The Merry Marauders

by Arthur J. Rees

  “By Jove!” I exclaimed, hastily feeling in my pockets; “I was nearly sending you off without any money.”

  “I was wondering whether it was the usual thing for an advance agent to take any money with him,” he said timidly, “but, of course, I didn’t like to ask. I have half-a-crown on me, but it was given to me by my grandmother when I was a little boy for learning the first chapter of a book called ‘Paving Stones of the Downward Track,’ so I wouldn’t like to have to change it.”

  “Of course not,” I said, rather wondering what exalted value he placed on the purchasing capacity of the coin in question. “Besides, we pay all your expenses. This will see you through till we come up—make it go as far as you can.” I had found what I imagined to be the two sovereigns I was searching for just as the train began to pull out of the station, and I hurriedly pressed them into his hand.

  “I’ll be very careful indeed, sir,” he said gratefully, “and I’ll keep an account of every pen———”

  “Stand back there, you confounded fools!” screamed the genial-faced, white-bearded, old station-master. “Do you want to be made into mincemeat, you lunatics?”

  I thought no more of our new advance agent till the following morning after breakfast, when a telegram was brought to the hotel by the elderly functionary who receives £25 per annum from the New Zealand Government for acting as postmaster and telegraph boy of the little hamlet in the brief leisure that running a small dairy-farm permits him. The wire was from Gardiner, and read:

  Manager,

  Merry Marauders,

  In spite of rigid economy have expended funds.

  Please wire another two shillings.

  Gardiner.

  I did not require the assistance of a ready-reckoner to figure out that I had given Gardiner two shillings instead of the two sovereigns I had imagined, and as I had no wish to take advantage of the young man’s humble estimate of the regular advance for the ‘man in front,’ I asked the elderly postmaster if he would wire two pounds to Gardiner for me. This he consented to do, after I had liquidated the amount of the money order, the incidental expenses thereof, and his early morning thirst. He drank a generous glass of whiskey, and left me with the emphatic assurance that the money order would be telegraphed the moment he had seen that everything was going right with an Alderney cow of his, which was expected to increase the bovine population by one any time that day.

  The train by which we were to travel to Ruatopiro left early the following morning, so in the afternoon I went down to the railway station to buy the tickets and arrange for the transport of our scenery (our new scenery by Barney and Mr. Baker, which enabled us to put on our bills, in bold black letters, at every town—’ Newiand Special Scenery painted for This Production by our Own Scenic Artists!!’). As I was passing the post-office, the postmaster beckoned me across.

  “Here’s another telegram for you,” he said, putting the envelope into my hands. “It come a couple of hours ago, but I was too busy with the cow to bring it up. I knew I’d see you dodging about sooner or later, and besides, it’s only from young Gardiner, who I’ve known since a baby. Though I will say for him that he’s main handy with a sick cow.” The telegram read:

  Manager,

  Merry Marauders.

  Rival billsticker here has thrown our paste over me and torn up our bills. What shall I do next.

  Gardiner.

  Here was a nice mix-up! No bills out, no time to send any more, and every chance of an empty house for us at Ruatopiro. How bitterly I reproached myself for having taken our guileless advance agent away from his legitimate occupation of administering medicine to invalid cows! In the heat of my anger I wired, in reply to Gardiner’s concluding query:

  Gardiner,

  Ruatopiro.

  Go and bill Pekin.

  Manager.

  The postmaster counted the words with a horny finger. “Ye might have had five more words for your sixpence,” he said. “It’s a pity to waste them five words. Would ye have any objection to me telling young Gardiner that the Alderney is doing as well as can be expected? He takes a great interest in that cow, does young Gardiner. When he was down with her medicine the other night, he says, says he, ‘I’ll bet you it’s a———’

  “Oh, go to the deuce!” I roared, rushing out of the place, almost beside myself with rage.

  But I hadn’t heard the last of our advance agent. When I returned to the hotel for dinner, after fixing up about the tickets, I found the postmaster again awaiting me in the hall.

