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Controller and Auditor-General.
17/5/37
“On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail And round his heart the ripples break…”
Lake Waikaremoana, North Island, New Zealand.
September, besides being the first Spring month of the New Zealand year, can be taken to symbolise a period of Springtime in the Railways; for with all the improvements going on in every realm of railway activity, a railwayman's impression of the service at the present time may well be like Emerson's May Day song to the Spring, which
Whatever the cause, there has been a release of imaginative energy, a great awakening of power, in regard to railway affairs that is now found reflected in the quality of service supplied to the public by the national transportation system. A ride by rail has become a thing of joy. The cars are roomy and fresh, well-sprung and smoothly handled. The automatic train signals wink you safely through the denser zones of traffic. The railway staff are looking for ways to help you. Thanks to the care and concoctional genius of the Lindsay Brigade, a railway pie, at a stopping place like Paekakariki, is now the pluperfect prestissimo of all the great pie family, just as, at Wellington Station, a railway hair-cut or a railway bath marks the highest achievement of art and luxury in exterior improvements.
On all sides there is evidence that the Railways are keeping pace with the technical developments for which this age of rapid adaptations of inventive genius to practical affairs is increasingly notable. Every development of this kind suggests new thoughts for the morrow, so that the practical, which feeds on facts, is perpetually being reconciled to that imaginative freedom of which dreams are made.
In this New Zealand we are so fortunately placed by nature that our most daring dreams have the chance to come true. We only fail if our imagination fails. And what great aids to imagination the whole land affords—what food for the imagination in our scenic effects alone! Run the length of the Eglinton—Hollyford road by railway bus on a sunny day and stop to see the glory of snow-clad Mt. Christine across the dark canyons and past the sheer lift of the nearer beech-clad mountains. Cast an eye over the sylvan beauty of the Tangarakau Gorge on the Stratford—Okahukura link of the North Island main trunk line. Take an early dip in the warmer seas up Waiwera way in the gracious Kauriland. Or see Pukaki's mirrored face at six o'clock in the morning, with the first beams of sunlight waking the questing Paradise ducks to flight, and every colour of the rainbow blending in tones of high relief the vision of silver sheen on placid waters, of rock and bush, of sombre sedge and crystal Southern Alps. These are among the treasures that wake imagination to the greatness of our land, to what it can become with interest and application, with daring in enterprise and confidence in ultimate success. They are part of the urge of the Railway Spring.
And they call to us all, in clarion tones, that the best that human hands and brains can do is none too good for the times in which we live, for the opportunities that are ours, and for love of the land that gives so richly all things of use and beauty, presented, too, in a setting of scenic wonders that are the grandest the world can offer.
I have long been convinced that the first requirement of any railway system, and more particularly a nationally owned system, is to be so equipped in personnel and facilities as to be able to deal satisfactorily and adequately with the public demands as they arise under circumstances of either seasonal or unexpected pressure. That is its purpose, and upon its ability to pass that test must it be judged.
One of the unexpected tests to which our system has been put recently was in the handling of the exceptional passenger traffic created by the visit of the Springbok Rugby Football Team to New Zealand.
Up to the time of writing, special train arrangements have been made for the district matches at Auckland, Hamilton, New Plymouth, Palmerston North, Wellington and Christchurch, and for the first Test Match at Wellington. For all these matches, in which the most intense interest has been taken and where all previous records of attendances have been broken, the railway services have proved adequate to the extent that no one who desired to use the trains provided, has been denied the necessary transport to see any of these great games. Notwithstanding the increasing public enthusiasm I feel that we will be equally successful in handling the traffic problems associated with the remainder of the South Africans' tour; but in the meantime I wish to commend those of the Department's Staff who have worked so well in arranging the necessary accommodation for travellers, in running the augmented services to schedule, and in attending so well to the many requirements of passengers.
A very pleasing indication of the benefit of modern station facilities was afforded at Wellington on the day of the first Test Match. Here 195 trains and rail-car services were handled with ease and expedition and approximately 18,000 inward and outward passengers were dealt with throughout the day. Almost 2,000 people had meals in the Station Dining Hall, 3,200 were served in the Station Cafeteria, and 200 passengers took advantage of the hairdressing saloon and bath facilities of the Station, while many more had the comfort, shelter and rest, with easy access to post and telegraph facilities, telephones, bookstalls and refreshment stalls, which the new Station is so generously designed to afford.
It was another test of efficiency, and the result was undoubtedly pleasurable both to the public who used the Station and to the railway staff responsible for the organisation, train running, refreshment services, and general operating work associated with it. It was also an answer to the paid propagandists and others who, at the present time, without justification or evidence, attempt to decry the excellent service being rendered (and to be rendered) by the Railways, and who comment deprecatingly upon the prospect of the Railways Department being asked to extend its activities in the service of the people and the public interest.
I wish to thank the staff for the part they played in rendering such good service to our patrons.
General Manager.
Making the railways made New Zealand, and the process was perfected by our harbours. It is probable that we are unique in our many examples of the ideal marriage between the two great transport systems, the iron lines of the permanent way, and the charted courses of the open sea.
There is a legendary atmosphere about lines of busy wharves. Great cranes creak and swine as they drop huge crates into the waiting railway trucks. Exotic names from foreign countries are stencilled in black and colours on massive square cases, and the watcher is reminded of the vast overseas world that ministers to New Zealand's needs. Yet it must be remembered that motor cars and Worcester sauce, Arabian dates and English porcelain, French perfumes and Spanish olives, would not be pouring out of those great ocean carriers if it were not for the serried lines of railway trucks that stand on the steel rails running up and down each wharf. They have brought from our farm lands, butter, sheepskins, cheese, meat, wool and other products, to exchange for the varied goods that reach us from the uttermost ends of the earth.
The long iron-jointed serpent of the goods train is the corollary of the handsome cargo steamer In an island country such as ours, their union is vital to our well-being.
There is a curious resemblance between a busy harbour and a large railway station. I remember Robert Blatchford's description of the London junction as seen from a signal box: “Lines curling all round; goods trains, fast trains, slow trains, stray engines; backing, filling, tacking, and running before the wind in all directions; bells ringing, whistles blowing, steam hissing, wires creaking, hoarse voices wheezing through mouthpieces …” and so on.
From one of Wellington's nearby hills, or a lofty building, the massed lines of wharves bear very much the same appearance. Grimy coal barges, spick and span oil tankers, imposing passenger liners, fussy tug boats, darting ferry steamers, portly cargo boats, and hosts of smaller puffing, busy, slick and slow vessels, seem to be turning, twisting, speeding and stopping, to miss each other by hairbreadths.
The great station is the haven of every type and description of the land liners coming and going on their journeys, and the port is the terminus of the sea locomotives of all tonnages and every variety of horse power.
When the two are interwoven as they are in Wellington, the high romance of transport becomes a visible poetry, a shining spectacle of the complex modern tracery of human affairs.
As the geography books tell us, New Zealand is rich in great harbours, and to a remarkable number of these the words of Captain Herd in the Nautical Almanac of 1832 are applicable: “Here all the navies of Europe might ride in perfect security.”
Many of our finest stretches of landlocked waters are separated from our productive regions by mighty mountain chains, as in the far south of the South Island.
Naturally, there are others which have become great sea emporia of trade, reminding us of the dear old gentleman who pointed out to James Branch Cabell how wonderful it was that all the great seaport cities had been provided with such excellent harbours.
I am choosing the harbour of the capital city for the purposes of this article which is intended to show that the wedding between sea and land transport in New Zealand is simply a fine expression of the crystal clear common sense we own as part of our British heritage.
