Publicly accessible
URL: http://www.nzetc.org/collections.html
copyright 2008, by Victoria University of Wellington
All unambiguous end-of-line hyphens have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line.
Some keywords in the header are a local Electronic Text Centre scheme to aid in establishing analytical groupings.
Lake Rotoroa, Nelson, South Island, New Zealand.
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal book-sellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this Journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
The Editor cannot undertake the return of MS. unless accompanied with a stamped and addressed envelope.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 23,000 copies each issue since August, 1937.
Controller and Auditor-General
2/12/37.
There is an old saying that “One half of the world doesn't know how the other half lives,” but with the opportunities for travel that now exist, the right answer to that saying is: “Why not?”
This thought comes from the activities of such associations as the Travel Clubs of New Zealand through which visitors from the eastern and western worlds pass, and in passing leave with us graphic word-pictures of what is happening amongst the peoples of the countries they come from. These cross-currents of travel impressions supply an education of the best kind, for whereas most books of reference tend to become out-of-date, besides usually omitting the things in which we would be most interested, the traveller, fresh from his home land, can speak of what he sees and knows and can be questioned on the points that whet our curiosity.
The Wellington Travel Club recently had the honour of entertaining one of the most notable travellers to visit New Zealand in Dr. Kalidas Nag, from the University of Calcutta. Dr. Nag is editor of “India and the World,” and as a leader in the movement for the unification of India, and a world-traveller of wide and varied experience, was expected to bring a message that would deserve attention. In this he exceeded even the highest hopes of his hearers. His speech ranged from the music of the Vedas spoken in the original Sanscrit—the first language in which man could communicate with man—to a comparison between the countries and peoples of the modern world.
Dr. Nag is a missionary of peace and understanding amongst peoples of different races, a thinker thoroughly versed in the history of human progress, and a speaker whose eloquence tells of a mind alive to feel and quick to express the thoughts of one fit to be the friend of all the world. His visit is of more than passing interest to New Zealand. It has already made a deep impression on some of our leading writers, who were fellow guests with Dr. Nag on the occasion mentioned, and may be expected to divert at least a portion of their efforts into even more fertile fields of research and action than those upon which they are at present occupied.
Contacts of this kind serve to stimulate the sense of community of interests between one nation and another upon which it is not too much to say the whole future of civilisation depends.
Visitors like Dr. Nag are an inspiration, and as they invariably carry away happy recollections of what he described as “New Zealand's greenery and scenery,” they are the fore-runners of many more travellers whom this Dominion is only too happy to welcome.
With the approach of New Zealand's centennial year, I think most people will be looking back over the years within the range of their personal experience to make comparisons between conditions in the earlier parts of the century they know and those existing to-day.
I have been doing this so far as the Railways are concerned, and as forty years is the normal term of a railwayman's direct association with the service, I have taken 1898 as a starting point for a brief review.
The graph pictured on the opposite page gives a visual indication of some of the principal developments referred to.
Commenting on the working features of railway operating depicted on that chart, it should be noted that in the past forty years the passenger traffic has grown from 6,708,725 passenger journeys in the year 1898 to 22,441,212 in 1938, the cost of the coal used in the respective years has increased from £48,820 to £690,029; likewise the cost of stores and material purchased by the Department (apart from coal) has grown from £207,000 to £905,694. Wages paid by the Department have increased from £623,267 to £4,902,226. In the same forty-year period goods tonnage handled in the individual years has grown from 2,628,746 tons to 7,516,049 tons. The capacity of the wagons provided to carry the goods has been increased from 54,398 tons in 1898 to 267,559 tons in 1938, or by nearly five times, whilst the length of our railway lines has been increased only from 2,055 to 3,323 miles.
These figures will, I think, make it plain what we mean when we talk about the “increased density of traffic—particularly when it is realised that the number of wagons has increased from 8,768 to 27,235, the number of passenger vehicles from 543 to 1,481, and that the train miles have increased from 3,666,483 to 12,777,852. In other words, whilst the route miles of track available for the trains to run on have increased in the ratio of about 1½ to 1, train miles have increased in the ratio of 3½ to 1.
There has also been a notable increase in the locomotive tractive effort available. In 1898 it was 1,879,449 lbs. as compared with 10,684,559 in 1938.
The number of staff has increased from 6,051 members in 1898 to 22,963 members in 1938. But how different is the service they have to operate!
In 1898 the largest locomotive running on our Railways (the “U” class) weighed only 63 tons in working trim, as compared with 136 tons of our present “K” class engines.
In 1898 there was no Westinghouse brake, there were no electric headlights, there was no tablet system, no automatic signalling, no electric lighting of cars, no train control system; and of course the many amenities our modern stations provide were unthought of, and multiple-unit electric trains, rail-cars, sleeping-cars, hot and cold water, and steam heating in carriages, as well as many other improvements that the present-day user of the rail enjoys, were still to be realised.
So when the “old-timers” tell of the problems that confronted them in the earlier days of the Railways, those who work and use the services to-day can see the greater scale upon which railway transport is worked, and know that our problems are certainly no less than were theirs.
An examination of the development of traffic in the intervening period of this skeleton forty-year review shows a remarkable consistency in the upward trend. It gives assurance that in the years to come the many improvements now in hand to make possible still higher standards of transport service to the public will be fully appreciated by a practical recognition of the value of the Railway Service to the community as a whole.
General Manager.
[All Rights Reserved.]
Redoubts and blockhouses, garrisoned by detachments of New Zealand Armed Constabulary, stood sentry on strategic sites, often a commanding hill or a round mound above a river bend, along our borders of settlement until the early ‘Eighties. There were chains of these posts, guarding communications and protecting outlying settlements. A redoubt was built at Kawhia as late as 1883, long after the Maori wars had ended, for there were inter-racial disagreements and the Kingite national feeling was strong. But there cannot be many survivors of the active-service period, when hundreds of blue uniformed A.C's., though officially styled constables, served through hard-fought campaigns, and performed all the duties of regular soldiers.
An association of old comrades of the Permanent Force, the lineal descendants of the N.Z.A.C., was formed in Wellington about two years ago, but its oldest members' services did not extend back to the founding of the corps in 1867–68. In Auckland and Taranaki and the Bay of Plenty enquiries no doubt can still bring forward some with war service, although sixty-six years have passed since the last shots were fired. Old campaigners sometimes keep the last enemy at bay for a century. There will be Maoris among the long-lived few, for many lads of the Arawa and other tribes enlisted as Constabulary in 1869–70.
It was not until 1884–85 that the Armed Constabulary were finally demobilised as a corps, and most of the members who did not go into the civil police became artillerymen for the new forts constructed at the chief ports of the colony.
It was in 1867–68 that the N.Z.A.C. Field Force was organised for war service under a Government scheme which paradoxically sought to demilitarise the fighting forces. That brilliant idea the Government owed chiefly to Mr. St. John Branigan, a good Irish policeman from the Victoria and Otago diggings, fields which attracted many an excellent officer. The Royal Irish Constabulary were taken as the model, and Mr. Branigan was given wide powers as Commissioner in command. The veterans of the various companies of Rangers and Rifles and military settlers who did all the rough bush work after the Imperial troops had been withdrawn, found themselves under a system of control which was sometimes very distasteful.
First-rate policeman, but no military man, Mr. Commissioner St. John Branigan was totally out of sympathy with the soldierly aspirations of the officers and men who had already seen service. The inspectors and sub-inspectors preferred the military equivalents of their rank, major and captain; and it must have been rather confusing at first to find a company described as a “division.”
