An evening at the club (Photo: J. Fun) In the Smallest Clubhouse of New Zealand By E. SCHWMMER A misty cold gripped the deserted streets and casual temporary houses of Mangakino; it was early evening and only the central block of shops was still alight, with a few well-wrapped customers doing late shopping while a warm buzzing cackle welled up from the largest building. This must be the hotel, we thought, and we started walking round the building, but there was no trace of a lounge, or a dining room or a bathroom. By the bar entrance stood a little Maori boy with bare feet on the cold pavement. He watched us with intense interest; we and he had something in common, he must have sensed the lack of a warm home, somewhere to go inside. I asked him: —Where is the hotel? and he said, There is no hotel here, only a pub. —Where can we have a meal? —At the piecart. You turn to the right until you get at the back of the shopping block and then you turn to the left again and then to the right and then it is in front of you. Nothing could have been more precise than his description, but I can never understand directions the first time. When he saw me looking puzzled, he offered at once to take us there; he seemed very happy to be able to take three strangers to the piecart. He opened the door —Look, there it is. We were in a small temporary building with some forms and trestles, and the boy stood by the doorway, eyeing us full of expectation. A tip perhaps? No, it did not look like that; he was wondering what one does