When the first flock of English colonists went to Virginia, they found a land that was new in nearly every particular. In every essential it differed widely from the world they had left. West of Chesapeake Bay lay only endless land and forest for thousands of miles. In New Zealand, however, one remembered condition among a host of familiars was this: there was no place that was not within easy reach of their beloved sea. Thus it was logical and inevitable that the maritime tradition of a thousand years would be repeated in this England of the southern seas.
The history of the port of Wellington is a phase of this racial story well worth the telling.
It is strange to recall that Captain Cook looked in during his voyage in 1770, and casually dismissed the place as an “inlet which lies to the north, inclining to the west and seems sheltered from all winds.” I would like to see him walking down Willis Street now in a bad northerly!
The next visit by a European was in 1826, more than fifty years after, by Captains Herd and Barrett, and in some way or other the place got christened Port Nicholson after the harbourmaster of Sydney. However, that lynx-eyed genius, Colonel Wakefield, had noticed the dazzling description of this faraway harbour, and he arrived in 1839 on the famous ship Tory.
As they sailed into this new imposing inland sea, dreams already bright took on a rosier hue. I wonder though if the wildest imaginings of those ecstatic voyagers would ever form the panorama now presented by the towering buildings and the forest of shipping that greet the eye as an incoming steamer makes its way to anchorage?
We show a picture of the harbour as it was in 1840. Lyall Bay had its small lagoon, and Burnham Water was
It is quaint to recall that when “Britannia” had been forsaken for the Te Aro Flat, the first regular ship on the broad waters of Port Nicholson was the ferry Adelaide. When she could not run, the Wellington inhabitants had to go without their “New Zealand Gazette,” which was still being published at Petone on Saturday nights.
As the settlement grew to sizeable dimensions a mosquito fleet came quickly into being, and little ships for the coastal trade began to appear. A wharf became a necessity, and the first was made by Mr. J. H. Wallace. A big hogshead case was taken out as far as possible, filled with stones and sunk as deeply as could be managed.
(After a sketch by T. Allom.)
An artist's impression of early Wellington Harbour. (Whanganui-a-Tara, the great Harbour of Tara, 1839.)
Wooden trestles topped by long logs made the rest of it. More ambitious ventures followed, one structure requiring the formation of a company with a capital of £250 in £2 shares. This was able to accommodate vessels right up to forty tons.
Another picture shows that in quite a little time the water front was laced with numerous little piers all privately owned, and of varying efficiency.
Then came the approach to the Sixties. Wellington in 1856 had a population of nearly 4,000, and a historian recalls its unique feature, “almost every colonist was a man of means and could stand a siege.” They were pioneers in the true sense. They were not content with slow and cautious growth, and it was universally agreed that the times of the little private wharf had gone.
To get the right perspective, remember that away down south the Canterbury handful of families was considering the raising of a quarter of a million of money to build a railway and bore the Lyttelton tunnel. The Wellington settlers made their appeal to the Provincial Government, and the proudly named Queen's Wharf was built. For this deep water structure heart of totara and heart of rimu were used, brought all the way from Foxton, and logged and squared there before shipping. The first pile was driven on 27th April, and down in Canterbury the first sod of the Lyttelton tunnel excavation had been delved in the June of the year before.
Our next picture shows this structure, which cost over £15,000. It was the pride of the citizens. But again, “Time marches on.” The alluring prospect of quicker communication with the Homeland via Panama Isthmus became an actuality when the Ruahine and a trio of sister ships of 1,500 tons started to run. The Queen's Wharf was doubled in size, the contract being let in the year in which the Australian Commissioners decided that Wellington should be the capital city of New Zealand. By 1876 the Wellington Chamber of Commerce was able to report: “The increase of trade to this port is fulfilling that which has been long felt, that Wellington is the natural centre of communication for both Islands.”
About this time, too, the red funnels of the Union Steam Ship Company began to appear in the harbour, for distant Dunedin was demonstrating its possession of maritime genius.
More important than all was the fact that, on 14th April, a railway had been opened from Pipitea Point, just about where Davis Street to-day meets Thorndon Quay. The produce of the Hutt Valley now came easily to the growing city, and port and harbour and railway started to develop mutually,
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A modern overseas vessel, the “New Zealand Star,” at Wellington.
The new Wellington Station was opened on 1st November, 1880, marking also the opening of the gigantic achievement, the railway over the lofty Rimutaka Ranges giving an outlet to the rich Wairarapa District.
Just across Waterloo Quay from the station building was something new; this was the Railway Wharf, the only rival to the Queen's Wharf on the whole harbour frontage.
The question of control of the harbour now became a vital issue. The debates make refreshing reading, and their standard was, I am afraid higher than much of our local body discussion to-day. With an insight that has its prophetic justification nowadays, the Hon. Colonel Whitmore said that “he was distinctly against the multiplication of local bodies,” and it took a long time and much thorough-going dialectic and investigation before the Government consented to the setting up of the Wellington Harbour Board.
But, all this time, the greatest romance of all was taking shape.
Wellington harbour is for practical purposes, a perfect natural haven. It contains 20,000 acres; its basin is almost circular; its waters are deep but not too deep for anchorage; the entrance is capacious and safe; the current in the entrance never exceeds two knots; and lastly, the tidal rise and fall is negligible.
But the work of human hands and brains have worked further wonders. The land frontage strip for about three miles, has, by to-day crept out into the sea in some places as far as twenty-five chains. In all, nearly three hundred acres have been wrested from the ocean, and in that titanic achievement, all types and descriptions of New Zealand public organisations have taken part.
Consider what it all means. The actual City of London is a mile square. In this faraway “neck of the woods,” a handful of people have retrieved from the sea, an area equal to half the metropolis of their Homeland. Where seagulls breasted the shining waters,
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
“Where the iron trail meets the trackless waters”—a present day scene on Wellington wharves.
An early picture shows one of the first reclamations with the Government Buildings standing, almost in danger of a high tide. The State administration of the time was responsible for that acquisition of a modest two acres, but prior to that a mighty effort had been made in front of Lambton Quay, and a whole twelve acres had been salvaged. This is the piece running from the Quay to Customhouse Quay and having as cross thoroughfares, Panama, Brandon, Johnston and Waring Taylor Streets.
It would baffle the imagination to conjure up Wellington City without that massive sector.
But all those past efforts of the City Corporation, the Oddfellows, the Foresters, the Provincial Government, the New Munster Government, are overshadowed by the great task just completed by the united activities of the Harbour Board and the Railway Department. By this last logical effort of mutual co-operation, a great piece of territory nearly seventy acres in extent, has been newly fabricated to remain for all time.
This work of human magic has done more than change the immemorial shores of Port Nicholson, although that is, in itself, an amazing transformation. The place would be a crossword puzzle now to old Rauparaha,
(A. P. Godber collection)
The old Wellington-Manawatu Railway Company's Running Shed, at Thorndon, Wellington.
As one result, nearly a thousand yards of high-grade shipping frontage have emerged as if by magic. The unique semi-circular basin of the Wellington Harbour, with its unbroken series of wharves, is increased by more than half a mile. This continuous line of modern facilities for the berthing of the greatest liners places Wellington among the great commercial harbours of the world.
The land, thus won from the waters, is treasure trove, assured of proper use for the good of New Zealand and New Zealanders.
Lastly, the opening of the new Wellington railway station has enabled a planned perfection of alliance between the two transport systems.
Our picture shows the tracery of lines which spray out from the intricate
Surely this co-ordination of organised enterprise represents a hopeful flowering of social wisdom.
A great public body and a great branch of the public service whose immediate objectives differ widely, are able to find common ground for the common good. There seems no reason why all men should not profit from this brilliant example of the value of co-operation.
I am sure that Colonel Wakefield if he could come back now, would be quick to discern the real foundation for the successful building he wrought in his dreams of the future. On that sunny day when the Tory passed Soames Island, and with his soldier's eye he noted its suitability for a fort, he might well have quoted Tennyson. He had probably read “Locksley Hall,” for it was written seven years before, and he might have whispered as he looked over the ship's side—
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be, Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales.