Mr. Branigan always tried to impress on his subordinates the fact that they were not soldiers but constabulary, but when these “constables” marched into action under such leaders as Whitmore and McDonnell, Von Tempsky and Roberts, Newland and Northcroft, Goring and Gudgeon, they quickly forgot that they were police, and fought as hard as any Ranger or other rifleman. It is to the Commissioner's credit that he worked hard to provide the force with the most efficient arms procurable; he knew that police must possess up-to-date weapons and equipment.
* * *
There is no need here to recapitulate the bush-warfare services of the Constabulary. That is in the histories. It was at its best, probably, in the Urewera Country campaign of 1869, a very difficult and all but unknown region in which the Maoris had all the natural advantage, for they were defending their native wilds.
After that invasion of the mountain land, Colonel Whitmore wrote of his men that six months of continuous drilling and campaigning had made
Then in the period when peace had been restored, but when the various frontiers were still guarded by the A.C. in their earthworks and stockades, the force entered another field of usefulness. Sir Donald Maclean, the Minister of Defence and Native Affairs, remembering the lesson of the military road through the Highlands of his native land after the “Forty-Five” set the force to work at road-making into the interior. He believed that the pick and shovel were as necessary as the rifle in assuring peace, by opening up the country for military movements and for settlement.
So everywhere on the frontier we saw road-making parties at work in the ‘Seventies and early ‘Eighties. Many of the Upper Waikato and West and East Coast roads then laid out and formed by the grey-shirted workers are now the main highways. One is the road from Tauranga to Rotorua, Atiamuri and Taupo; others are the Cambridge-Rotorua road, and the present mountain road from Taupo to Napier.
Thus the soldier-policemen became navvies. The extra pay for this field work did not prevent some grumbling, and the Defence Minister deemed it necessary to issue a memorandum to officers commanding explaining the necessity for this strategic road-making and enjoining upon all members of the Force cheerful and loyal obedience to the new dispensation in frontier control. There are on record, following upon this, reports from numerous officers describing the excellent progress of their roading duties, and the good and willing work done by the various parties.
In my young days in the Upper Waikato the bell tents of the Constabulary road camps and the parties of stalwart whiskered campaigners who laid down the Snider for the pick and spade and shovel were a familiar sight. The Government roading served the needs of travellers and far-out farmers in many places at a time when it was badly needed, and it was not the least of the national duties faithfully discharged for which the old Field Force should be remembered.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Whakaheke Rapids on the Waikato River, North Island, New Zealand.
Naturally the old hands who had served with regular troops in the Wars of the ‘Sixties did not relish the Constabulary organisation at first. One of these veterans was Captain Swindley, afterwards a settler at Te Puapua, near Whakatane. Swindley being a cheerful soul and incorrigible joker, realised the humorous side of it all. Capital soldier, skilled bushman and scout, he was a popular man with his comrades in the field. But his special aversion was his superior officer, Commissioner Branigan.
Swindley amused some of his friends with pen-and-ink drawings depicting himself in the uniform of a London policeman with a lantern at his belt and a baton in his hand. This illustrated the fate he professed to believe would overtake the A.C. Field Force. He had his photograph taken in that costume. The caricatures were circulated from field post to post, and at last the story came to the ears of Mr. Branigan.
The rest of the story is told in a MS. diary of the service period kept by the late Captain G. A. Preece, N.Z.C., who sent me a copy of it.
Swindley, he wrote, was at the Constabulary Depot on Mt. Cook, in Wellington (where the Dominion Museum and Art Gallery now stand), when he was sent for by Mr. Branigan.
“I understand, Captain Swindley,” he said, “that you have been caricaturing the Force by exhibiting some pictures showing what you were and what you expected you would become, the last in
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The new standard railcar, “Aotea,” which, in a recent trial run from Napier to Wellington (200 miles) covered the distance in 4 hours 36 minutes running time.
Captain Swindley, who was never at a loss, replied: “Oh, no sir. In my various occupations I have had my photograph taken”; and he took a packet of small photo-cards from his pocket.
“Here is one showing me as a digger on the West Coast. Here is another as a surveyor's chainman. The third shows me in A.C. officer's uniform. The fourth is as I found myself in the field, with a shawl around my loins, a carbine over my shoulder, a revolver in my belt, and a haversack on my back. I heard that you were going to demilitarise the Force, so I thought I would make my collection complete. These are very old, so you can see that it was with no intention of bringing the Force into ridicule.”
Mr. Branigan took it in good part, Preece continued, and no more was said about it at the time. Probably the Captain agreeably entertained the Commissioner with some of his funny stories. But Swindley could not leave well alone.
The Commissioner's official life was brought to an unfortunate close about the beginning of 1871; his mind became deranged, the effects of an old sunstroke. Preece wrote in his diary (July 14th, 1871), after recounting the incident just related:—
“I am afraid Swindley must be held partly accountable for poor Branigan's condition. Some time after the Wellington interview, he sent the Commissioner the following extract from Mark Twain's ‘Innocents Abroad’:
“‘But perhaps the most poetical thing Pompeii has yielded to modern research was that grand figure of a Roman soldier, clad in complete armour, who, true to his duty and full of that stern courage which has given to that name its glory, stood to his post by the city gate, erect and unflinching, till the hell that raged around him burned out the dauntless spirit it could not conquer. We never read of Pompeii without the natural impulse to grant to him the mention he so well deserves. Let us remember he was a soldier, not a policeman, and so praise him. Being a soldier, he stayed, because the warrior instinct forbade him to fly. Had he been a policeman he would have stayed also, because he would have been asleep’.”
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Interior view of the signal cabin at Wellington, New Zealand.
“This quotation,” said Captain Preece, “was sent to Branigan shortly before he went off. Swindley said he thought it might have been this that finally sent him off his head.”
On the occasion of his retirement from the Railway Service, Mr. W. A. Williams, Auckland, writes to the General Manager of Railways, Mr. G. H. Mackley, in the following appreciative terms:—
“Having recently retired from the Railway Service on account of ill-health, I take this opportunity to express my deep appreciation of the courtesy and kindness always accorded me by the officers of the Department, particularly the Maintenance Staff of the District Engineer's Office, Christchurch.
“My period of service with the Railway Department was a most happy one, and it is with feelings of sincere regret that I have to terminate such pleasant associations.
“I assure you that I shall continue to do my utmost to further the interests of the Department, and again express my appreciation for the happy years I spent in the Service.”
Railway Publicity photos.
John Ruskin of the magic pen, had a sensitive appreciation of natural and man-made beauty which gave new eyes to mankind.
In our Marlborough Sounds, there is a bewildering array of gleaming waterways between land walls that range from gentle slopes to lofty peaks; there are worlds upon worlds of natural wonders, from bush-clad isles to towering cliffs, from jewelled waterfalls to beaches of yellow sands, from mysterious narrow inlets to opening gleaming bays. Nature has dowered many parts of New Zealand with similar riches; but the Marlborough Sounds would have brought joy to John Ruskin's heart. Here the scene is mantled with the work of humankind, and fragrant with history.
This article will try to explain a little of the distinctive charm of this wondrous New Zealand playground. I should add that the profusion of marvels in the Sounds forbids the covering of them all, and that this story relates to Pelorus Sound and its little sister, Kenepuru only.
The first step in becoming a sheepfarmer in Pelorus Sound is to learn to row a boat, the next to handle a launch. In the area covered by Pelorus and Queen Charlotte Sounds, which, as the crow flies, is not more than twenty-five miles each way, there are five hundred miles of coastline. The roads are waterways, and the front gates of the farms are little piers or landing places.
