The Merry Marauders

by Arthur J. Rees

  “What’s the matter?” demanded the landlord, “Have I charged ye too much?”

  “No, indeed,” I said; “you haven’t, but, but—”

  “Is it that ye haven’t got the money to pay me?” he asked, quietly.

  “Yes; we’re very sorry, sir,” Barney and I answered together, unconsciously and pathetically giving him the title of superiority with some vague idea of mollifying him.

  That landlord was a trump. A trump? He was a whole pack of trumps. I’ve met white men in various parts of the world, but none whiter than Patrick Kelly, the licensee of the Pukerunui Arms—long life to him! He didn’t curse us, or throw us out of the hotel, or challenge us to fight him for the amount we owed, or do any of the other things that our cowardly consciences had anticipated. He merely said: “Well, bhoys, if ye haven’t got it ye can’t pay me,” and then invited us to tell him what the trouble was, over another house whiskey. “For,” he added, “ye had a good house last night, and I don’t think ye’re the kind of la-ads to turn me down if ye held it. I haven’t been keeping a country hotel for thirty years without knowin’ something of the way of theyatricals. Has the manager got away wid the ba-ag?”

  We told him the painful story in detail, and when we had finished he asked us what we proposed to do.

  “There’s nothing for it but to disband the company and get back to Auckland the best way we can,” said Barney; “unless we can get to Tekonga to-night and give a performance. That would put us on our feet, and the place has been billed. It’d be a pity to let the billing slide, for Tekonga’s the best show town outside the King Country on the way across to the East Coast. Could you not add to your kindness by helping us further, Mr. Kelly? If you could help us across to Tekonga you would not only put us under a debt of gratitude for life, but you would enable us to pay this bill and regain our self-respect.”

  “Faith, bhoys, I’m willin’ to help ye if I can,” replied the kindly soul, “for it would be a pity to disband the company if a helpin’ hand will set ye goin’ again. It’s a pity ye left the King Counthry and the railway to come so far across counthry out of the beaten track, for, as ye no doubt well know, the Tanganui coach ye should have caught if ye intended to give a performance at Tekonga to-night, passed through at six o’clock this marnin’.”

  We did know it, alas! Barney and I had got up early so as to hear its approach, and detain it for our company. We heard Hivson’s story instead.

  After a few moments deep cogitation Mr. Kelly delighted us by exclaiming that he had thought of a plan to enable us to play at Tekonga that night. His plan, when unfolded, proved to be nothing less than the offer of a hearse to convey us there. I was at a loss to understand how he became possessed of such a vehicle till he explained for my edification that he followed a common Colonial ‘out-back’ practice of running several different businesses in order to make a living in a sparsely populated district. In a word, Mr. Kelly catered for the wants of the residents of Pukerunui by selling them drink when they were thirsty, meat when they were hungry, and burying them when they were dead. We need have no scruple in accepting his offer, he assured us with a sigh, as nobody had required the legitimate services of the hearse for the last twelve months, and it wasn’t likely to be wanted for another twelve, so healthy was the air of the district.

  “The ha-a-rse is roomy and commodious enough for ye all,” he added, “and ye can pack a bit of your scenery on top as well—enough for to-night’s performance. The rest I’ll send over to ye in a dr-ray to-morry. And just think what a sensational ad-ver-tise-ment it’ll be for your show at Tekonga when ye drive into the town in my splendid ha-a-rse. One of ye could make a bit of a speech from the top to the crowd, and tell thim that ther’d be no deadheads at that evening’s performance, anyhow. There’s an idea for ye, now! Sure, I think I must have been cut out for the play-acting business.”