He did say that Wellington would be a great emporium of interior trade and a magnificent centre for “the purposes of importation of foreign, and exportation to other countries of native produce.”
That other great visionary and seer, Sir Julius Vogel, who saw the railways as the great instrument for the settlement and advancement of New Zealand, would join with Wakefield in the delight at the fulfilment of their noblest dreams.
Both of them would, I am certain, find their greatest joy in the fact that this splendid achievement of the welding together of sea and land transport had been the mutual work of men, working together in the spirit of brotherhood which was the finest heritage of our forebears.
Under the Government scheme for re-establishing the Maori on the land good progress has already been made. The Maori farmer, I have observed particularly in the Rotorua and Bay of Plenty country, can farm industriously and well when he is given a fair show and assisted with advice and capital as the pakeha settler is assisted. I have not seen any farms better managed or kept more free from noxious growth than some of the group settlements started in the Rotorua country that was a waste of scrub and fern only a few years ago. The Horohoro small farms, already productive beyond all expectations, are a lesson to very many of our less thorough pakeha farmers. The grand old walls of mighty Horohoro, mountain of fame and poetry, stand guard over the new homes and wellkept farms below, where bright streams coil through grassy fields, all Maori. The scheme has cost much money, but the expenditure is well justified.
There are far too many of the Maori people leading a hand-to-mouth existence, or depending on the sustenance scheme; they are willing and anxious to work and their greatest wish is to be established on farms of their own. Land and money are needed, and the scheme for providing both has been worked out well by the Native Department. The Government is taking up the problem of decently housing the people in those districts most in need of it.
There would not be any necessity for State action, of course, if the old independent primitive life of the Maori could have been restored. Some tribes, within one's own memory, possessed a vast range of country, and were self-contained,
The ancient community life, however, will remain, in part. The tribal meeting houses and the marae are necessary features of the social organisations, and the arts of wood-carving and (in the Waikato, in particular) canoe-making will not be allowed to fade out.
I called at one of the Horohoro settlements a few months ago, in the course of a cruise through the country between Rotorua and Taupo. I thought the arrangement of the kainga was excellent. It was Sunday afternoon, and most of the people were gathered at the meeting-hall, built in part-Maori style. There had been a church service in the morning, and the Maori clergyman was there, sitting in front of the big house, watching the young fellows playing tennis on the hard court. “A spot of church, a spot of tennis, and plenty of korero” was one young farmer's pakeha-Maori summing up of the social gathering. Presently they would be off to the milking machine, for the golden cow is she-who-must-be-obeyed.
There is a curious reluctance in Poverty Bay to make away with that ill-omened name and replace it with something more truthfully descriptive of the district. Some amusing reasons for hanging on to the absurd name have been put forth in Gisborne and further north. One resident thought that the words “Poverty Bay” held “great possibilities” as an advertisement for the place. The contrast between name and facts would attract widespread attention. Too true, but not in the way that the speaker imagined!
A Maori of the young generation said that to change it would be “an insult to the great navigator” who christened the Bay. This point of view is decidedly humorous, coming from a Maori whose district was so libelled by Cook because, in the language of the restarurant, “veges” were off the day he called.
The rest of New Zealand wonders why P.B. declines to shuffle out of its threadbare garment and choose a new dress name that will fittingly indicate its history and describe its fertility and wealth. Gisborne and the country around it are looking forward to railway connections with the rest of the world. But what does a “Poverty Bay” want with a railway? That is a pertinent question that could be put to the princes of commerce and the kings of the milking herds and the sheep flocks of that good country.
“Endeavour Bay” is hereby once more offered as a fitting name for the Turanga-nui-a-Rua—the Maori name of the place (which is not suitable as an official name, because it might be confused with Tauranga). There is already an Endeavour Bay, in Queen Charlotte Sound, but the historic title could quite well be transferred from that uninhabited cove to Gisborne's roadstead, which has a prior right to it. Really, Turanga-nui does not deserve to have its railway until it has plainly indicated to the world that Poverty is no longer endurable as its first name!
In the Nursery—Wellington New Station.
(Rly. Publicity Photo.)
From top left: The Minister of Railways, Hon. D. G. Sullivan, speaking at the opening ceremony; in the background is Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, and on the left, Misis Small, the Matron. Barrie Nicol, the first client in the playroom, tries out the new equipment. A young visitor stays to ten. The gateway and corridor to the Nursery. The Matron, Miss G. Small, at her desk. A view of the modern kitchen. Views of the two sleeping rooms.
High-Speed trains are now in regular daily service between London and Scotland on both the London, Midland & Scottish, and London & North Eastern routes, out of Euston and King's Cross stations respectively. Commencing 5th July, the L. M. & S. Company's new flyer—“The Coronation Scot”—hauled by streamlined engines, covers the Euston-Glasgow journey in 6½ hours, the fastest regular timing ever recorded for the 401½ miles run. On the same date, the L. & N.E. put into service “The Coronation,” a streamlined express performing the 392 miles journey between King's Cross and Edinburgh daily in the record time of six hours. Five powerful streamlined “Pacific” locomotives were specially built for this service in the Doncaster railway shops, and these have very appropriately been named “Dominion of New Zealand,” “Dominion of Canada,” “Commonwealth of Australia,” “Union of South Africa,” and “Empire of India.” New Zealand railway folk will be particularly pleased to know that this crack train of the Homeland is regularly hauled by a magnificent streamlined locomotive bearing the nameplate of the Dominion, and that at the naming ceremony the L. & N.E. Railway were honoured by the presence of the New Zealand High Commissioner in London.
In years gone by, when more than one hundred individual railway systems served Britain, locomotives and rolling-stock of almost every conceivable colour were seen in traffic. Nowadays, we have only four huge group systems providing transportation, but as each group has adopted a different colour scheme for its engines and carriages, a little pleasant variety is still given to railway travel. L. M. & S. passenger locomotives and carriages are painted in crimson-lake, similar to that once favoured by the Midland Railway; on the L. & N.E. line the majority of the passenger engines are painted green, and the passenger coaches brown; the G.W. favours green for its locomotives, and chocolate and cream for its passenger stock; while on the Southern system engines and coaches are painted dark green. In connection with new Railway Clearing House arrangements for goods wagon painting, in which the initials of the owning company are now in small lettering over the wagon number, the L. M. & S. is repainting its freight rolling-stock in what is known as “bauxite red”—a light brown tint. L. & N.E. wagons are painted in a distinctive dark grey; G.W. light grey; and those of the S.R. dark brown. Incidentally, by omitting the large white letters formerly employed on wagon sides, showing the owning company, a considerable annual saving is being effected in paint.
Passenger carriages employed on the Home railways are recognised as being of exceptionally stout construction and possessing admirable smooth-riding qualities. The majority of the carriages consist of a substantial steel underframe, with steel and timber, or reinforced timber, bodies, with special coupling and buffer systems. This construction is claimed to be superior to the all-steel car from the viewpoint
In this wonderful Coronation summer of 1937, a feature of the Home railway passenger bookings is the enormous popularity of the combined rail-road-steamer tours operated by the four group lines. To meet the needs of the times, the railways have introduced extensive programmes of tours for combined rail, road and steamer itineraries, covering sight-seeing journeys throughout almost every corner of the land. Apart from the universal “penny-a-mile” monthly return tickets, there have been placed at
Railway-operated road vehicles are, to-day, seen everywhere. In Scotland, these services are particularly appreciated, for the mountainous nature of the country renders rail movement impossible in many parts. With an area of over 30,000 square miles, a little over 21 per cent, of “Bonnie Scotland” consists of moors and uplands. All the main-lines serving the Highlands have sections involving steep gradients, sharp curvature, or both. A particularly interesting Scottish line is the West Highland, a single-track route linking Craigendoran, near Glasgow, with Fort William and Mallaig. This construction involved some of the most arduous engineering work ever attempted. Some 141 miles in length, the West Highland Railway is worked by 4–4–0 and 2–6–0 steam locomotives, normally hauling loads of 180 and 220 tons respectively. At present a new class of 2–6–0 engine is being introduced, capable of hauling 300–ton trains. Through sleeping and restaurant cars are operated between London, Glasgow and Fort William, covering the West Highland section, and many tourists make the trip solely to enjoy the wonderful Scottish scenery.