When we arrived, our host at “The Portage” had arranged for us to make the trip in the “mail boat.” This is a water-borne mixture of delivery lorry, mail van, and pleasure cruiser.
It was loaded with a miscellaneous collection of merchandise, mail-bags, and humans, and it proceeded to wander over the shimmering waters in the most purposeful way.
It is perfectly impossible for any stranger to preserve any sense of direction on such a journey as this. The drop scenes come and go, headlands are rounded and new coves suddenly open out, bewildering turns display sheepyards or a tall headland, and then the launch chug-chugs more slowly and stops. From the bush or hillside, or from the door of a pleasant homestead, someone hails, and appears with a mail bag or a parcel, and the exchange is effected for the mail-boat's
Hour after hour went by, but there was so much incident, the dissolving and changing beauty so ravishing on both sides of us, that we did not notice the time. In fact, in the Sounds, time has a habit of slipping by as swiftly as the smooth green waters seem to be gliding past our craft.
In Kenepuru Sound, pretty and popular accommodation houses of all sizes and kinds dot the shores. We could imagine what these shining seaways must look like in the summer season, with hundreds of happy holiday makers crowding every inlet, beach and hillside. But our trip was made in the winter, and I can conceive of no better winter pleasure resort or rest retreat than this windless, sunlit sea-paradise. It is useless to try to describe the charm in words; as someone has said it “is adjectivally impossible.”
From the broad verandah of “The Portage,” the first impression is of complete and all pervading peace. Effort, struggle, competition, hustle, and the other stern things of the workaday world, are miles and miles away, and somehow they seem safe never to return.
“The Portage” itself is modern in every respect, a many-roomed hostel with all the amenities of a city hotel, electric light, hot and cold water in the rooms, spacious lounges, dance floors, dining halls, bathrooms, and a large sun portico, on which, even on our winter day, sunburn would be easy.
Our picture shows the lay-out of this New Zealand Garden of Eden, and it is certainly an achievement of planned pleasure gardens and open-air playing grounds. I sought, though, for the reason of its purely personal atmosphere, and it might lie in this fact; the young son and daughter of our host are the fourth generation at “The Portage.” As with many others that I met in the Sounds, the memories of Mrs. Lawrence are of the real stuff of history, and behind her own recollections was another generation of stories she had heard about still earlier days.
As its name shows, “The Portage” was the original outlet from Pelorus Sound to Picton and civilisation. In the memory of living settlers, the Maoris rowed their canoes to the Pelorus Sound landing and carried them over The Portage saddle, full of pigs and other produce, voyaging then down Torea Bay to Picton.
When Nydia Bay was putting out daily tens of thousands of feet of timber, the bushfellers and other huskies rowed all the way down to The Portage, clambered over the divide and got to Picton for their sprees. They returned more or less refreshed, and it was natural that after a few years of hospitality The Portage farm owners thought that, in self defence, it was time to make some charge. Thus arose the beginnings of the present resort known not only throughout New Zealand but the wide world over.
It should be said that The Portage road is only one of dozens of these slender dividing land arms between
Looking north from St. Omer, for instance, a four mile walk reaches the wide and handsome Crail Bay which by water would entail half the full journey along Pelorus Sound. At Elaine Bay in Tennyson Inlet, only a small flat needs to be crossed to land in the maze of the Croisilles. By sea, the journey would mean going clean out of the main Sound, rounding Francis Head, making the French Pass, and completing a journey of at least seventy miles.
We saw more of this fantastic handiwork of Mother Earth and the wayward sea, on the Saturday of our stay. We had our journey to the seat of the Farmers' Union monthly meeting, and it was a revelation of pioneer adaptability to unique conditions.
We started off from “The Portage,” and here and there stopped to collect folks who rowed out, or came in their own launches, or were gathered from their own landing places. Later we changed launches and the gathering slowly grew. “Homewood,” where the meeting was held, is a dream place. The homestead is up-to-date and calm, rushing streams go through the ample garden, and there are nikau palms, fruit trees in plenty, and groves of splendid native bush. Fowls are everywhere and the garden is a riot of colour. Our picture shows the scene.
The little dreaming bay was littered with launches, interspersed with row-boats of every description. I shall always remember one of these dingies putting off, rowed by a small lad and carrying half a dozen substantial passengers. There could not have been more than a half inch of freeboard and changing a half crown would, to all appearances, have meant a capsize.
Small boys and girls handle boats in the Sounds as if they were playthings, and they weaved in and out this fleet of launches with ease and confidence.
Of course, this concourse of little vessels was simply the Sounds' version of an assembly of motor cars and taxis at a suburban corner when there is a meeting or a party.
We left the meeting to carry on our voyage of discovery. We had already passed Nydia Bay whence came in the past tens of millions of feet of timber, we had taken a peep at bush-clad Fairy Bay, and had admired the tree-covered ridges and bluffs of North West Bay. Now the beauties of sight and scene multiplied every mile. We turned into the Tawhitinui Reach. On our left (I mean to port) were long, low hills terminating in the queer looking but aptly named Ram's Head. On our right (I mean on the starboard side) was the quaintly lovely triangle which is the peak of Maud Island, with the fine outline of a dry point etching. Before us there seemed to float islands of fern and tree, the prettiest of which is Tarakaipa. However steep the slopes have been, we have seen sheep looking for all the world like white birds that have just alighted. Now, as if by magic, the grass-covered sides give place to lacy bush and tree feathered headlands. The broad waters slowly narrow and take on utter stillness and the bottle-green smoothness of glass. We reach Godsiff Bay, where trees march down to the water's edge, except for a ribbon of golden beach outlining the curve of the bay.
Here we landed, took a picture or two, and boiled the billy. The stillness was profound, only broken by an occasional tui greeting the sunshine and the tiny twittering of a riro-riro. Several small coloured finches gave us a friendly call, flitted close and looked curiously, one perching cheerily on the camera. We were one million miles from office desks, tram noises, newspaper headlines and crowded footpaths.
We had to go, sadly enough, and so we set off for the head of Tennyson Inlet, the loveliest gem in the
(Continued on page 49.)
Aparagraph which appeared recently in the Press in New Zealand dealing with an old atlas owned by a North Island family resulted in many other people claiming to possess maps of the world as old, or even older. This matter of old maps is very interesting in this enlightened age, and although the early cartographers were a little astray, credit must be given them for the manner in which they charted the various countries with the crude means at their disposal.
The distinction of taking possession of New Zealand for the British Empire belongs to Captain Cook, and credit must also be given this great navigator for making the first complete map of the Dominion.
Reproduced on this page are two old maps, one of New Zealand published in 1820, and one of the world dated about the middle of the fifteenth century. The map of New Zealand was originally that of Captain Cook, but after he published it, it was amended and added to by whalers and traders. This map was adopted by the French in 1833, by the Dutch in 1835, and by Spain in 1836.
Cook first visited New Zealand over 100 years after the discoverer of the country, Abel Tasman. His orders after leaving Tahiti were to sail to New Zealand and examine the country of which hardly anything was known. He sailed around it and found that it was two large islands and not part of a great continent as had been supposed. Violent storms were encountered, but Cook was able to chart the coast. Cook first sighted New Zealand on October 6th, 1769, and two days later his ship Endeavour anchored in Poverty Bay. From Poverty Bay he sailed south past Cape Kidnapper as far as Cape Turnagain, but retraced his course and surveyed the coast of the North Island as he went north and west to Mercury Bay. The voyage was then resumed past the Firth of Thames, and sailing further north still, he discovered Waitemata, or Auckland. In due course he arrived at the cape which Tasman named Cape Maria van Diemen. He then continued southward, finding no harbours until he sailed into Queen Charlotte Sound without knowing he was in another island.