  We gratefully closed with his kind offer, and while the hearse was being prepared for the journey we went upstairs and told the others of the happy termination of our difficulties. I was surprised to find that the lady members of the company showed so little gratitude for our efforts on their behalf as to assert tearfully that they would sooner die than ride in a hearse. But when we gave them plainly to understand that it was a question of doing so or walking back to Auckland they overcame their scruples, and consented to ride in a hearse without dying first. This being settled, we held a general consultation about the company’s future movements. Barney and I had been so heartened up by Mr. Kelly’s kindness that we now scouted the notion of disbanding, and advocated carrying out ‘on our own’ Hivson’s original scheme of doing the North Island ‘smalls’ thoroughly, The proposal was enthusiastically acclaimed, and it was agreed that we should all share and share alike in the profits of the tour after the expenses were paid. I was chosen manager in place of Hivson on the proposition of Barney King, and the pianist consented to go ahead from Tekonga, as advance agent, till we could make better arrangements. Till that time arrived I was also to act as musical accompanist. These business preliminaries having been amicably arranged, we went down and took our seats on the hearse, which was standing outside the hotel, to the great amazement of the sleepy little town. “The best of luck to ye all!” was Mr. Kelly’s farewell benediction, accompanied by two bottles of the house whiskey for our refreshment on the road, and as we drove off we gave three rousing cheers for our kindly-hearted benefactor, which sent the birds wheeling aloft from the pohutukawa trees with affrighted cries.

  The first part of our journey was pleasant enough. It is true our pace was a bit on the funereal side going uphill, but each hour brought us nearer to our destination, so we ‘outsides’ beguiled the long journey with song and story and the circulation of the house whiskey. Occasionally we all scrambled down to ease the horses when some very trying hill had to be ascended, and endeavoured to cheer up the tired ‘insides’ by assuring them that we were ‘nearly there.’ Thus three hours passed, and just when I was beginning to think that we must be ‘nearly there,’ Barney King, who knew the country, startled me by expressing his profound conviction that we had lost our way. The thought was a disturbing one, because we were in a desolate, wild part of the country, with not a sign of a human habitation in sight, and if we did not get to Tekonga in time to give a performance that evening we should be hopelessly stranded indeed. Barney confided his fears to Irving Morrissey, but Morrissey, who is very obstinate, insisted that he had followed Mr. Kelly’s directions most carefully, and must be on the right track.

  “I don’t care what you say,” asserted Barney; “you’ve lost your bearings now. I’ve been across country to Tekonga before, and we didn’t come this way. I believe we’re miles off the track.”

  Morrissey persisted that he was in the right way, and he drove doggedly on for another half hour, when, according to our directions, we should have seen some sign of the town. But we found ourselves instead in an apparently endless maze of manuka scrub hills. They stretched out on all sides, as far as the eye could reach, like great green-crested billows. Their seemingly unending repetition caused Morrissey to lose a little of his confidence, I fancy, for he pulled up the horses on the pretence of giving the animals a breather, and gazed around him doubtfully. The argument between him and Barney broke out afresh.

  “There’s a ‘swagger’ camped down by the river there,’ said Barney at length. “Let’s drive down and ask him where we are.” He pointed out the spot, and from our elevated perch we could see the temporary abiding place of one of those lonely nomads of the New Zealand bush called ‘swaggers,’ because they carry all their worldly goods on their backs in a bundle, or ‘swag,’ and prefer the privations of a life of isolated independence to the company of their fellow beings.

  Morrissey acquiesced in Barney’s suggestion and put an end to further discussion by abruptly pulling the team of rusty blacks off the track and whipping them straight down the side of the hill, which was thickly studded with tree-stumps. It was
undoubtedly the shortest cut to the river, but I doubt if even the most skilful driver in New Zealand would have cared to negotiate it, and Morrissey is the most unskilful. It was too late to remonstrate. Away we galloped down that steep slope, gathering impetus as we went. About half way down I heard the terrified shrieks of our ladies inside as we nearly capsized through colliding with a tree stump, but I hadn’t much time to think of their safety in looking after my own, for by this time the crazy old hearse had taken charge of the situation, and was bumping the terrified rusty blacks down the hill at a pace they had never dreamed of in the whole of their respectable funeral going career. Swiftly we rushed to the bottom, and all Morrissey’s efforts were powerless to prevent the maddened brutes from blundering right into the middle of the swagger’s primitive little camp.

  The swagger was seated on a log in front of his hut, clad simply in his shirt, and smoking a meditative pipe as he watched his ‘billy’ boil over a small fire. I took in these little details as we dashed wildly towards him, but he didn’t see us or hear our shouts of warning till we were almost on top of him. Then, as the weird approaching spectacle was instantaneously imprinted on his vision, he gave one dreadful scream of terror, and ran right up to his neck in the river, from where he gazed with bulging eyes at our hearse, which had been fortunately brought to anchor by the tree which formed the background of his bush home.