Railway electrification continues to make steady progress on the continent, and somewhat slower progress in Britain. Here at Home, the conditions are not particularly favourable to mainline electrification, and as we enjoy abundant coal deposits, the steam-driven “Iron Horse” is not likely to give place to the electric locomotive to any considerable degree for many years to come. Actually, at the end of last year, Britain had 667 route miles of electrified railway. In general, the electrification so far undertaken has been largely of a suburban character, where frequent service with heavy peak load periods is called for. The Southern Railway operates the largest of our electrified systems, this covering almost the whole of the lines lying between London and the south coast.
Most railway jobs are of a healthy nature, and, broadly speaking, the railwayman ranks, happily, among the healthiest of workers. Illness, however, must inevitably at some time come the way of all, and suitable provision must be made to meet this contingency. The Home railwayman receives sick benefit under the national health insurance scheme, while during the period of convalescence after seri-ous
Record business this season is reported on all the long-distance international expresses traversing the European continent. There are three outstanding long-distance trains crossing Europe from east to west. These are respectively the “Nord Express,” the “Orient Express,” and the “Simp-lon-Orient Express.” The “Nord Express” connects Calais and Ostend with Brussels, Cologne, Hanover, Berlin and Warsaw. A more southerly route is taken by the “Orient Express”— Calais, Strasburg, Stuttgart, Munich, Salzburg, Vienna, Budapest, and Bukarest. Further south still, the “Simplon-Orient” links France with Lausanne, Milan, Venice, Bukarest, Belgrade, Sofia and Istanbul (Constantinople). Budapest, the beautiful capital of Hungary, is one of the most important of European junctions. Hungary, which is so well-served by long-distance train services, is growing in popularity as a tourist haunt.
The approach to Tauranga by way of rail is curiously abrupt. From miles of farming land, and brown and silver sea-swamps, the train bursts out suddenly across a glittering inlet. The traveller gains a brief glimpse of white launches on blue water, of white houses in green orchards, and then he is hurled into the station, into a taxi, and swept up the only low hill that brings him into the town of Tauranga.
It is perhaps partly owing to its position that Tauranga owes its peculiar charm. Bounded by the estuaries of the Waimapu and Waikareao on either hand, the narrow peninsula runs back to the remains of the old fortifications of Gate Pa. From no point is one out of sight or sound of the sea. It lies blue and tranquil at the end of every roadway, and all day long the sea-breezes blow across the Strand.
Tauranga is colourful. Perhaps that is the first impression which the casual visitor gains. Its beauty is far removed from half-tones and pastel shades and mistiness. The harbour is sapphire and emerald, shoaling to amythest; the hills behind are cut in a clear blue silhouette. The green and white and orange launches lie at anchor; triangles of sail drift like white butterflies against the blue. The gardens of Herries Park, by the railway, along the waterfront, blaze in masses of blue and gold and scarlet. The greens run the whole gamut of the colour card from pines and palms to the delicate brightfulness of English elms and aspens.
The architecture of Tauranga is a curious mingling of new and old.
The influence of the Spanish Mission is strong, and plaster fronts and sun-tinted pillars jostle half-timbered Tudors and psuedo-English cottages, and all lie cheek by jowl with small starting houses of no particular design, whose windows probably watched the redcoat soldiers march through Tauranga.
The early settlers of Tauranga must have been prodigal planters of trees. There are giant Norfolk pines, and four-square oaks, elms and aspens, and avenues of walnuts. At Christmas, the pohutukawa glows warm and red, and then the Australian scarlet gum flaunts its scarlet banners. Here, in season, the jacaranda breaks into blossom as blue as heaven; there are pink and white oleanders, and the blood-red blooms of the hybiscus, and the bougainvilla spreading its purple cloak like careless royalty. In autumn the exotics are suddenly bronze and gold and russet, and the persimmon hangs its fairy apples upon its leafless limbs. Winter is the season of the flaming poinsettia, and the orange trees glow with golden globes like Christmas trees decked out too early.
Straight in front of the post office, in a tiny reserve, is an aspen tree popularly supposed to be the largest in New Zealand. It was planted, so the story goes, by a trooper riding in with despatches for General Cameron before the battle of Gate Pa. He carried a stout aspen switch, and, flinging himself from his weary horse, he drove the switch into the ground, and dropped his reins over it. The horse, being an old campaigner, presently flicked the reins neatly over the improvised hitching post, and wandered away to graze. The aspen switch stayed in the ground, and sprouted. If you are sceptical enough to disbelieve such a picturesque story, you may come to Tauranga and see the tree for yourself.
Viscount Bledisloe described Tauranga as the “Riviera of the South,” but to fully appreciate the comparison one must make the brief launch trip to the Mount. That narrow strip of land, between the calm crescent beach of Pilot Bay and the white sands and
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Strand, Tauranga, North Island, New Zealand.
Among the sand-dunes and the pines and sea-grass, the holiday houses of the Mount are scattered, without symmetry or design. Their green and red and orange roofs and swinging shutters give the place a strangely picturesque and foreign appearance. Bright canoes are drawn upon the white sand, and Pilot Bay holds a fleet of pleasure craft as neatly at anchor as walnut shells in a tea-cup.
In season an amazing colony of tents springs up as suddenly as a mushroom ring; the long dusty road is one procession of cars; the brown-and-white launches come in hour after hour to the little stone landing beneath the shadow of the Mount.
Over on the great white stretches of the ocean beach, the peacock and white-jewelled emerald breaks in long slow rollers that come cresting and foaming in. Slender girls in all shades of sun-tan
The really athletic climb the Mount. From the top the view is almost hard to comprehend. The harbour lies at one's feet like a silk glove flung down, the blue and silver fingers among the gentle hills. The white ocean beach and the lines of creaming surf stretch away to uncomprehended distance. The blue bold silhouette of Mayor Island has come curiously closer, and there are the rocky Aldermen, and, down by the horizon, Motiti, and the creamy cliffs of its coastline. To the south a puff of sulphur-hued smoke hangs over White Island. It is from the Mount, and the Mount only, that your bewildered eyes may look in a single sweep from the dim blue hills of Coro-mandel to the misty headland of East Cape.
It is in winter, perhaps, that the Mount exercises its greatest fascination. The campers are gone, and the township …. left to its skeleton population of residents and privileged seekers after winter sunshine …. resumes its pleasant, leisurely, sea-coloured existence.
The easterly storms fling the seaweed up on the deserted beach in long shining brown strands; the seagulls come in to mew and chatter in the tennis courts. The ice-cream stalls are closed, and the little white lazy donkeys range up the frowning slopes of the Mount. Then it is that the breakers come foaming in in all their wind-flung glory, and sprout from the Blow-hole in a tumult of thundering spray. The little painted boats are drawn up from the beach, and the surf-boards stacked away, and the fishermen sit and tell stories, and leisurely mend their nets.
Certainly a great part of Tauranga's attraction lies in its brief storm-punctuated, sun-drenched winter. May, June and July it regularly tops the sunshine averages for the Dominion. The easterly storms rage in across the harbour, and the sea-spray drives over the waterfront into the very shop doorways. As swiftly as the storms come they are gone again, and the thin clear golden sunshine holds sway once more. In the gardens the roses bloom, and before the chrysanthemums are gone the first pale spring flowers star the earth.