From a nearby hill Cook first saw the strait that now bears his name, and realised that New Zealand consisted of two islands. After formally taking possession of the islands in the name of the King, he sailed round the South, and Stewart Islands. For much of the time he met rough weather, and although his map is accurate in the main, he apparently thought that Banks Peninsula was an island. He also missed the discovery of Foveaux Strait. On Cook's original map Stewart Island is shown attached to the mainland as a peninsula. The outline of this map corresponds more with the map accepted to-day than with the amended one of the early whalers and traders.
The old map of the world shows that New Zealand was not discovered at that time, and that little or nothing was known about Australia. It is remarkable that the great country of Australia should have remained so long undiscovered. Many maps published 400 or 500 years ago do not include Australia, but show open sea. Other cartographers in the same period show
One of the chief reasons why the old map-makers invented this southern continent was the common belief that there must be equal quantities of land in both northern and southern hemispheres in order to keep the world evenly balanced. As the area known to exist in the northern hemisphere was very much greater than that known in the south, the map-makers sketched in by guess work a large stretch of land such as they thought would balance the world, naming it Terra Australis (the southern land) or Terra Incognita (the unknown land).
As will be seen from the map of the world people of that time had a very hazy idea of what land existed in the southern seas. The map makes it clear that Australia was thought to be part of a vast continent reaching from the Antarctic. The map is astray, too, in its outlines of other world continents, notably South America.
Strangely enough there are maps published before the one reproduced which have upon them a land too much like Australia to be dismissed as mere fancy and invention. These maps were drawn by the French, who may have worked on information obtained from the Portuguese. About this time the Portuguese were sailing the seas north of Australia in search of new countries with which to trade, and it is possible that some Portuguese captain came across Australia and sketched part of the coastline.
At an inquest at Birmingham not long since touching the death of a young lady, Miss Madeline Merton, seventeen years of age, it was shown that the unfortunate girl fell asleep while smoking a cigarette in bed, the coroner remarking that notwithstanding the many fatalities arising from this cause people would persist in running “a very foolish risk.” Yes, smoking in bed is a dangerous habit—and so is smoking out of bed, sometimes! For habitual use of tobacco heavily charged with nicotine may completely undermine the health, and there are, unfortunately, only too many brands like that about! “Safety First” is a wise slogan, and the safe way for smokers is to smoke “toasted,” the five popular brands of which Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog) Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, after treatment by the manufacturers' exclusive toasting process emerge from it pure as tobacco can possibly be for the “bite” is taken clean out of them, and you can get a smoke absolutely unequalled for flavour and aroma and comparatively innocuous.*
This is a true story of a pioneer's experience in Southland. Names only have been changed.
The Mataura River, with its widely flowing waters, swirled onwards towards the sea coast, now and then spluttering gleefully as it gurgled around the roots of some forest giant growing at the water's edge. The banks were a riot of tangled green lawyers, twining tendrils in a sticky mass over dense clamps of undergrowth, from which rose the huge brown trunks of the native rimu, towering their dark heads against the clear morning sky. The warm sun scattered spots of brightness, like confetti, through the cool dimness of the underbush, while the birds and insects sang and buzzed in happy harmony.
An inquisitive weka was viewing with interest a new, roughly cut track through the ferns, when suddenly it became affrighted and scurried to the nearby shelter of a dead fern tree, from whence its cheeky little russet-brown head was thrust into view, as a man on horseback rounded the bend.
Tom Mason rode carefully forward, picking his way between the tricky curled roots and stringy brown fern stumps. He had already had several spills, for the track was anything but smooth.
His young, eager face, openly revealed the facts that he was new to the country, and that his very soul thrilled at the unusual glory of the New Zealand native bush. He felt he could hardly be home-sick for smoky London, when his nostrils inhaled this new air so heavily laden with the peculiarly sweet scents of the bush. How much more pleasant the clear, rich music of the bell bird and the tui, than the screeching, jarring noise of the city.
“Here, Dobbin — whoa — whoa!” Tom's firm command startled the animal, as he suddenly drew rein.
The cold waters of the river were rippling in frothy bubbles round the horse's feet, and the thirsty creature eagerly stretched forward his head to drink.
Tom patted his neck and murmured reprovingly, “Well, old chap, you might wait a minute. I expect in another twenty years there will be a bridge here—but in the meantime I guess we'll both have to swim across.” He bent down to feel the rush of cold water against the palm of his hand and added uncomfortably, “It doesn't look too inviting—and it's darned cold.”
Dobbin seemed to understand, and whinnied nervously in response, as he gently muzzled his master's shoulder with a moist, velvety nose.
There was only one way to ford the river and have dry clothes at the other side, and Tom Mason had prepared himself for that way by providing a canvas bag. As he stripped off his clothes he methodically packed each article into the bag, and securing the flap, strapped the lot securely to the horse's saddle.
The tall, silk hat, the height of fashion for masculine headgear in the early ‘fifties, lay forgotten where he had tossed it, on a clump of fern. Glancing round, Tom's eyes fell on it, and a perplexed line settled between his straight brows. The bag was full, and anyway the topper would be ruined if it were crushed inside. Then he had a brain wave—he would wear it. Yes, that was the only thing he could do—he would wear it. He could easily keep his head out of the water as he swam.
Ruefully chuckling as he pictured what he would look like in a full-length mirror, he jammed the hat down over his ears, and blushingly hoped there were no inquisitive Maori maidens in the vicinity.
He tied the reins loosely to the saddle, and urged the animal into the water. With a friendly slap on the flank, and, “Gee up—Dobbin—get along,” the horse reluctantly took the
(Photo. by R. J. Cowan.)
The Taramakau River, Westland, New Zealand.
“Looks as if the old fellow was a better swimmer than I—I'm blessed if he isn't half way across”—his thoughts ran on smoothly, while outwardly he spluttered and gasped.
Ten minutes later Dobbin's feet had touched the hard stony bed of the river, near the farther bank, and soon he was wading up the gentle slope in shallow water. Tom watched the deep ripples spreading in wavering circles round the animal's legs, and as he pressed forward he called out encouragingly, “Bravo, old chap. I'll guess your hide keeps out the cold better than mine, though.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Dobbin pricked up his ears and turned slowly round in the shallow swishing water, then suddenly—so suddenly, that Tom could not grasp what was wrong—the soft neigh ended in a terrified snort, the meek animal eyes were dilated with real fear—and he caught one wild flash of flying spray and heavy lashing legs, and Dobbin had reached the bank, and was floundering desperately and drippingly up the slippery bank on to dry land.
Dazedly the nude swimmer realised that it was his white naked body partly visible above water, and offset with the silk topper of shining black, that was solely responsible for the terrified performance. Dobbin might have recognised the hat—but certainly not the owner.
As he neared the bank, he waded cautiously forward; he simply must get to that horse—all the possessions he had in the world were in the bag strapped to the saddle. At a safe distance Dobbin stood shaking his wet body, but obviously still agitated and alert. Possibly he was puzzled, too, for his keen animal intuition could not mistake his master's voice, but that white creature in the river had inspired the very fear of the devil in him.
“Here, Dobbin, old fellow—whoa! whoa!” came coaxingly from Tom, as he rose right out of the water and crept up the bank. Worse still! The dumb creature's eyes widened again in renewed horror at the full-sized spectacle, and with heels flung wildly in the air he dashed like a maddened thing through the choking lawyers, stumbling blindly over fallen trunks, floundering onwards, and bruising a new track through the dense, untrodden bush.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Christchurch-Greymouth Express approaching Arthur's Pass, South Island, New Zealand.