  “Another telegram from young Gardiner,” he said, tendering it. “Dear, dear, how that boy’s getting on! He’s sent more telegrams these two days than ever he has afore! This here’s a collect wire, and there’s sixpence to pay.”

  The latest despatch from Mr. Gardiner was brief and to the point:

  Manager,

  Merry Marauders.

  Cannot find Pekin on the map.

  Gardiner.

  “Neither can I,” said the postmaster, gratuitously. “You must a’ made a mistake in the name of the place, mister, for I’ve been here man and boy for fifty years, and I’ve never heard of no such town in New Zealand, and it ain’t in my postal guide, either. However, I ain’t going to worry about it now the Alderney’s all right. It’s the finest little———”

  But I was out of hearing. I rushed down the street to meet Barney returning from a day’s pheasant shooting, and dragging by the tail the landlord’s dog, which he had borrowed to raise the game for him. I cut short his story of how the animal had deliberately committed suicide by flinging himself in front of the muzzle of the gun just as Barney had raised the weapon to destroy a rabbit, in proof of which statement he was bringing back the corpse to show the dog’s owner—as of little consequence, and told him mine. Barney did not take such a serious view of our late advance agent’s guilelessness as I did. With that resourcefulness I shall never cease to admire, he said he knew of an old man in Ruatopiro who, for a few shillings, would bell the town in a voice that could be heard from the East Coast to the West. I was greatly relieved to learn that the absence of show bills could be remedied to some extent, and in the fulness of my gratitude I offered to assist Barney in breaking to the landlord the sad news of his dog’s demise—or suicide, as Barney called it. This proved a very trying business. According to the landlord’s story the dog was an exceedingly valuable animal, which had won all the prizes at every dog show held in New Zealand for the past five years, and had been much sought after in consequence by sportsmen all over the world. The owner said he valued him at £100, but eventually consented to take fifteen shillings for him, though he declared that that amount would hardly pay for stuffing him.

  When we reached Ruatopiro the following afternoon we found no sign of a poster throughout the town, and no trace of Gardiner, so Barney set out in search of his bellringer. He presently returned with an elderly lame man in tow. This person, who looked and smelt as though he had been steeped in rum, undertook to advertise the evening’s performance with voice and bell for five shillings, cash in advance, and two whiskies—also in advance,—the latter stimulant being necessary, he said, to give his voice the proper tone to carry conviction. He explained to me at some length that there was nothing so good for the human voice as whiskey. Many years ago he had consented to advertise a temperance lecture with nothing better than water to sustain him, because the temperance lecturer had cited statistics to him to prove that water was more sustaining than alcohol. He had reason to believe, however, that he had been the victim of characteristic teetotal meanness—which, he was happy to say, recoiled on the temperance man’s own head that night in the shape of an empty house—because his voice soon became as weak as the vitiating fluid he had imbibed, and, like it, lacked body. He had lost so much professional caste in the town that he had determined never to risk his voice and reputation in a similar way again. Fearing that he might injure his voice and our house that night, if he wasted the former in talkin
g to us much longer, I advanced him his terms on the spot, and, when he had drunk the whiskey, he departed with his bell and the necessary particulars of our show to advertise the evening performance of the Merry Marauders Dramatic Company. Miss Bendalind, our leading lady—who, I need scarcely say, did not carry out her avowed intention of leaving the company because Miss Laurie played her part at Ngati—was very indignant when she heard of the arrangement, and said that she thought it degrading that her name should be bandied about the house-tops (as she expressed it) by a vulgar old man. I confess I did not altogether like the plan myself, but what else could be done, in the circumstances?

