money was always kept on the ice-chest the night before going ashore. The steward looked pleased; and after receiving a cold half-sovereign for seeing me through, his hand grew rapidly better. Bill Simmons is my cabin mate. He is going to Colombo to position on one of Lipton's tea plantations. Bill is a handy man and has worked at most out-back trades. For three years he managed a South Coast butter factory with some success. Then he became a shearing contractor, agitator, and boundaryrider. He was braceman at the" Day Dawn Mine, Charters Towers, and was dismissed for inciting his fellowworkmen to wake and arise during the strike. The sick and the strong are much in evidence .to-day. The women look up as you pass with dull, unseeing eyes. Some of the men are worse. When a man is really sick, only his heels are visible. I saw several feet this morning belonging to my friends —sticking out of odd corners—rope coils and tarpaulin sheets. The women sprawl in their deck chairs; the men burrow. The wind from Bass' Straits cuts like a knife. Time: Middle' of March, and the Sydneyites abroad walk shivering about the deck. Five or six years spent in a steaming sub-tropical city has its effects; and the native of Surry Hills or Mosmon turns blue, at the first breath from the southern icebergs. Melbourne at last. Slowly we steam up the weary expanse -of bay. An occasional sand hump bulges on the skyline. Not a Uee or a scrap of foliage anywhere. Later we discover a horizon thick with furnace stacks and gasometers. A streamer of wine-red cloud covers the east. A black barge with black sails stands silhouetted against the dawn. Far away in the low flat north lies Melbourne, wearing a halo of winddriven dust. The approaches to Melbourne would scare away a modern pirate or an invading force of aesthetic Japs. The eye wanders towards the dreary sandhills and the seedy vessels huddled at the pierend. One's first impression of Melbourne is favourable and lasting. East and west, north and south, the city flings out her broad, straight roads. It is a place where men may walk fifteen abreast on the footpaths, instead of tripping on each other's heels—as in Sydney. In comparison with Melbourne, Sydney is merely a byeway —when one recalls its notorious traffic-traps and pinched exits. Sydneyites take their municipal fathers seriously instead of presenting them with an annual funeral under the trams. Sydney sprawls with mediaeval futilty around the coves of its beautiful harbour. Melbourne has gripped her desert site with both hands, and rendered it habitable. Her incomparable streets are strewn with grass plots and shady trees. Melbourne men are better-lcooking than the Sydney chaps. Sydney breeds a shamblefooted citizen, who crowds the gutters for want of footpath space. He grows bottle-shouldered through falling off the kerb and dodging trams. Some difference, too, in the gait of a Melbourne crowd. While in Sydney I found myself rushing past the average pedestrian. In Melbourne the order was [reversed; men, boys, and women streamed past me without effort. The present generation of Melbourneites is the result of a brisk, dry, healthy climate, free from the humid ocean vapours that enervate dwellers around Port Jackson. I left Melbourne with regret, and hurried back to the "steamer in time to see a procession of Mahommedans climbing aboard. They had come from the West on a holiday tour, and were returning to Kalgoorlie and Leonora to join their camel teams and fulfil fresh contracts.

The goldfield Afghan is a leanvisaged fellow, with quick, shifty eyes, and grasping hands. Opinions differ among Westralians regarding his. citizen-like qualities. I have met Kalgoorlie men who declare that Mahomet Ali is a good fellow to meet when things are bad and the plains are gibbering from east to west. One well-known miner said that he had tried a dozen Afghan camps for flour and water during a famish and had never been refused hospitality. Others tell strange stories of the of Aghan's blackguardisms during the rush to Coolgardie some years ago. How he polluted soaks and bailed up fever-stricken travellers, until several white miners retaliated by shooting the lean and husky camelman at sight. We slipped our cable from Port Melbourne pier at noon. A great crowd assembled to "see, off' 1 a young prize-fighter bound for Perth, who intends wresting the championship from the Goldfields Ch.ieV.c-n duripg Easter week,"