Scratched and bruised, and with a gaping wound at the knee of his fore leg, at last he emerged into an opening, beyond which grew flax and toitoi in wild profusion. The dense bush was left behind, and Dobbin, deciding this was a haven, settled down to crop the long juicy grasses.
Back on the river bank, Tom Mason cursed his foolishness, and his horse, alternately. Here he was, a stranger in a strange country, and miles (for all he knew) from any camp or habitation. Certainly not an envious position. He looked down at his body and remembered he was stark naked. An ironical grin curled round the corners of his mouth as he considered the peculiar humour of things—alone, in unknown bush, and wearing only a handsome silk topper. Funny when one looked at it like that. Not so funny as he examined the bruised ferns and creepers which marked the track his horse had taken. How could he follow with bare feet, and he ruefully stared down at his blue legs and tender feet. “Darn that horse!” he muttered, “If I only had a few clothes, it wouldn't be so bad—I wouldn't mind being stranded in this rotten jungle then. If I want food and clothes I suppose I'll have to follow the brute. Oh darn!” And he glared down again at his white toes.
He had only gone a few chains when his legs were bleeding from many scratches, and sharp woody spikes punctured and blistered his
For hours it seemed, he had struggled onwards, falling often, creeping sometimes, and walking where possible. It was well past midday when he came to the open space where Dobbin had first halted in his mad flight, and his sharp eyes noted the freshly cropped grass, as he eagerly skirted the flax bushes.
He called softly, “Hey Dobbin—Dobbin,” and it was answered by a whinney to the right. Gingerly allowing only his head to be seen over the flax leaves, he called again. This time the dull plop, plop, on the damp soil assured him the horse was trotting towards him. His heart lifted thankfully, and he wanted to shout for joy, but instead he contrived to be cunning. The animal was also cunning, and when within a few paces from where he was concealed, abruptly stopped and sniffed suspiciously.
Tom was taking no risks this time.
With “Whoa—whoa Dobbin,” he sprang from his hiding place and clutched at the dragging reins of the bridle. The next instant he felt them jerked through his fingers, and saw them snap in half as Dobbin reared suddenly—then plunged forward again into the rustling flax and tussocks.
Disgust and dispair settled down on his tired young face, and the extreme cold was causing him to shiver convulsively. He decided he had better keep going on—and on—there seemed nothing else to do, and anyway he was hopelessly lost now, so he might as well follow the animal's tracks. Perhaps by night he might manage it.
Strange he couldn't help thinking of everything that was warm and cosy—thick winter coats lying useless in almost every home—warm blankets that no one wanted except at bed time—glowing fires….
His brain was becoming too fagged to think clearly as the day wore on, and he realised that his condition was becoming serious, but he tried not to think of his exhausted bodily pains, and determined that the feverish dizzy feeling in his head should not have dominion over him. So he struggled, shiveringly miserable, horribly sore, and still wearing his tall silk topper. It had been repeatedly torn from his head in the bush, but he had refused to leave it there—after all, it was all he had.
* * *
The sun was sinking low in a crimson-streaked sky, and the flax bushes had merged into a plain of yellow tussocks, when Tom Mason's fevered spirits rose dully at the sight of a
He placed his cold hand across his throbbing brow, and wondered that his head should burn so, when his body was shivering violently with the cold. He sank down exhaustedly on a tussock, too miserable from his nightmarish hours of scrambling, to care if the tussock's spiky stump felt like a hedgehog, and beyond thoughts for his blistered and bleeding feet. A peculiar peace began to soothe his pain-racked frame. Then he became alarmed—and with an effort roused his numbed senses from the pleasant feeling of nothingness. Perhaps he realised it would be the finish if he didn't make some weak effort to keep moving, and keep the fever, which was taking control, at bay. Dragging himself wearily upright again, he staggered forward towards the bright red and gold bank where the sun had vanished.
The sky was rapidly becoming darker and only a dim outline now showed where the tussocks swayed in a mocking, wavering line. Somewhere an owl hooted out it's hungry “More-pork—More-pork” cry, causing Tom to start nervously and raise his blood-shot eyes from the cutty grass at his feet. He stopped dazedly—was that a fire ahead? Perhaps he was going mad—yes—that was it. Mad people often saw the things their soul most craved for—he was mad. With a cry of anguish he started forward…. His feet seemed to get strangely lighter, then the whispering tussocks grew silent and distant, and he was sinking, sinking lower — lower — away from everything—no pain—nothing mattered—darkness….
* * *
The crackling fire leaped and fell casting queer shaped flares of light on the figures of two men, bending over a third still form.
Tom Mason opened weary eyes, and wondered why the glow of a fire could give such comfort. He stared into the kindly faces of two strangers, where he read relief and curiosity intermingled, and then his eyes centred on the warm grey blanket which enveloped his body, finally passing on in bewilderment to a crushed and torn silk top hat lying in the light of the camp fire. Oh—that hat! Then he remembered!
“All right, mates”—his voice sounded strangely thick and unreal, “I'm not an escaped lunatic, or anything like that—just give me something to drink—and I'll tell you what happened.”
An enamel pannikin was hastily held to his lips….
(S. P. Andrew, photo.)
Katherine Mansfield.
On my rare visits to Wellington I do not fail to take a stroll down Tinakori Road. I go to reassure myself that a certain house is still there—that it has not yet been burnt or pulled down or even remodelled. I mean the house where Katherine Mansfield was born, just fifty years ago. Some years ago Eileen Duggan confessed that she could not pass this house without a stir of pain for the girl who lived there as Cassie Beauchamp. Quite recently O. N. Gillespie in this magazine has given us the dictum of a London journalist: “You can rest on your laurels in New Zealand now for a long time. One Katherine Mansfield is enough for you to produce every hundred years.” No doubt the average New Zealander will consider that statement an exaggeration. American and English critics, however, in dealing with the literature of this century, are unanimous in conceding a high place to K. M. She has been translated into at least eight European languages. The French indeed make definite claim to her, not only because she spent so many years in France and because she was buried at Fontainebleau, but also because they see in her own name—Beauchamp—an indication of a distant French ancestry. There is, too, a book of her stories in Japanese. This surely is world-wide recognition. I wonder when she will receive equal appreciation in her own country?
There was a story published as recently as 1935 in an American magazine. The writer had come to Wellington, as on a pilgrimage, and he went into a bookshop to make inquiries. He asked to be directed to a Katherine Mansfield shrine. Let us try to be fair. Let us concede that probably the bookseller was annoyed because this queer man was not a customer. His reply was: “They've put up a gate in her memory. You'll find it at the top of Molesworth Street.” Even after that the writer exhibits a faint surprise at finding that the memorial had been erected, not by a grateful public, but by her father. That story hurts, and it is difficult not to be bitter about it. One thinks of the French critic who dismissed the preoccupations of the Wellington of Katherine Mansfield's youth in a contemptuous “des affaires et du pot-au-feu.” But bitterness is futile. We are indeed not far enough removed from the days when food and warmth and shelter occupied all of our lives. It is a demerit inseparable from a new country. How shall the tree flower before its roots are firm and deep? In my more optimistic moments I think our budding time is near. But we must first overcome our ancient lack of faith. It is still necessary for a New Zealander to go abroad before we acknowledge his greatness. We do not yet believe enough in ourselves.