  Our bellringer commenced his contract outside the hotel, addressing himself to a few loungers who were scattered about in front, and as Barney and I listened through the open window to his initial effort, we were satisfied that he was doing his best, according to his lights, to give us value for our money.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he roared, in a voice that constituted a testimonial to the superior carrying power of whiskey in general, and the brand retailed by the landlord of the Ruatopiro Hotel in particular; “Ladies and gentlemen! It is me plasing dooty to announce a rich dram-atic treat for the playgoers of this town to-night in the Mechanics’ Institoot, by the Merry Merooders Dramatic Company, who will play the grand drama, entitled Current Cash. The Merry Merooders Dramatic Company is the most brilliant constellation of all stars that ever coruscated togither in one spot at one time in the Southern hemisphere. They have come to New Zealand after tourin’ all over the wu-r-r-rld—from Greenland’s icy mountain to Afric’s choral strand, as the hymn puts it—and they appeared on the Continong with such tremenjus success that the crowned heads of Europe was always the first in the rush up-stairs when the early doors was opened. The company appeared before the late King Edward and the Royal family of England, an’ have a standing invitation from the present most gracious and il-lusthrious monarch of that country to dhrop in on him and play again whiniver they happen to be in the land of old Ireland’s oppressors. In that latter great counthry—in old Ireland itself—they created such a furoor wid their celebrated national paythriotic drama called Why Pay Rent? that every landlord’s house within tin miles was wrecked by the enthusiastic audience after the performance! The leading acthor of this great company is Mr. Irving Morrissey (I’m proud to claim him as a fellow-counthryman), of whom Sir George Bharnstrutt, the well-known English acthor, remarked privately to his frind, Earl Rintrobb, after seeing Mr. Morrissey act—‘Well, if that man stays in England me cake’s dough, wid damned little yeast in it.’ The leading lady is the stately and beautiful Miss Audrey Bendalind, whose performance of ‘Juliet’ in London caused the great Shakespearian acthress, Miss Futalite, to swell up so wid feminine hatred and jealousy of her successful rival that they had to cut her stay-laces to a-vert apo-plexy, and when she come to, her first words were a threat to sc-cratch Miss Bendalind’s eyes out if iver she caught her in the strate. The company’s funny man is Mr. Barney King, a gintleman whose rich vein of humour is a goold mine to its happy possessor, and whose laugh is so infectious that he set three continents laughing at the one time! But it would take me too long to enumerate these great theatrical janiuses one by one, because the company’s as chock-full of them as an egg is full of mate, and besides, it is my plasing privilege to spread through the town the great news of the company’s appearance tonight. To-night! Don’t forget that to-night’s the night, ladies and gentlemen, when the Merry Merooders will make their first appearance in the Mechanics’ Institoot, in the soul-stirring drama, Current Cash! Doors open at sivin. Performance at eight punctool, at the ridiculous low prices of three, two, and one!”

  “He’s a splendid old fellow, and as honest as the sun,” exclaimed Barney, as the bellman moved away, ringing his bell, to another spot down the street. “The dear old soul looks upon me as his benefactor because I’ve put a few little things in his way whenever I passed through this town, and he’ll show his gratitude by belling the place as it has never been belled before. If I know anything about old Mossman he’ll shout out the merits of our show till he cannot raise his voice beyond a whisper. He believes in practising gratitude to a fault.”

  Barney was wrong, however. Whether Mr. Mossman had retired from practice, or whether he had actually exhausted his stock of gratitude by generously honouring too many drafts on it, I know not, but when I returned from the Mechanics’ Institute, after fixing up the preliminaries for the evening’s performance, I was astonished to find a dense crowd of gaping, grinning rustics congregated round the hotel, and to hear a voice in the centre of the throng blasphemously demanding to be shown the manager of the Meroodering koshers—whatever that last word may mean. I had no difficulty in identifying the voice as that of our bellman’s, so I forced my way into the throng to ascertain what the matter was. I saw at a glance that Mr. Mossman had been strengthening, his voice since I last saw him, and though the smell of spirits was so overpowering as actually to cause me to reel, I angrily demanded what he meant by creating such a disgraceful disturbance. He turned on me furiously, and, with a voluble variety of imprecations, demanded some money. I told him firmly that he had already been paid for his work, and that it was no use his trying to impose on me in that manner. Being thoroughly aroused by the old scoundrel’s behaviour, I declared I would give him in charge if he didn’t go away.