Tauranga is a town peculiarly divided between holiday-makers, retired colonels, and dairy farmers. In the season, the visitors upset the balance, but, as summer ebbs, so ebbs from the town the unrestful tide of young women in slacks and young men in shorts and sandshoes, and it becomes possible once again to appreciate the institution of “farmers' Saturday.” On Saturday the farmers come in as one man from the country, in every kind of vehicle.
In the light of our brief history Tauranga seems an old town, but looking back, we find the first mention of it in 1769, when Cook passed the harbour without discovering it, and called Mount Maunganui an island. It was not until almost sixty years later that the schooner “Herald” sailed up the uncharted passage beneath the shadow of the Mount, and cast anchor in virgin waters.
In 1835, Alfred Nesbit. Brown, pioneer missionary, starting the mission station of Te Papa, laid the foundation stone of Tauranga to be. Before 1840 he raised the heart-of-kauri buildings which stand to-day, and bought from the Maoris the thousand acres of the narrow peninsula where the town of Tauranga now stands. To mark the boundary, he had dug across the neck of land at Pukuhinahina a ditch with a gate crossing, and the spot began to be known as the Gate Pa.
By 1864 a handful of white people had gathered in the settlement, and, in that year … with a concentration of British troops and men-o'-war at Tauranga … there was fought one of the most tragic engagements in the
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The popular beach at The Mount, Tauranga, North Island, New Zealand.
In Tauranga the past is curiously interwoven with the present. You find it in the street names … in Cameron Road, and Greertown, in Durham Street, and Brown Street, and the Old Redoubt. The Camp is that leisurely pleasant residential section of the town that lies on the rise toward the Domain, and you might live there a year without realising that the bugle calls of the 68th and 43rd once rang beneath the gnarled old elm trees. The Monmouth Redoubt is a garden now, and where the sod of Gate Pa was soaked with English blood the boys play light-hearted football. But on an afternoon's casual visiting, you may find, as a doorstop, a cannon ball, pitted with rust and salt water, fired from the “Esk,” or “Harrier,” or “Miranda” more than seventy years ago.
The old mission station, as it stands to-day, is a page of the past preserved. Set amid its green lawns and century-old elms, it is a lovely shrine of old rare things. By its closed white gates stands the first bell to be landed in the Dominion. For a hundred years it rang the call to prayer and the tocsin of alarm, but it stands silent now.
They say thereabouts that once you have lived in those sun-drenched lands of the East Coast, you must go back. Perhaps its enchantment lies in its odd trick of making one forget everything but fine weather, so that, under farther greyer skies and drizzling rain, one is stricken with a sharp nostalgia for Tauranga's vivid seas and white beaches, and, above all, for the clear golden brightness of its sunshine.
In these days of almost incredible progress, we are constantly hearing and reading of the amazing speed records of trains on the continent of Europe and in England and America. Photographs of the “first engine employed on a public railway,” and the scene at the opening ceremony provide the greatest possible contrast, and picturing, as they do, the introduction of the era of travel by steam, they are rich in romantic appeal.
Beneath the brave little engine with her two carriages we read: “The first engine employed on a public railway. It was built by George Stephenson, and was drawn on the Stockton and Darlington railway till 1858, and is now placed on a pedestal in front of the Darlington Station.” Beneath this explanation are photographs of three distinguished looking gentlemen, who, from left to right, are George Stephenson, Edward Pease and Ira Newbun—“Pioneers of First Public Railway.” Englishmen have distinguished themselves in many spheres, but among this illustrious company none is greater than the genius of the steam-engine, and certainly none has conferred a greater benefit on mankind.
According to present-day standards the engine and carriages present an exceedingly quaint appearance, the former with its stovepipe funnel. There is no cab for the driver, and the various gadgets and controls are erected above the boiler and furnace. The carriages, as can be seen, are open too, and continued to be so for many years. Accustomed as we have always been to comfortable, closed-in carriages, it does not at once strike one what it would mean to travel in an open carriage, exposed to every wind that blows—particularly in a climate such as that of the Old Country—and also to the heat of the sun.
There was another inconvenience, too, as a little story related, by an old lady now resident in New Zealand, goes to tell. The incident took place many years after the first train commenced to run. This old lady said that her family, who were Scotch, possessed a much prized Paisley shawl. Unfortunately, her mother donned it when going for a train journey. “Sparks were flying” evidently, for one burnt a hole in the precious shawl!
The coach rather dubiously dubbed the “Experiment,” however, was modelled on an ordinary coach, and so, of course, was closed in. Possibly the “Experiment” was reserved for important folk, or perhaps it was a carriage “de Luxe,” or merely “first class!” And it seems highly probable that the seats in front and behind, in which, in an ordinary coach the coachman and footman sit in stately immobility are in this case occupied by servants who accompany travellers of high estate!
A photograph of the time-table states that the “Experiment,” which commenced travelling on Monday, the 10th of October, 1825, “will continue to run from Darlington to Stockton, and from Stockton to Darlington (Sundays excepted) setting out from the Depot at each place at the time specified, (viz.): On Monday from Stockton at half past seven in the morning and will reach Darlington about half past nine; the coach will set off from the latter place on its return at three in the afternoon, and reach Stockton about five.” The time-table for the remaining days of the week is then specified, and underneath, the charge for the carriage of parcels is stated as follows: “Passengers to pay is. each, and will be allowed a package not exceeding 14lb., all above that weight to pay at the rate of 2d. per stone extra. Carriage of small parcels 3d. each. The Company will not be accountable for parcels of above £5 value, unless paid for as such. Mr. Richard Pickersall at his office in Commercial Street, Darlington; and Mr. Tully at Stockton will, for the present, receive any parcels and book passengers.”
The photograph depicting the festivities which attended the “opening of the Stockton and Darlington Railway, 1825
a.d.,” and which took place at Darlington, was taken from a painting. It is reminiscent of an old English fair, and was evidently a gala day for the district Ladies in crinolines grace the proceedings, and vans and carriages apparently provided transport for the more fortunate of those who were privileged to witness this epic-making event. But the “opening” has evidently taken place, for crossing a distant stone bridge—so typical of the English landscape—can be seen “the train,” and a close scrutiny reveals, some distance ahead, a horseman, whose duty and high privilege it is to see that “all's right ahead,” and perhaps also to see that the train doesn't exceed the speed limit. Later, when Queen Victoria travelled in state at a few miles per hour, scouts were posted ahead all along the line to see that the way was clear.
The atmosphere on board the train as she chugs her way across the bridge is evidently a very festive one, and those privileged to travel on “the first train”—the official party, and so on—are waving flags, and excitement is running high. The train is a lengthy one, consisting of eight carriages, the engine belching forth a column of smoke as she bravely puffs her way towards her desfination, a distance of 38 miles, at about twenty miles per hour.
The commencement of the first railway service has a unique connection with New Zealand, for, at the Gisborne jubilee celebrations, some years ago, Mr. Ginders, a native of Darlington, related that he and two other boys, tremendously thrilled with this extraordinary invention of “modern science,” were, the day before the official opening, viewing it with ill-concealed awe. She was just about to be given a trial run in preparation for the great event of the morrow, and the engine-driver, thinking the boys might as well be usefully employed, called out “Here you youngsters, what about getting water from the creek over there for the engine?” The “youngsters,” of course, delightedly complied, and were forthwith supplied by the engine-driver with three buckets. After many laborious trips from creek to engine, the requirements of the latter were satisfied, and as a reward for their labour the three boys enjoyed the unique privilege of being passengers on “the first train in the world” the day before she ran officially.