  I never saw a man so hard to persuade in my life. It must have been the best part of an hour before our ceaseless explanations of whom we were and what we wanted convinced him that it would be safe for him to venture ashore, and I believe it was more the coldness of the water than our protestations that brought him to land then. He was evidently a man of some original delicacy of mind, which a solitary nomadic habit of life had not completely destroyed, because he asked that our ladies should retire behind a tree trunk while he repaired his toilet by putting on his one pair of trousers, which he had taken off to wash shortly before our unexpected arrival and hung out to dry on his tree. This very proper request having been complied with, he scrambled out, shook himself like a water-dog, and dressed himself.

  “My word, mates, but you did give me a start,” he said, gaining some reassurance from our friendly looks. “When I seen that ’earse of yours comin’ a-plungin’ down straight towards me with the girls starin’ with white faces out of the glass sides, and you chaps on top a-swingin’ round and round the plumes like monkeys in a cokernut tree, I admit I fair lost me block.”

  I again expressed our regret for the shock we had given him, and very sincerely too, for I felt that such an uncanny spectacle in the lonely New Zealand bush was enough to unnerve anybody.

  “It’d take more’n that to frighten me in ordinary times,” he replied; “but I ’ad a bad shakin’ up yesterday, and I ain’t got over it yet. I was making across country from the Main Trunk in this direction, when I spies a big square looking house standin’ lonely by itself on a ’ill, with a big fence round it. I thought to meself that it was a queer place to have a farm, but I was glad to see it, as I wanted a bit of tucker to help me on me way. I had an orful job to find the gate, and when I did find it I found it locked. Very hard to climb over, too, with barbed wire something cruel on top, but I got over at last, and sees a lot of fellows a weedin’ away at cabbages as though their lives depended on it. ‘Any chance of a job, mate?’ I asked the first one. I didn’t want a job, of course, but I likes to create a good impression wherever I goes. ’E looks up at me with a silly sort of grin, but didn’t say a word—jes’ nods ’is head to the man next ’im in the row. I thought ’e might have had the decency to speak, but I went to the chap he nodded me to and asks the same question. He looks at me with the same silly grin, and nods ’is head to the next one just as the first one ’ad to him. Would you believe it—I went along the ’ole row that way without gettin’ a word from one of the silly coots. Each one, when he heerd my perlite enquiry, just grinnin’ like the first one ’ad and noddin’ me on to the nex’ one. I got so wild by the time I reached the end of row that I was just about to deal out stouch to the last fellow what guyed me—a big lubberly fool ’e was with a grin on ’im like a halligator—when my ears was startled by a ’orrid yell. I looked up, and what a sight met my gaze! Coming down through the cabbages straight towards me, covering the ground like a racehorse, was a big muscular man as naked as a baby but as savage as a lion, with a carvin’ knife in his hand. And close at his ’eels run two men in uniform.”

  “What an extraordinary farm!” I interrupted.

  “Farm! Bless yer, mate, it was a rat-house—an asylum, to be perlite. It come to me like a flash before one of the men in uniform yells out to me: ‘Run for your life!’ I tore for the gate with the big naked lunatic jumpin’ after me and swearin’ ’ow he’d carve my liver out for speakin’ disrespectful of His ’Ighness the Sultan of Turkey. After him come the two warders, and in this style we made the circle of the ’ole place three times, for I wasn’t more’n ten paces in advance at any time, and dursn’t try to get over the fence because the lunatic would have been a-top of me with his carvin’ knife. The fourth time round I felt my wind failin’ me, but the thought of that there carvin’ knife in me ribs give me an idea. As I run I picked up a ’andful of dirt, and just as I reached the gate the fourth time, I turned round and flung it in the lunatic’s eyes. While ’e was bellowing with pain and trying to rub the dirt out of his peepers, I just flung meself at the gate and over anyhow, leavin’ a bit of flesh behind me on the barbed wire on the top. Still, I was glad to get away alive, but I ain’t got over the shock yet, and when I see you coves tearin’ down on me in that there ’earse I made sure you’d got out of the rat-house and followed me hup, perticerlerly as that bloke there who was driving looks just like the naked lunatic that wanted to knife me. ’E’s the identical himage of ’im, only he’s got clothes on.”