  “You’ll give me in charge, will ye!” he roared; “well if that don’t take the last loaf in the oven! Do ye think the loikes of ye can come to this town and ‘gun’ a poor old man who’s earned his living here for the last forty years, and talk about giving him in charge after bating him for his hard-earned dues! Give me in charge, will ye, ye barbered monkey, ye geneva-faced, Chinese squib? Just thry it on! Once and last, are ye going to fork out what ye owe me?”

  “You’ve been paid already, you old imposter, you know that,” I said peremptorily, “and I won’t pay you another cent. So get out of here at once.”

  “Not before I give yer show a bit of free advertising,” said the old villain. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he roared, casting his eyes up at the hotel balcony—and I, following his gaze, noticed with dismay that it was packed with the hotel boarders, who were taking the liveliest interest in the proceedings—“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my unpleasing duty to announce that a snide company of barnstormers, who are thravelling through New Zealand on their hard faces doing ‘the smalls’ and honest tradespeople, and who are rightly called the Murdering Merooders, are going to massacre a play in the Mechanics’ Institoot, providing that the hall-keeper is as soft as I wor and gives ‘em the hall on tick. If he don’t the performance will take place in the open air. In me charitable desire to help this crowd of leg-pulling imposhters, I was guilty of misleading my fellow townspeople by saying that they had played before the crowned heads of Europe, but now my conscience compels me to divvulge the rale thruth that the only ‘crowned heads’ they ever seen was on the two-headed penny that the fly manager rings in at the ‘two-up’ school to get away from a town when all the streams of credit is run dhry. My statement that they wor a much-thravelled company had more thruth to recommend it, for they hold the world’s record for a running tour from Timaru to this town, having to bate all previous records from that centre of temperance and probity in order to avoid lynching at the hands of the justly-incinsed populace, who chased thim till they grew corns on their feet, after the company had given a performance of East Lynne to three school-forms of school childer, because, after borrying the offspring of a poor washerwoman to act the part of Little Willie in the play, they bilked the unsuspecting infant of half-a-crown he had in his pocket by instigatin’ the actor wot played the part of Mister Carlyle to hook up the coin with his pea-and-thimble fingers when folding Little Willie’s waxen hands in death. I am sorry to say that I likewise deceived ye when I said that the leading acthor of these Murdering Merooders was known to fame, for his previous stage career consists of acting as spruiker or ta
le-teller to a ma-an thravelling round the counthry shows with a five-legged sheep. Their leading lady has the distinction of being the only actress in New Zealand who ever got the bu-u-u-rd in rale earnest, which occurred down South while she was playing what she called a dramatic playlet, entitled Did She Fall or Was She Pushed, in a threepenny ghost parlour at Waipara, when somebody in the gallery saluted her with a dead ‘en—an incident which accounts for her subsequent praydeliction for the company of the Murdering Merooders—smaller houses and less risk. The Murdering Merooders have never been in England! They never played the patriotic drama, Why Pay Rent, in Ireland, though they’ve acted up to the title of that play in every town in New Zealand, as many a sorrowing hall-keeper has found out to his cost, God knows! They have never—”

  But the rest of the old ingrate’s monstrous slander was lost in a roar of laughter from the rustics below and the hotel boarders on the balcony above, so the confounded old bellman went off ringing his preposterous bell, to repeat his outrageous lies elsewhere. When I told Barney of the incident he was greatly shocked at the man’s ingratitude, but sought comfort in the hope that Mossman’s lies might arouse sufficient public curiosity to draw a large house—if for no other purpose than to see such a collection of freaks as he represented the Merry Marauders to be. But I, who had heard Mossman’s remarks and noted their effect, feared the worst.