Our own country is still sufficiently young for a few of our oldest identities to remember “the first train that ran” in various parts of the North and South Islands. One such train was hauled by the “Josephine,” which, after a varied career, and a long life of usefulness rests in front of the Otago Early
The following letter from the Otago Rolling Mills Association to the Otago Early Settlers' Association provides some interesting information with regard to the “Josephine.” It reads as follows:—
“The ‘Josephine’ lay in our scrapyard for quite a period, sentiment alone preventing us from cutting her up. Then one of our main boilers gave out, being finally condemned. These mishaps usually occur during rush periods and our case was no exception to the rule. However, we overcame the difficulty by bringing the ‘Josephine’ into commission, special permission having been granted by the Inspector of Machinery. Owing to reduced boiler pressure she was far from being economical, and although her appetite was abnormal in the way of fuel consumption, she, like most old people, suffered from chronic indigestion, necessitating quite a few internal operations. She seemed to be particularly susceptible to appendicitis, for she was constantly having her tubes removed, but contrary to usual practice, insisted on having them replaced.
“However, in spite of these disabilities, the ‘Josephine’ did excellent service and helped us through a difficult
A very early visitor to our shores describes the beauties of the train ride of between eight and nine miles from Dunedin to Port Chalmers, along this “arm of the sea,” with the wonderful virgin bush on the other side, and we can picture the “Josephine” busily plying back and forth in these very early days between the township and its port, and it is gratifying to know that after such a long life of faithful service every courtesy and consideration was accorded her in her old age.
An old friend of mine who, with her parents, arrived at Invercargill about 73 years ago, said that the first train from Invercargill to the Bluff commenced to run a few years after, and she also remembered the first sod being turned of the railway from Invercargill to Dunedin. The former place was then, of course, just a small settlement. Great excitement prevailed, and she relates that she and her husband who were strolling rotund viewing the festivities found a gay party at Puni Creek—where there was a park later—roasting a bullock in honour of the occasion. The animal was suspended above a roasting fire, and every now and then they turned it. The same lady relates that the first train from Invercargill to Makarewa—where her family
(A. P. Godber Collection.)
The opening of the Te Aro Railway Station, Wellington, in March, 1893, long since disused in the march of railway progress.
Mrs. McMenanim, of Lower Hutt, Wellington, was also a very early identity of Invercargill, arriving there from Dublin—after a few months in Melbourne—in 1862, when the settlement boasted little more than tents. They had to coach from the Bluff to Invercargill, for there was then no railway. She relates that an outstanding event in the history of Invercargill was the visit of Sir George Grey. As it was unfortunately raining when he arrived awnings had to be put up, at the railway station, a gaily decorated dais was erected for the honoured guest and his entourage, and flags and decorations created a very festive atmosphere. But the great man flatly refused to sit on the dais, preferring, instead, to move about among the
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Auckland—Wellington “Limited” Express at Frankton Station, North Island, New Zealand.
A very novel entertainment had been arranged in honour of his visit in the form of a railway excursion. Wooden railway lines had been constructed some miles out into the country from Inver-cargill, and the engine steamed out of the station amidst great excitement. All went merrily—till the return journey, when the engine refused to budge. Investigation proved that the rain had caused the wooden rails to swell.
Other old identities, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cudby, of Lower Hutt, have recollections of the commencement of the train service from Wellington to Lower Hutt. Mr. Cudby's father, of Boulcott Farm fame, was the contractor for the laying down of the railway line, and Mrs. Cudby, as a schoolgirl of tender years remembers the official opening at Wellington. The children of the private school she attended were given a half-holiday in honour of the occasion—a rare event in these days. The tiny railway station was where Dealy's Hotel now is. There was great jubilation as the train, with the official party aboard, steamed out of the station towards Lower Hutt.
These very early recollections of the commencement of transport by steam in the Old Country and in the “New” are a forcible reminder of the marvellous progress of, the intervening years. The recent introduction of rail
(Photo., J. D. Buckley.)
One of the last main line trains to enter Johnsonville Station before the recent change over at Wellington.
And as for the Old Country, a special train which ran recently from Reading to Paddington, the London terminus of the Great Western Railway, to enable artists to keep a broadcasting engagement, completed the journey of 36 miles in 30 minutes 30 seconds. For 29 miles the train averaged 81 miles per hour.
Speeds even exceeding this have since been attained on the British Railways. Other trains on the Continent and in America also reach an incredibly high speed, and engines and carriages are the last thing in streamlined perfection. All this is indicative of the wonderful progress of our age.
If the new Wellington railway station impresses every overseas visitor to New Zealand as it did Mr. Ray Henderson, New York, who left Wellington for Sydney recently, then it should not take long for the city to consolidate its already handsome reputation, says the “Dominion.”
“I do not know of any city with the same population with so dignified, beautiful and well-arranged a railway station,” he said to “The Dominion.” “Except in the largest cities in America we have nothing to compare with it.”
Mr. Henderson visited the creche on the roof of the building. “It's an eye-opener,” he said. “Such places may exist in other countries, but I've been travelling most of my life and I've never seen anything of the kind.”
A prominent Westralian business man, largely interested in the tobacco trade and who has been holidaying in Maoriland, has been telling a daily paper on his return home some of his impressions. “One thing that struck me especially,” he said, “was that all the tobacconists were selling the New Zealand grown and manufactured tobacco which on sampling I found of most excellent quality and as good in fact as any I have ever smoked. The manufacturers' extensive works are at Port Ahuriri, Napier. Here they are producing five brands of tobacco that are in general request, viz., Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold and Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold being for cigarettes. A distinguishing feature of these blends is that they are toasted, which process eliminates the nicotine in them and renders them virtually harmless. Overindulgence in some brands may effect heart or nerves. With ‘toasted’ the smoker runs no such risk. I was told these tobaccos were being freely imitated. Shouldn't wonder. Good things generally are.”*
chapter xiii.
From Matamata to Scotland Yard.
concluded.
Twelve clues in the Signal Cabin Mystery have been well and truly classified, tested and examined under the skilled guidance of that arch-detective—Impskill Lloyd.
And each phase of the astounding history following the discovery of Pat Lauder's body at Matamata, has been vividly described with an attention to detail, a dramatic intensity, a wealth of wit, and that keen analysis of character which mark the best work of the writers taking part in this omnibus story.
This final chapter was to have been written by Impskill Lloyd himself. Only circumstances of an unusual nature prevented this.
A disjointed radio message has come from Pekin. It was sent by Impskill himself. He is busy there now engaging boxers to combat a band of international criminals. But he has spared time to provide notes for the thirteenth clue—the strange explanation of those stranger happenings which have been reported monthly since July of last year in the pages of this magazine.
After his many thrilling experiences, rapid readjustments, and clever escapes from the ever-present dangers of the Matamata underworld, Impskill Lloyd, the lightning conductor o f criminal investigation, felt more convinced than ever that a thirteenth clue existed.
He must find it.
Good mathematician though he was, even Imp. found difficulty in arranging, in lucid order, the many pieces on the checker-board of the Matamata Mystery—the Pawns, the Knights and Castles, the Kings and Queens and Bishops that stood and moved in intricate array through the kaleidoscopic changes, the cavalcade of that Homeric drama.
An expert Matamatician—nay, a genius at the game was required. Could one be found?
Fortunately for Impskill's purpose, he suddenly recalled the subtlety of mind possessed by the” Matamata butcher, Kidney Jenkinson.
Here, surely, was a Matamatician after his own heart—one who could square the spare ribs of a tender mutton with meticulous accuracy; who could turn a triangle of beef into a rhomboid with one sure, swift stroke of the cleaver; one who could find the quadratics in quadrupeds with unerring instinct; one to whom the square root of a pork sausage and the binomial theorem of a boiled mutton were equally simple.