The memorial is the very heart of the Mansfield country. Close at hand are three of the homes in which K.M. has lived. A circle with this as centre, drawn to include Karori on one side and Muritai on the other, has within it the scenes of most of her New Zealand stories. Here she walked and scribbled and fretted and yearned after life. Amid all the beauty which has been created in Fitzherbert Terrace one can sit awhile to think about this girl. One thinks of the storm on the day of her birth, a storm which was prophetic, symbolic of the life of turmoil she was to lead. And she seemed to know it. At fifteen she wrote concerning a projected story: “Now to plan it—she is born in New Zealand on the day of the storm.” The wind was to blow through so many of her stories. Her friend Frieda Lawrence has said that Katherine hated a high wind. Really I think she loved it—love with a spice of fear. From those windows on many a night she must have watched the wind tossing the trees in the old pine avenue. Sometimes I regret that those trees are gone, old and gnarled and sombre though they were. I think she loved them, too, again with a spice of fear. Lest this should seem fantastic I quote from one of her French friends: “She loved to be afraid, listening to the wind at night chasing the leaves in the garden and slamming doors and shutters. She took a shuddering pleasure in it.” There is no denying it; the storm of her birthday remained always a part of her.
Those who can appreciate her artistry will not be content merely to hear this charming voice. What did she look like? What was the personality behind the vivid stories, the poignant Journal? Many of her friends
Again and again you come upon such phrases as: “a transparent spiritual quality”; “an expression which was not of this world”; “living in a zone which was not life, but its halo”; “unearthly and a little chilling, like the remoteness of Alpine snow”; “she did not seem to see your face, but the back of your mind”; “so assured that I felt shy and clumsy.” As these phrases come from such men as Conrad Aiken, Frank Swinnerton and H. M. Tomlinson they cannot be dismissed as mere hysteria. Katherine Mansfield had a crystalline quality, difficult to define, but surely the source of the elusive and inimitable charm of her work.
Her stories, particularly I think the New Zealand stories, are extraordinarily vivid. The compositor who set up “Prelude” was forced into the exclamation: “Gosh, those kids are real!” You have, as a French critic has pointed out, the illusion of hearing K.M. actually speak. You feel that you are living amongst the people described and that you know them intimately and in detail. Yet when you read the story again it is difficult to ascertain the source of your knowledge. Katherine Mansfield wrote between the lines. “In all her stories,” says J. B. Priestley, “you may say the air tingles. She was one of the few writers of our time who made life seem as rich, exciting and significant at every turn as it does in one's best moments.” Edith Sitwell wrote: “Katherine Mansfield's style is pellucid beyond measure—like a clear shallow water through which you can see something shining and lovely, impalpable and beyond your reach.”
Professor Sewell has shown how she has wrought a new texture out of English words. “Nowhere else in English prose narrative, I would almost say in English prose, is the veil of words so rare, so translucent. Nowhere is the subtle play of feeling in the lives of children and children grown-up—nowhere is the troubled inwardness of life more directly, more purely conveyed.” She has in fact introduced a greater poetic content into English prose and already I think this has influenced our literature. H. W. Massingham, writing in the “Nation” at the time of K.M.'s death, remarked that her “spiritual excellence lay in the reflective power of a mind that caught up a thousand rays of revealed or half-revealed consciousness, and gave them out again in a serene order and a most delicate pattern.”
A most discerning French critic, whose love and pity for Katherine Mansfield shine through all that he has written about her, pays this tribute: “She gave forth a music, which, scarcely heard, could never be confused with any other. She was so dauntless, so young and so perfect, with the charm and radiance of rare but natural flowers. She was woman from head to foot, woman to the ends of her finger-nails, filled with a tepid sensuousness, and at the same time with a fastidiousness, an adorable feminine purity, without ever once allowing herself to be mixed up with those moral problems, those questions of marriage and of education, which in England fascinate so many writers in skirts, so much so that most of them use their novels to quarrel with life and to take on it revenge for disappointments of their own.”
Quotations of this sort could be multiplied. Those I have used are intended to indicate the esteem in which Katherine Mansfield is held elsewhere in the world and to quicken appreciation in her own country. On the Continent of Europe many people must have come to picture New Zealand from her books. It has not always been realised that these stories were written as a sacred debt due to her brother and that in them she tended to idealise the land of her youth. This at any rate is a Continental impression of New Zealand, written by a critic of her work: “It was one of those islands, a happy island, golden, bathed in a sea of mother-of-pearl, where life flowed on, infinite; an island such as one believed could not exist but in a dream, which however she had seen, whose sands she had touched, whose perfume she had breathed. The prodigal child had returned to her native land, on the wings of a dream and with dazzled eyes.”
One cannot write an article of this
(Photo, Thelma R.)
On the road to the Lewis Pass (Westland side), South Island, New Zealand.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The ferny entrance to “Aladdin's Cave,” in the Orakel—Korako thermal region, North Island, New Zealand.
Thomas Moult, an English critic, writes of a visit to her in 1918: “Katherine Mansfield's sleeping-room was next to mine, and each morning at the same hour—how I came to dread it for her sake—the woeful sound of coughing, body-racking and relentlessly prolonged, would pierce the walls—and the hearts of those that heard it. Later in the day, though, she showed such sparkling gaiety downstairs, that anyone who had not listened to that coughing must have been utterly deceived and reassured about her.” Compare what she herself wrote in her Journal in the same year. “The man in the room next to mine has the same complaint as I. When I wake in the night I hear him turning. And then he coughs. And I cough. And after a silence I cough. And he coughs again. This goes on for a long time. Until I feel we are like two roosters calling to each other at false dawn. From far-away farms.” Thus indeed does a sense of humour reinforce courage.
Vain it may be, human it is to speculate as to the work she might have produced, had she lived to blossom into her full maturity. We know that at the end she was dissatisfied with all that she had written. She had said that there was nothing she dared show to God. Appropriately, A. R. Orage, the man who had introduced her to the English public, was with her at Fontainebleau at the last. He has written of a conversation with her on this subject from which I choose an extract:
(Photo. courtesy French Railways—National Tourist Office)
One of the famous Chateaux (Amboise) in the beautiful Valley of the Loire, France.
May she sleep sound in that quiet old forest cemetery at Avon, near Fontainebleau. I cannot think she frets that this should be her last resting-place, for around her are the trees she loved so well, and the birds singing their little unfinished songs. Not far away her beloved brother lies in the same French soil. She is amongst a people who love and admire her, who claim her as one of their own. “I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower, safety.” Words she had loved and lived by make a fitting epitaph. Perhaps at last she has found the flower. Perhaps, too, as Louis Gillet suggests: “if there is in Paradise a little corner for consumptives, it is there she is, near the poets that she loved, near Keats, near her dear Tchekov, immortal group of ephemerals. Chopin makes music for them. Watteau prepares the dress for Venus. But that corner assuredly exists. It is in our hearts.”
* * *
* * *
* * *
“A spurt of flame, and Wynder's revolver dropped to the ground. He caught at his wrist with his other hand.”
The names of people in this story are wholly imaginary, though the incidents referring to some of the employees as being refugees from the Law are true. In the early days the remoteness of some of the mills made it quite possible for “wanteds” to hide in seclusion for many months.
(Concluded.)
Wednesday night came, and, as usual, Wynder excused himself. Lynn was not long in following as far as the garden gate, which he opened quietly. He could just discern a figure walking in the shadow of the bush, making towards the tram line. After following the direction taken by Wynder (Lynn was sure it was he) he slipped into the bush and made a half circle to the head of the tram line. Lynn judged he was six to eight yards from the place where he had heard indistinct voices a few nights before. In a short while, a low whistle, followed by another, was heard. Occasionally a few words were audible such as “swag,” “gate,” “bridge,” and finally, “to-morrow night, leave under cover, go straight on to bridge, wait for me, and tell Holt not to forget the timber.”