  Morrissey looked very indignant at this unflattering comparison, but it was very fortunate that we met that swagger, for we had got completely off the track, and but for his lucid directions we should inevitably have been bushed for the night, supperless, moneyless, and stranded. I regretted not having a coin to give him for his kindness, but he was very grateful for the contents of my tobacco pouch, which was fortunately almost full. I turned round to have a final look at him as we drove away, and saw him, a lonely figure in the gathering twilight, seated once more on his log, sending up wreaths of my sundried Virginia to the peaceful heavens. Then a bend of the track hid him from view.

  Shortly afterwards we struck the road to Tekonga, and Morrissey sent the rusty blacks along at a pace they had never attained before in order to make that gum-diggers’ settlement before the hour fixed for our performance.

  Yours, waiting for the dawn,

  VAL.

  III

  NGATI SPRINGS,

  NORTH ISLAND, N.Z.

  18th January, 1913.

  MY DEAR DICK:

  Do you remember the story of the kind-hearted lady who went to condole with her Jewish neighbour because she interpreted a vague rumour to mean that a devastating fire had burnt down his business premises and destroyed his stock of ready-made clothing—his little all? “I am so sorry to hear of your great loss, Mr. Isaacstein,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Vot loss vos that?” asked the aged vendor of second-hand bags, stopping in his amused perusal of a volume of the ‘Useful Hint Series: What to do Before the Fire Brigade Comes’—to glance at her in some surprise. “I mean your fire,” she replied. “Hush, hush, ma tear,” responded the retailer of misfits in a shocked whisper: “postponed till next Vednesday!” I am reminded of the story because I have just received pleasing proof that the Chosen race have not a monopoly of everything in the world, although a judiciously-timed fire has laid the foundation of many a Jewish fortune, for at the present moment the fire fiend is the patron saint of the Merry Marauders Dramatic Company.

  I finished my last letter by describing to you how the Merry Marauders had to set forth o
n their extended tour of the New Zealand ‘smalls’ in a hearse lent us by the kind-hearted hotelkeeper at Pukerunui in order to help us out of a town where our scoundrel manager had gambled away all our money and stranded us. In this mournful vehicle we were fortunately able to make the gum-digging settlement of Tekonga, seventeen miles away, in time to give the performance which had been previously billed. Our entry in the gathering twilight caused some sensation, and we were rather embarrassed by the mayor of the town turning out the municipal brass band to precede us to the cemetery with the Dead March from Saul, under the inebriated impression—as we subsequently learnt—that he was extending a proper municipal courtesy and the honours of the town to a funeral conducted by the mayor of a neighbouring municipality; for it appears that Mr. Kelly, who lent us the hearse, in addition to being the hotelkeeper, butcher, and undertaker of Pukerunui, presides at the monthly meeting of the Pukerunui Council, and is the sole arbiter of justice at the Pukerunui Court, where he has the inestimable privilege of tempering justice with mercy to those alcoholic extremists who patronised his hotel the night before.

  When this little mistake had been set right and the populace discovered what we really were, they gave us an enthusiastic reception, and eagerly pounced on the playbills I scattered among them from the top of the hearse. It was apparent to me that the warmth of our welcome was due to the novel method of our entry into the town, so I got Irving Morrissey to drive the hearse slowly up and down the one straggling street of the town to arouse interest in our forthcoming performance, before proceeding to the Mechanics’ Hall, where the performance was to be given. When we finally arrived at the hall I had the hearse drawn up outside the door, and our large rainbow-coloured posters pasted over the glass sides, with several kerosene lamps inside the hearse so that the people might readily read the bills. I also had more posters hung from the plumes on top of the hearse. This novel and attractive spectacle brought almost the whole population of the settlement round the hearse, and the subsequent performance in the hall drew a crowded and curious house. I am convinced that there is a small fortune to be garnered by the theatrical manager who exploits the hearse idea for all it is worth as a theatrical novelty. It seems to me that the hearse, properly used, would prove a powerful magnet to extract coin from the pockets of luke-warm supporters of the drama in the country, and so rapidly have my managerial instincts developed that I have in my mind the skeleton of a scheme for touring New Zealand in a hearse with a theatrical company. Some such catchy headline for the bills as ‘High Life in a Hearse,’ or ‘The Graveside Merrymakers,’ would heighten the effect of the advertisement.