When I told the man of our plight he got a rope from underneath his wagon, and flung me an end of it with directions to make it fast to the axle, if possible. I retained sufficient of my school gymnastics to accomplish this difficult feat without falling into the mud beneath, or breaking my neck, and as soon as I had done so the bullock-driver, with fiendish objurgations to the team that sounded like angels’ music in my ears, commanded the bullocks to ‘haulaway.’ Nothing could have resisted the tremendous pull that followed, more sustained and powerful than that of any horse team, and presently we began to move backwards towards terra firma—to the great astonishment of Mr. Baker’s horse, who, I fancy, would have been content to remain in the mire till death overtook him. Soon we were on dry land, grasping our rescuer’s hand.
He was, it appeared, a timber-getter, on his way to Matetanei with a load of kauri for shipment to the timber mills at Auckland. He readily undertook to convey the mud-plastered ‘Good Gift,’ and the ’rikisha, behind his wagon to the town while we walked ahead, for I was determined not to trust my companion, or myself, to the caprices of that malevolent horse again. Before we started on our way I asked the man the depth of the morass from which he had just extricated us.
“Sorra one of them knows,” replied the honest fellow, scratching his whiskers thoughtfully. “Some says two feet, and some says forty-two.”
The first person Miss Laurie and I saw when we got back to the hotel was Mr. Baker, seated underneath the front verandah with a glass of shandy-gaff at his side and a pipe in his mouth, enjoying the cool of the evening before tea. He heard my indignant story with amazement, but when I suggested that he should immediately take steps to have his horse destroyed, he turned his sound eye on me in reproof and reproach.
“What!” he exclaimed. “You ask me to destroy that wonderful animal just after he has given you such a striking proof of his almost human intelligence? May God forgive you for your words!”
“I’m hanged if I see where the intelligence came in,” I retorted angrily, for I thought he was trying to make a joke of our accident.
“That’s because you’re new to the show business,” he replied pityingly. “That horse belonged to a man who earned his living by showing moving pictures in a tent, and the animal has become so accustomed to his late owner’s invariable practice of erecting the tent on vacant pieces of ground that he now pulls on to all the level greens of his own accord, so as to obviate the possibility of his master missing a good pitch. Destroy him? After what you have told me I wouldn’t take a thousand pounds for that horse if it were counted out into my hand at this moment! He’s an ornament to the profession.”
Doubtless he is, but he is too powerful a performer ever to act under my management again,
Yours ever,
VAL.
XI
WANAUNGA,
BAY OF PLENTY,
NORTH ISLAND, N.Z.
3rd April, 1913.
MY DEAR DICK:
For some reason that I have been unable to discover, all New Zealand elections are fought over the liquor question. The New Zealand temperance party have a theory that if hotels are abolished by Act of Parliament happiness will return to humanity, while the liquor trade advocates believe that we need to swallow down large daily quantities of beer to enable us to keep up our spirits in this vale of tears. The two factions have forced the Government to put their rival theories to the test at every general election, by making the electors decide whether they will continue to drink strong liquor, go without, or walk a mile for their beer. These three issues are set forth on the ballot papers as ‘Continuance,’ ‘No License,’ and ‘Reduction,’ and the people vote for the application of one of the three to each constituency once every three years, which is when a general election takes place in this country. Both sides display an amusing anxiety about the result considering the smallness of the point involved, but it must be remembered that immediately one election is over the rival factions set to work to create interest in the next one by cursing each other publicly for three long years; furthermore, the New Zealanders have that capacity for taking small things seriously which is the peculiarity of all small immature communities. But who am I, to dogmatise in this superior fashion, because the true inwardness of this question has not been revealed to me? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, and, for all I know, man’s inscrutable destiny may, in some inexplicable way, which it would not be wise for us to know now, be determined by whether he drinks water or beer with his dinner. Do not vegetarians believe that the riddle of the universe may be solved by a diet of split peas and filtered water? It is not for me to tread with such lofty spirits the paths that lead to these mysteries, for behold, I know not anything—as the gentleman in Tennyson’s beautiful poem remarks—except how to run the Merry Marauders through the New Zealand ‘smalls’ without leaving a horde of infuriated landlords in our wake, and the fullness of that mundane occupation leaves me little time for higher things at present.