“Good-night!”
“Good-night Colonel!”
Lynn waited until they got well away and then returned to the house. He was not wrong in his calculations. Wynder was no less than the escaped Colonel, and Higgins and Holt were the two “wanted” burglars. From all accounts there were capital charges against two of them. If this were true, what sort of fight would they put up? “It's quite believable,” he thought, “that Holt means to start a fire to divert attention.”
When Lynn reached the gate, on his return, Cushla met him.
“Where have you been? A nice way to leave your best girl when you are going away for a whole day to-morrow.”
“Not so loud, sweetheart. Walls, hedges, and everything have ears.” He put his arms around her slender waist and drew her to him.
“Give me a good-night kiss, Lynn, and mind you look after yourself tomorrow. Although in reality you are going with Dad as far as the tram
“Yes, dear. Nobody is to know I'm going with Martin, except your Dad and Mr. Jasper, and, of course, my sweetheart.”
With that they went inside. Mr. Hawkins looked up as they entered and gave them a smile. Jasper also looked up from his book and wagged his head solemnly.
* * *
The following morning Lynn met the car at the outside gate. None had seen him, and Martin was more than relieved when he picked up his passenger.
“It's pretty decent of you, Mr. Kingswell, for from what you have told me it looks like a brush all right to-night.”
“This is the place I think they intend for the hold-up,” said Lynn, as Martin eased up to negotiate the bridge. “Wynder mentioned ‘bridge’ last night, and they wouldn't have time to get any further. They can't leave until after tea, and it would take them two hours to reach here. It will be about 8.30 when we get back to this promising spot.”
“How are you going to work it, Mr. Kingswell?”
“By lying low in the back of the car till you're challenged. Bad as they may be, they won't shoot unless you show fight. You'll have to throw up your hands and then I'll get busy, but shall not shoot to kill, unless it is absolutely necessary.”
Everything went on at the mill as usual. Jasper tried hard to keep unconcerned. He was wishing 6 o'clock would come, and after that there were still three or four hours before he could jump on his horse and hasten to meet Lynn and Martin.
“Whatever you do, Jasper, don't be seen on the road. Our friends will be pretty watchful,” were Lynn's last words.
Dinner went off as usual, after which Wynder said he was going for a ride. He would have a heavy day to-morrow and some fresh air would do him good. Nothing was said until some time after he had departed.
Cushla could contain herself no longer.
“Mr. Jasper, please go to Mr. Wynder's room and see if anything is left.”
“Why on earth—Miss Cushla?”
“Because he would leave everything if he intended to come back.”
Eight o'clock had just struck. Jasper went to Wynder's room. There was a small suitcase which was empty. “That settles it. I'll ask Desmond to put two more hands on to guard the mill.”
He met Desmond on his way to the house.
“Mr. Jasper,” he cried. “Higgins and Holt have just left. Their shack is empty.”
“I thought so,” replied Jasper. “By Jove! what's that glare?” They have started a fire at the northern end. Get all hands quickly. I'll slip along and ring the bell.”
Having seen the glare, Mr. Kay and Hawkins made straight for the mill, and got the two powerful pumps working. As soon as Jasper had heard the alarm, he sought out Miss Cushla, who was standing on the verandah.
“If I could do anything I wouldn't be here, Mr. Jasper.”
“I have just come to tell you the fire can't spread. It may burn a few thousand feet, but by this time there is a full head of water and luckily it's the wet timber corner, so don't worry on that score.”
“It's not the timber, Mr. Jasper. It's Lynn. He may be killed,” and Cushla tried to choke back her tears.
“I can't wait now. I promised Lynn I would leave about half-past eight to meet them, so I must go. I don't want to be there at the finish, but at the start.”
“God bless you, and take care of you, Mr. Jasper.”
Without saying another word Jasper strode away, found his horse, and
* * *
Wynder and Higgins had concealed themselves in the scrub, one on either side of the road, and Holt some fifty yards away, towards the mill. They had heard the sound of the car coming in the distance, and in a short while the lights flashed out of the gloom.
The car slowed down as it approached the bridge.
“Careful now, Martin. It's here we're going to have the fun, if we are going to have any,” said Lynn. from the back. “If demanded, put your hands up immediately.”
Lynn had no sooner spoken when two masked figures appeared at each side of the car.
“Hands up! Quick now!”
The car was brought to a standstill. Up shot Martin's hands.
“Do as you're told and you won't be hurt,” said the man on the driver's side.
“Come out now, and keep your hands well up. Here, mate, come and lend a hand to tie up this accommodating gentleman. Take him into the light. Don't move, Martin, else I'll drill you.”
Lynn, so far, had no chance to fire, but the opportunity came as Wynder stepped back, covering Martin. A spurt of flame, and Wynder's revolver dropped to the ground. He caught at his wrist with his other hand.
Martin, taking advantage of the sudden diversion, swung a blow with all his force into Higgins' face. Higgins simultaneously fired his revolver, the bullet tearing a fleshy part of Martin's arm. Higgins staggered backwards. In a moment Lynn wrenched the revolver from his hand. Wynder, though suffering agonies, was groping for his gun with his good hand. When Martin realised his intention he kicked the revolver into the drain. Wynder then turned to make for the bush, but a voice from just outside the radius of light checked him. There was no uncertainty about it.
“Halt! Face round, else you'll go to Kingdom Come, you ungrateful hound,” and Jasper came on the scene.
“Any rope in the car, Mr. Lynn?”
“Yes,”
“You can get it for me, Martin.”
“Right!”
“Wounded, eh?”
“Well, just let me fix this miserable fellow and I'll see what I can do.”
Lynn, in the meantime, was similarly occupied with Higgins.
“Better put a tourniquet on Wynder's arm else he will bleed to death, and that would cheat the law.”
Wynder said nothing. He was ghastly white and could hardly stand. Martin had sat down on the running board. Lynn ripped open the sleeve of his coat which was saturated with blood, took off his own shirt, and tore it in strips, and with Jasper's assistance bound the arm. The wound was not deep, but reached from the elbow up to the shoulder.
“We'll find Holt along the road a bit,” said Jasper. “I laid him out with the butt of the revolver. He was evidently stationed on the road to cut off retreat, and to endeavour to check any advance. He will be coming-to now, so I think I'll look after him until you come along. Can you manage, Mr. Lynn?”
“Yes, quite all right. Now you two, get into the car. No funny business, else I'll hand you over to the crowd when we arrive back.”
Wynder and Higgins, with Lynn's help, got into the car. Martin got in beside them, his uninjured hand gripping the revolver. Lynn took the wheel. They soon came up with Jasper and Holt, the latter sitting on the side of the road in a dazed condition.
“Can you take this fellow in the car, or will I put him on the horse?”
“Put him in somewhere. Tie his arms well,” said Lynn with little ceremony.
Holt was bound and pushed in with his two accomplices, Jasper following behind.
A short way further on they were met by Mr. Kay, Hawkins and Desmond. As soon as the fire had been extinguished they jumped on to the horses which were ready waiting for them, and proceeded at a fast pace along the road.
“Here they come! They must be all right or the car wouldn't be heading this way,” said Desmond.
A few moments later the car pulled up.
“All right, Lynn?” asked Mr. Kay.
“Yes, but Martin is wounded.”
“What happened?”
“Strike a match and look inside, Mr. Kay.”
Mr. Kay did so.
“What a trio—and Wynder of all people. Wounded, too. By Jove! Lynn, you have done well.”