The young pugvlist travelled second ? B :!CC'n, and towards evening asked permission to work with the stokers. "Shovellin' keeps me in good nick," he said to the chief engineer pathetically. "The fires open me pores better than a runhin' track." The engineer replied that he could not allow him to wield a sltee»bfir, but he hail tW objections to yoUng Achilles warming" fils pores at the fires. That night Achilles c&iM on deck, fresh from his bath, to take gentle skipping exercise. The ladieK peer- , ing down from the saloon deck I seemed vastly amused. Never was such skipping. Achilles' feet seemed J to remain air as the rope flew | round and round. "Good thing to 'ave quick feet," he panted, "when er bloke's chasin' yer round the ring." In the steerage are fourteen Austrians bound for Brindisi. They came from Maoriland and boarded us > at Sydney. Big hulking fellows, with shark-like appetites. No one on this line saw a sea-sick Austrian. They foregather near the stairhead and bolt below in a body the moment the steward appears with breakfast or dinner bell. The struggle to be on scratch when the 8 o'clock bread and cheese bell goes is Homeric. Imagine 220 hungry men tearing down a steep companion, into a nar row dining-room, in the hope of ] snatching a hunk of cheese. Bill is the only man on board who can arrive at the bredd and cheese before the Austrians. Bill's instincts are above cheese-bells or private signals. He knows (he exact moment to sweep ahead of the steward when he appears from the pantry. Station life taught Bill a lot of things. And the food that goes overboard! Any selfrespecting bushman who has been on the hunger-track would rise against the criminal waste that goes on among the big Australian mail boats. Yesterday a cabin steward heaved a basket of loaves over the taffrail. "Stale bread," said he. "No use for it."

Later, a saloon cook appeared from the galley and flung a 'huge pan of chops and steak into the unutterable deep. "No for dry hash," he grunted. "And the passengers don't take on minced stuff." "Why don't they carry a pig or two?" asked someone. , A North Coast poultry farmer shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. "Thousand a year goes to waste on this boat," he said sadly. "You could run the biggest poultry farm in Australia on the stuff that goes overboard." The mollyhawks and gulls have a gorgeous time following deep-sea boats. Interesting also to watch the albatrosses slouching from wave to wave, pirouetting, curving, in mile long sweeps ahear nd astern of us. Nine hours from Melbourne the chief steward unearthed a couple of 'stowaways. Both were city lads and looked as though a pan of ashes had been emptied over them. They begged to be allowed to work their passsage in the stokehold. The chief was inexorable. Both boys were removed to the Afghans' quarters. ■There is talk of handing them over to the police at Adelaide. "For eatin' the company's bread and meat, An' breathin' the company's air." Sang a fireman from below. Later we discovered that a conspiracy is afloat among the firemen to liberate the stowaways at Port Ade laide, * * * A saloon steward's job on an Australian mail- boat is a better one than it looks. Wages three pounds a month and found. Tips run it to eight pounds, and often twenty. Compare the life with that of a city clerk or bushworker. The 'steward lives like a prince. His sleeping quarters . are equal to a saloon passenger's. His cabin is furnished wi h a couch and ,drawers. An electric fan or punkah is fitted over his berth. A cabin boy—the ship swarms with them —looks after his boots, and carries his food to him from the saloon galley. And when ashore he dresses like a bank clerk and travels from place to place in a hansom. Very few Australian or Maori] and boys take up the business. One fancies that their democratic upbringing unfits them for such service. "You see," said the chief to me yesterday, "the Australian boy is all very well. His intelligence is far above that of the English boy's—but somehow he makes a very indifferent waiter. When attending to the people who travel by our boats he is apt to become a trifle familiar towards the end of the trip. When reprimanded for his want of politeness he gives trouble. "We shipped a very smart Australian" chap last year," he continued. "He was nimble-footed and goodlocking, and could take nine orders while the other fellows were passing the salt." "He rose to the position of second steward within three months," I broke in enthusiastically. "Not exactly," drawled the chief. "He got three months at Adelaide for throwing a dish of fried potatoes at the purser before a saloon full of passengers. It was the worst thing that ever happened on our boats. No, sir, we have discovered that the deep-sea Australian steward is a failure." "They fight all right," I responded dismally. ' "Fighting doesn't cut butter in j our service, sir," answered the chief

coldly. "We want a staff of servants, not pugilists." We' parted coldly. I watched him for a moment as he passed, down the glittering, brass-plated stairhead in to the saloon where the stewards flew right and left from his august presence. Still there is hope in the fact that Australia will never produce a nation of stewards. An 18st wheat-man came aboard'at Melbourne. For two whole days he had been breaking all the available canvas deck chairs. He merely sits in them and the rest is chaos. Bill Simmons has a nice lie-back chair, a combination of sugar-bag and gum sapling. Bill swears that it is the most comfortable seat on the fa ship. Every time he leaves it on deck he places a small dog-trap in the exact spot where the 18st chair-smasher usually drops through. So far nothing has happened, although the ship holds out hopes of seeing a stout man tearing along the deck with a dingo attstohmei'it trailing behind. (To be Continued.)