I have given this outline of the temperance movement in New Zealand because Wanaunga, which we reached last night, is the centre of the by-election struggle and the head-quarters of both Parliamentary candidates. It is here we hope to produce the celebrated temperance drama of Ten Nights in a Bar Room for a fortnight on end to crowded houses—right up to election day, in fact—so prominent is the liquor question in the forthcoming poll. The No-License party, as the temperance reformers are called, think it will greatly strengthen their demand for total prohibition throughout New Zealand if they can return a ‘dry’ candidate for a constituency which hitherto has always voted ‘wet,’ at the local option polls, and the liquor trade are working with untiring energy to prevent the threatened drought. They have the more to fear now they know that the Merry Marauders Dramatic Company are temporarily allied with the Wanaunga No-License Party to secure the triumph of temperance by the production of Ten Nights in a Bar Room in this town, and that the son of the President of the party is to play an important part in that sternly moral drama.
This all came about very simply. Shortly after we arrived here the landlord came up to my room and asked me in an agitated voice to receive, in the privacy of my own room, two visitors who were waiting to see me below, as it would do his reputation considerable tharm if it became known that two of the ‘water brigade’ had been in his hotel. Without stopping to explain his meaning, the hotel-keeper, whose inflamed countenance seemed rather to call for a fire-brigade, disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but in another moment I heard him panting heavily up the stairs again. He waddled into my room escorting an elderly man and a young one, and without waiting to introduce them, withdrew with all possible speed.
I begged my visitors to be seated, and endeavoured to repair the hotelkeeper’s uncouthness by politely enquiring whom I had the honour of receiving. By way of reply, the elder man handed me two cards on which were inscribed:
I felt safe in expressing my pleasure at being honoured with a visit from a father and son who had done so much for the temperance cause in New Zealand, but the pair received this compliment very coldly. Mr. Adam Baggpott, who was a tall man with a long nose, a forked grey beard, and an expression of habitual virtue, briefly asked, in a faint voice, whether he was in the presence of the manager of the Merry Marauders theatrical company.
Having received an assurance on that head, he continued, in the same faint tone:
“Bear with me, friend, for a moment. I have never been in an hotel before in my life, and such close proximity with the drink fiend unnerves me to the inmost fibre of my being! A glass of that water, sir! Thanks. I feel better. And now to explain the object of our visit. I see by your playbills that it is your intention to enact Ten Nights in a Bar Room in this town?”
“Such is our present intention,” I replied.
“Then do not allow yourself to be put off it by the hired ruffians of the drink traffic who infest this town,” he said in a platform voice. “
Myself and my son, as representing the two great temperance organisations of this town—numbering in their ranks, I may say, all the right-thinking people of Wanaunga—have voluntarily come to offer you the powerful support of these two great organisations, provided you agree to one or two small conditions.”
Here was a stroke of luck for the Merry Marauders! The thing we thought we would have to scheme to bring about was ours for the asking. I eagerly waited for Mr. Baggpott to states his conditions. He first unfolded a tattered and torn bill from his pocket, and straightened out what remained of it carefully on his knee.
“We have already played Ten Nights in a Bar Room in this town,” he said solemnly. “The earnest Christian young men and women of the Young Water Wagonites Bond combined together to recite it as a moral lesson for the people of Wanaunga on the eve of the last general election, three years ago, and as a result we lost ‘No License’ here by only 34 votes! And this is how we brought the moral lesson home to the electors.”
He handed the bill to me, and I read:
MEN AND WOMEN ELECTORS OF WANAUNGA!
When You Go to the Poll To-morrow
STRIKE OUT THE TOP LINES!!!
And Vote thus:
I vote that the existing number of licences in Wanounga continue.
I vote that the existing number of licences in Wanounga be reduced.
I vote for No License.
STRIKE OUT THE TWO TOP LINES AND LEAVE IN THE BOTTOM LINE ONLY!!!
And to strengthen you in that good resolution go to-night to the
Wanaunga Town Hall and see the powerful temperance drama:
TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM!!!
TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM!!!
TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR ROOM!!!
Produced by
THE BROTHERS AND SISTERS OF THE YOUNG
WATER WAGONITES BOND.
Prices, 3/-, 2/-, 1/-. DO NOT MISS THIS MORAL TREAT!