“You have to thank Jasper and Martin. I laid low. Martin bore the brunt. We had better get along with our cargo,” and the car proceeded.
They met Cushla at the gate.
“Are you all right, Lynn,” she enquired anxiously.
“Yes, dear, and as happy as Larry.”
“We had better take Martin straight to the house. Miss Cushla will be along presently and will look after him,” said Lynn.
“I don't know what to do with the prisoners—better wait until Mr. Kay comes. The men won't treat them too well.”
There were quite a number making for the car already. They had not heard full details of the capture and were now clamouring for information.
Lynn turned to Mr. Kay. “You had better speak to the men and tell them they mustn't use any violence, but to help guard against any escape, and to-morrow they will be taken to town and handed over to the police.”
Mr. Kay told the men, and added that they—the prisoners—had already been knocked about a good deal. Mr. Jasper, a little later, would go down and dress their wounds. He concluded
The men gave three cheers for Mr. Kay, and for Kingswell, Martin and Jasper. Lynn then drove the car down to the quarters of Higgins and Holt, and the three captives were handed in without obstruction from the men, though the latter crowded round and did not hesitate to express their opinion of the prisoners.
Lynn called for volunteers—“Men who can handle a revolver”—to take turn about to guard the shack.
About double the number needed came forward, and eight were selected. Each was handed a weapon which depleted the whole store of small arms.
“I can't figure yet how Lynn worked it out,” said Mr. Kay.
“It was not so hard,” replied Lynn. I followed Wynder last night and overheard the arrangement. I had to play foxy in the back of the car, otherwise seeing two, our friends would have opened fire. I didn't think for one moment that if Martin threw his hands up they would shoot him, so I waited my chance to engage one of them, knowing that the diversion would give Martin a chance with the other. As Higgins fell he pulled the trigger, and Martin was shot in the arm. With Wynder crippled, and Higgins on his back, coupled with the timely arrival of Jasper, we had it all our own way.”
Cushla ran out and met Lynn. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Oh, Lynn, how thankful I am you are safe and sound.”
“How is Martin?” asked Lynn.
“He is quite all right. I have washed the wound and bound it with lint, and he is sitting in the dining-room,” answered Cushla. “Where is Mr. Jasper, Lynn?”
“He has gone down to dress Wynder's wrist. It must be awfully painful. I had better run down to him, the poor beggar can't remain all night tied up. And I completely forgot to search them.”
After relieving Higgins and Holt of their pocket knives and sheath knives, and handing the articles to the men outside, Lynn asked them would they make no attempt to escape if he unbound them.
“I might tell you, you have not a chance in the world to escape, as there are armed guards round your shack. We are taking no chances, Higgins.”
The men were unbound and immediately worked away at themselves to dispel the stiffness. Lynn did not have any trust in the two, and kept a wary eye on them as he endeavoured to help Jasper, who might otherwise have gone down in a heap, as the two rushed him. Springing to one side, he dealt Higgins a blow on the jaw which knocked him over. Holt, cowed, went and sat down on the bunk.
“You are a pair of fools,” said Wynder. “You are only making it harder for all of us.”
Lynn jerked Higgins to his feet.
“Now, do you want any more? The best thing I can do with you is to put the handcuffs on. Hold your hands out, and if there is any more trouble with you, I'll tie you up to the wall.”
“I'll make your bed for you, Wynder,” said Jasper, after he had dressed his wound and put his arm in a sling. “What I can't understand about you, Wynder,” he went on, “is that you went back on the best boss that ever a man had. For three months you have been treated as one of the house-hold, and all the while you were planning this robbery, and to make matters worse you associated yourself with a pair of blackguards like those two.”
Wynder did not reply.
There was great excitement when next morning, accompanied by Jasper, Lynn started off with the three prisoners. They were put in the back and handcuffed to one another. Jasper, armed, sat in front with Lynn. A fair-sized mirror was suspended over part of the wind screen and any movement on the part of the prisoners could thus be seen immediately.
They arrived at their destination and the highwaymen were handed over to the authorities. So ended an affair that might have easily cost the lives of two or three people.
The return journey was accomplished without mishap. Needless to add Cushla was on the look-out for their safe return.
Very little was said during dinner that evening. The thought that they had employed a man who had taken a part in their conversation and pleasures as one of themselves—who, to all intents and appearances, behaved like a gentleman, had all the time been a hardened criminal awaiting his opportunity to rob and even kill, if necessary, had naturally the effect of subduing any hilarious tendency on the part of the diners.
Mr. Kay thanked Jasper for what he had done and a cheque for £25 was awaiting him on his office table.
“I can't say much more at the moment—only this, Lynn, that the day you marry my daughter, a partnership in the business is yours.”
“What do you think of that, Cushla?” said Lynn.
“After all, young man,” said Mr. Kay, with a twinkle in his eye, “although I engaged these men who turned out to be desperate characters, I did not repeat the mistake with your engagement. That was justified. Don't you think so, Cushla?
The End.
Bober River Bridge, near Grunberg, German National Railways.
Awonderfully successful summer holiday season has been experienced by the Home railways. Hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Empire Exhibition at Glasgow have been transported by the four group lines; the impressive Military Tattoo at Aldershot—now an outstanding annual event—called for the running of no fewer than 206 special trains; while to Home and continental holiday resorts there has been an exceptionally heavy passenger movement.
Enterprising excursion ideas by the score have, this season, been evolved by the railways, most of these aiming at popularising long-distance travel by rail, road and steamer. Taking advantage of cheap excursion fares, London's millions have been able to travel by day and half-day excursion trains to all corners of the country at trifling cost. Countryside outings by combined rail and road, and rail, road and river-steamer services have been a feature. These outings have varied from a conducted tour through Windsor Castle, with tea on a Thames river-steamer en route to Magna Charta Island, to organised rambles through the New Forest, and day trips by rail and road through the Shakespeare Country, the Peak District, Lincolnshire and Suffolk. Educational excursions have been well patronised, as, for example, half-day trips to Bath with a conducted tour of the Roman baths, an attractive motor-coach tour of the surrounding countryside (with tea provided), all for an inclusive fare of 11/3 from London.
The distance which it is possible to cover by special day trips is increasing enormously. Thus, this season special excursions have been run from London to Oban, in Scotland, for steamer cruises to the islands of Staffa and Iona, 1,100 miles being covered between Friday evening and Sunday morning at a cost of less than £2. Excursions to the continent have drawn thousands of passengers of all ages. Here are a few examples of the good fare offered this season: An excursion from London to Rouen, France, including a tour of the surrounding country, and giving 22 hours in France for 25s. A trip from London to Brussels, covering travel, three meals, and a conducted tour of the city, for 30s. Sixteen hours on the Belgian coast for 27s. Id. Seventeen hours in Holland for 57s. 7d. Truly, the railways have opened up a new world of adventure for the excursionist!
Railway travel is made so much more interesting nowadays in a hundred and one ways. Look at the development of locomotive naming, for example, a practice which has grown steadily through the years, and one which has a great deal to commend it. Last year no fewer than 160 Home railway locomotives were given distinctive names, and during the past few weeks fresh christening ceremonies have been going on throughout the country. Ten new L. M. & S. engines of the “Princess Coronation” class, being built at Crewe, are to be named after the Duchesses of Gloucester, Norfolk, Devonshire, Rutland, Hamilton, Buccleuch, Atholl, Montrose, Sutherland and Abercorn. Five of these locomotives are of orthodox appearance, and the other five are streamlined like the “Coronation” and “Queen Elizabeth” engines. Four locomotives of the “Patriot” class have very appropriately been named after famous Army regiments.