He must have the Matamatician Jenkinson—the man who could reduce a surd to the last decimal point of absurdity—to whom sines and portents were equally familiar. Jenkinson ! Who lapped up logarithms like a kitten at the cream jug. Kidney Jenksinson! The Matamata butcher—a Matamatician indeed, in whom there was no bile. Who had, indeed, been called “Kitteny” at College on account of his logarithmic mind. “Kitteny” became “Kidney” when he abandoned logs and anti-logs to enter the butchery business at Matamata.
To Jenkinson, then, must Impskill Lloyd appeal!
Now picture Kidney early on a spring morning in Matamata, munching Matamatically a grilled chop of his own square chopping brought home by his wife on her way from shopping the previous afternoon.
The telephone rings.
Kidney, masticating hurriedly the last morsel, bisects a straight line at right angles as he hastens to take the call.
Over the wire he hears:
“Is that you, Kidney? Impskill here. I want you to stay where you are until I arrive. Be with you in five minutes.”
Kidney's acute mind immediately deduced that an acute angle had developed at a tangent of the fast-closing Lauder Mystery circle.
When Impskill arrived Kidney's deduction soon proved to be accurate.; “Have you anything of Lauder's here,” were his first words, as he
(From this machine Impskill frequently obtained useful clues through upstairs windows).
Kidney laughed. “I have three sillings in the late Pat Lauder's deposit account for beef,” he said.
“But I mean something personal,” said Imp. seriously.
Kidney gazed reflectively through the back kitchen window and, in his mind's eye, squared with Matamatical precision the circle of his own backyard.
“It's a funny thing you should say that!” he replied after a pause.
He walked through to the office safe, spun the combination to the key word “clue,” and—as he swung the door open—pulled out a small drawer from which he extracted a match-box.
Lifting the match-box lid, he tipped upon his open palm a small quartz specimen studded richly with gold.
“I knew it! I knew it!” exulted Impskill in tones of breathless excitement. “The thirteenth clue at last!”
Before replying, Kidney tried to steady his mind by saying, below his breath, the Matamatical exercise for times of excitement—the six times table backwards, and then sideways.
“Why did you never tell me of this before?” continued Impskill reproach fully.
“Had this vital piece of evidence been produced earlier in the proceedings, much might have been saved—and recovered,” he added significantly.
“Well,” said Kidney, “since this mystery started, things have been looking up in the butchering business.
Business, in fact, has never before been so brisk in Matamata. I don't know that I want the mystery cleared.
“Matamata is now a tourist resort for those in search of sensation—and the keen air of mystery surrounding the place since our Signal Cabin sprung into fame has made everyone simply ravenous.
“But I was not holding back anything from you, really,” he continued.
“The phenomenally increased demand for beef made me go outside the usual sources of supply. I've had to buy up quite a number of local cows that for some reason or other the owners were willing to part with—at a price,” he added, somewhat ruefully.
“There was a sale, last week, of Lauder's household and personal effects, including six hens, a pig and a cow. I bought all this livestock.
“The cow was soon converted to prime beef, but a successful butcher must be up in the Matamatics of economical butchering.
“There is a great and growing demand for calf's foot jelly here, and I do my best to supply it. Cow's foot, I find, is twice the strength of calf's foot, so that a given quantity of the older hoof goes twice as far.
“When about to put the four feet of Lauder's cow in the jelly pot, to my amazement I found this quartz specimen firmly embedded in the fork of the off hind hoof.
“I intended to get a legal opinion as to whether the specimen was mine—having bought the cow, or whether—not being a usual part of a cow, but something accidentally attached thereto—it would have to be treated as a separate article and returned to the estate.”
“A fine point,” nodded Impskill.
“Come,” he said, “let us now visit the Lauder estate.”
Mounting the high bicycle and taking Kidney as a back-step passenger, Imp-skill rapidly trundled down the main street until he reached the Lauder place on the edge of the town. The whole property consisted of three acres—the minimum holding for a cow in the by-laws of, Matamata. Impskill quartered the section like a hound, while Kidney split it into small squares which he rooted, but the square roots revealed no trace of any quartz seam! Nor could Impskill's eagle eye detect the slightest trace of auriferous bearing sand or rock on any part of the section. This was not surprising as the nearest known gold mine was at Waihi about 60 miles away as the kaka flies and at least 85 as the kiwi runs.
It was clear as daylight to Impskill that the specimen had dropped out of Lauder's waistcoat pocket as he milked the cow on some date prior to the discovery of the deceased Lauder in the Matamata Signal Box.
It was clear, too, that the cow in its clumsy way had stumbled on the nugget, and in accordance with the mining proverb that “you never know what's in front of the pick,” had picked the specimen up between its splayed off hind foot, and hoofed off with it.
“Lend me the specimen, Kidney. You shall have it back in seven days, when I hope to solve the Lauder Mystery,” said Impskill.
Kidney readily agreed, seeing some further fame for himself through his foresight in guarding so soundly what was proving to be the thirteenth clue.
Impskill's next call was on Zeb Barrett, the Mayor of Matamata. Besides being a Mayor, Zeb had two very keen hobbies of which Impskill had heard soon after his arrival in Matamata.
The first was a very sound knowledge of geology. The second was an insatiable curiosity as to everything that happened in the borough of Matamata. It was this latter quality which accounted for his unfailing return as Mayor. People had a fear that if Zeb failed to be returned he might tell some of the innumerable things he knew about them. Impskill wanted the use of both of these Zebby hobbies.
Zeb greeted him cordially. “How's the solution going?” he cried. “I say, there's a lot of talk around that you've already solved the mystery, but are waiting for the Government to increase the reward!”
(Continued on page 35)
(Continued from page 33).
“Nothing of that kind,” laughed Impskill.
“Take a look at this, will you?”
Zeb took the specimen with the light of curiosity in his eyes. “This is a fine little nugget,” he said. “Wherever did you get it?”
“I'm wanting you to tell me where it comes from!” said Impskill.
Barrett placed the specimen under his powerful microscope, and a puzzled look came over his usually open countenance.
“That's not from Waihi and it's not from Thames. Otago or the West Coast,” he said. “The crystals differ from all the known gold fields in New Zealand.
“And yet,” he continued with growing excitement, “it's from somewhere in this country, I can tell by the colour of the gold.
“I wonder if it's come from the Crawley country?”
“The Crawley country?” exclaimed Impskill. “Where's that. I've never heard of it.”
“What!” said Zeb. “Never heard of Bill Crawley—everybody in Matamata knows about him—he's a legend in the place.”
“Tell me,” said Impskill urgently.
Zeb laid down the nugget reluctantly.
“Bill Crawley died in Matamata hospital two months ago,” he said, “and with him died all chance, it seems, of solving the mystery of where he found his gold.
“Crawley, for the past 30 years, has made a yearly visit to Matamata. He always arrived on a big horse, heavily loaded, and he always had a gun in the crook of his arm and two revolvers in his belt. Bill's first visit invariably was to the bank and the Bank Manager has told me the people of Matamata would be surprised if they knew how much gold Crawley brought with him each year.
“Anyway, after he had been to the Bank and then stabled his horse, Bill was the most cheerful soul in Matamata. He would keep things lively at the hotel and was very free in his spending. Good-hearted, too, was Bill. Any charity could count on him for good help during his visit. Then one morning he would be gone, and another year would go by before anyone saw Bill Crawley again.
“Three months' ago, Bill came in as usual, but while at the Bank he looked ill and acted queerly, so Roberts, the Manager, advised him to go to hospital. They found he had a high temperature —a very bad case of 'flu. He was well looked after in hospital, but in delirium he seemed afraid someone might find his gold mine.
“When he was over the fever he was very weak.
“I heard that Lauder visited him. Bill had heard that Lauder was a crooner, and so … .”
“That will do for the moment, thanks, Barrett. I must now visit the hospital. I'm very grateful for the information you have supplied.”
With these words, Impskill was on his way and the high bicycle hummed as he raced down the hill to the hospital.
An interview with Sister Round, who had nursed Crawley through his illness, was readily granted as soon as the Matron knew the identity of her distinguished visitor.
Impskill wasted no words.
“Tell me, Sister, about Bill Crawley,” he said.
“There's not much to tell,” she said. “He had got over the worst of his 'flu—only weak and seemed to be coming along fine until the day Lauder called.
“I remember that day well,” she continued.
“I said to Crawley, ‘here's the noted crooner, Pat Lauder, to see you.’
“‘That's fine,’ said Bill Crawley, ‘I've neither seen nor heard a crooner. Bring this one along.’
“Well,” continued Sister Round, “Lauder said although he did not know Crawley he liked to visit the sick and hoped Bill wouldn't mind him calling for a chat.
“Crawley said it was very decent of Lauder to call, as there were very few whom he (Crawley) could call friends in Matamata, and he was feeling rather lonely.
“Then he asked Lauder if he would mind crooning a little to him.
“‘Oh!’ said Pat Lauder. ‘I don't think it would be right to croon in hospital, would it Sister?'
“Well, I said, I was afraid it might not be regular.
“Then Bill Crawley reached under his pillow and handed a little gold nugget to Lauder. ‘That,’ said Crawley, ‘comes from my private gold mine, near the headwaters of the Mungatu. And it is yours if you will croon to me now.’
“Lauder looked at me appealingly, and I nodded, signalling him to make his crooning low.
“He did so. It quite depressed me. But when he finished, Crawley said a strange thing: ‘I wanted to live,’ he said, ‘but now, having heard that, and also that the world is gradually filling up with crooners, I die happy.’
“And he never recoverd from that minute,” she continued. “Just turned his face to the wall, refused his food, and gladly passed away within the hour.”
Impskill's decision was made on the moment. He was morally certain that Lauder, having the Crawley nugget, had been obsessed with the idea of finding the Crawley gold mine. Hence his sudden disappearance from Matamata.
Next day saw Impskill Lloyd aboard a yacht at Taupo on his way to Waihaha, a lovely little settlement on an unfrequented portion of the lake's foreshore. And this time he left Gillespie behind.
Arrived there, he soon made friends with the local Maoris. He described Lauder to them and tried to croon. They all went off into gales of laughter.
“He te fella make te funny noises!” (Continued on page 37.)
(Photo, Thelma R. Kent.)
Mustering sheep on the Glenhope Station, Upper Waisu Gorge, South Island, New Zealand.
said Peti, the Chieftain. “He come here all ri. Try find where Bill Crawley go.”
“Not see him or Bill again,” he added.
The next day, Impskill, with Peti as a guide and a small party of natives, all strongly mounted on Maori “hoi-hau” (horses) set off past the lonely Waihaha Falls and struck across country towards the headwaters of the Mungatu.
At the point of the forest above the river, where an ancient whaka (used for trapping the alert native wood pigeon) is still suspended high off the ground, Peti paused and pointed to some foot prints in the soft rich humus beside the whaka.
“Lauder, eh?” he said, and started off down towards the river.
On the brink of the river a lightning blasted rimu trunk stood mute testimony of some recent storm.
The main branch lay across the river-bed as it had fallen. The river was now low, and Lloyd saw that which gripped attention—a shred of clothing caught between a sharp stem of the fallen tree and the gravel of the riverbed.
“The last proof,” he exclaimed, as he reclaimed the piece of cloth. This is a part of Lauder's suit—the part missing when I examined the body in the Matamata signal cabin.
To a skilled mind like Impskill Lloyd's, the rest of the solution of the Matamata Mystery was easy.
“Peti,” he said. “We can now return.
“Lauder was not murdered at all. He was killed by a convulsion of nature!”
The twelve possible causes of death were subsequently explained in a paper read to Scotland Yard by Impskill Lloyd and circulated throughout the Police Forces of the world as a set of hints and aids in the detection of crime and the analysis of evidence.
They are summarised here briefly, for the enlightenment of the many thousands who have followed, with breath more or less bated, the many vicissitudes of this master mystery.
Lauder got lost in the wild country at the back of the Mungatu while searching secretly for Bill Crawley's gold mine.
He was practically starving, on the banks of the Mungatu when lightning struck the tree under which he was sheltering. Besides striking the tree, the lightning electrocuted Lauder, who was pinned beneath one of the falling branches and hurled into the river where a sliver of rimu penetrated his heart.
The lightning also burnt the poor victim, and one of the tree limbs had lain across his neck after his immersion in the river.
Thus it will be seen how being drowned, burnt, struck, impaled, choked, frightened, electrocuted, felled, and having his ribs caved in, all occurred from the misfortune of Lauder having been just where he was when the lightning struck.
These were nine of the possible causes of death deduced by Impskill Lloyd in his first five minutes over the case. Starvation (the tenth possible cause) has already been explained and proved. Heart disease, the eleventh possible cause dealt with, was shown to be latent in the subject, and the twelfth, poisoned, was undoubtedly due to an enterprising katipo spider resenting the presence of Lauder's body on the banks of his river.
How the body got to the Matamata signal box was also discovered by the genius of Lloyd.
He proved that a subsequent flood had carried the body to Lake Taupo and then down the great Waikato River to the Arapuni Hydro-electric Works. Here a workman, shocked by the appearance of the floating body in his section of water, became frightened of being involved in what looked like a clear case of murder, and ran the body in his car to the Matamata signal box, where he deposited it, having every confidence in the Railway Department's ability to deal adequately with any problem that might confront it.
It need only be added—that Impskill Lloyd, before leaving the Mungatu region, picked enough from the Crawley mine to reward him amply for all the trouble he had taken over the Matamata Signal Cabin Mystery. (The End.)
“Old Warrior,” Kendrick had christened him when, over a week before, he had glimpsed the mighty fish deep down in a shady pool close to a bend on the Waiau. “The Hermit” might have been an equally suitable name, for the old fish—and old he must have been— lived alone.
Evening after evening Kendrick had lain there in ambush among the flax, watching the trout feeding, yet not daring to try a cast. Once, he had seen its great head—as wide as a man's hand—as it rose to take the fly. But usually only a swirl indicated its presence; a swirl that showed even above the ripple.
(Photo, Thelma R. Kent.)
Lake Hawea, South Island, New Zealand.
Evening was spreading its long shadows across the valley of the Waiau, when Kendrick halted near the edge of the river, his heart throbbing, a queer dryness in his mouth—that strange sensation that only the angler can understand.
For there was a wind—a breeze that sighed among the flaxes, set the kowhai buds a-nodding, but what was more important—sent ripples of liquid silver scudding across the water.
Somewhere out in the chuckling water—orange and red in the reflected rays of the dying sun—was a fish that might yet be his; a splendid fish, about which a man could dream, long after his arm had become frail and too weak to longer wield a rod.
He lowered the rod—a thing of finest green heart, English-made, and examined leader and lure, then changed at the last moment for a finer gut. From the corner of his eye he saw a sudden disturbance on the water—a strong movement apart from the ordinary ripple.
The old fish was feeding.
His fingers trembled as he knotted the gut. Excitement gripped him—a mixture of elation and despair. The fish would be old, wise, cunning; but the water was perfect, and the wind just right.
Wading into the water, he stripped silk from the reel. He raised the rod, poised a moment. The silk flashed out. Like thistle-down the lure kissed the placid water above, then floated slowly down on the ripple.
The water swirled again, Kendrick's heart leapt to his throat. But the lure floated on, unchecked. He cast again and again, deliberately, carefully, drying the fly in the air, and waiting for the little puffs of wind that whipped the water's surface.