IT WILL HELP YOU TO DO YOUR DUTY TO-MORROW
When New Zealand expects you
TO STRIKE OUT THE TOP LINES!
“The local option question is not submitted to the electors at a by-election, unfortunately,” said Mr. Adam Baggpott, as I handed back his bill, “but we want you to get out fresh bills and print at the top our appeal on behalf of the temperance candidate. That is the first condition of our support.”
“Fresh bills will be a bit expensive,” I demurred. “Will you pay the cost?”
“Certainly not,” he replied, with unexpected firmness. “You will gain a lot from our support.”
This was true enough, though I had not expected to find such keen business acumen in one whose life was devoted to good works. I turned his condition over in my mind, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t agree to it. The Merry Marauders were not in the least concerned about the election, and if they could obtain a series of crowded houses by acting as aid to virtue’s cause, then virtue would be its own reward.
I therefore waived the question of cost and assented to the first condition, only stipulating that the ‘appeal’ to go at the head of the bills should be reasonably short. Mr. Adam Baggpott promised to let me have a proof in an hour’s time.
“My next condition,” he continued, “is that you shall give us an undertaking that your entertainment is conducted on strictly moral lines. As we propose to dispose of some tickets for you, we insist that the moneys so received must remain in our hands till after the first performance in order that we may judge for ourselves as to the propriety, or otherwise, of your entertainment. If it is improper you forfeit your money.”
“I shall certainly not agree to that condition,” I exclaimed. “It is unreasonable and ridiculous. You should surely know, if you have seen Ten Nights in a Bar Room, that it is a highly moral drama in which the drunkards all die horrible deaths in the last act, while the happy teetotalers rejoice in their dreadful end.”
“I am well aware of that, sir,” replied Mr. Baggpott, “if the noble drama is acted as its great author wrote it. But it is our unfortunate experience in this town that play-actors use these titles as a means to draw money from the virtuous, while privately passing the word round among the vulgar that their entertainment is something quite different. We had a painful experience of that kind of thing here a few months back. A travelling company staged a piece under the title of Jessica’s First Prayer. A large number of the right-thinking people of this town, myself included, patronised the entertainment under the belief that we were to be treated to an uplifting stage presentation of an elevating book. Judge of our surprise and horror when we found we had been inveigled into a low, vulgar entertainment of the music-hall class!”
“With girls in tights,” said Mr. Abel Baggpott, speaking for the first time. I looked at him with a start, for he spoke in a muffled voice that seemed to come from the depths of his being. He was a tall young man with a large white expressionless face, an enquiring nose, and remarkably small eyes. At that moment his face was suffused in blushes.
“With girls in tights,” repeated his father, with bitter emphasis. “I am proud to say, however, that my son was the first on his feet to lead a band of young Water Wagonites out of the hall to demand their money back.”
“Which we didn’t get,” said Abel.
“Which none of us got,” continued Mr. Adam Baggpott, still more emphatically. “The manager drew our attention to a line on the bills in small type—‘No money returned under any pretext whatever,’—and successfully defied us!”
I was so angry with the elder Baggpott for comparing a company of such debased level with the Merry Marauders that our negotiations were in danger of coming to a very abrupt termination. But when I happened to mention in the course of my indignant protest that the Merry Marauders had played East Lynne in a church schoolroom at the request of a clergyman, Mr. Baggpott interrupted me to say he was prepared to forego this condition.
“That alters the case entirely,” he said. “I do not know much about theatricals, and I confess I have always looked upon them as a profane and worldly class. I am glad to come into contact with such a company as yours, which exists for the worthy purpose of improving the public mind.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I said, not to be outdone in generosity. “Your son can come to our rehearsal of Ten Nights in a Bar Room to-morrow morning, and let me know if there is anything in our presentation of it that he objects to. As he has played in it himself he will be able to judge whether we convey its moral lesson in a reverential manner.”
“I’ll play the part of Mr. Romaine for you, if you like,” offered Mr. Abel Baggpott, with simple directness.
Here was another stroke of luck, as unexpected as the former. The ‘drawing’ power of the Worthy Chief Wagoner of the Young Water-Wagonites Bond in the part of the stock moralist of the play would be immense in a town where he was a prominent public man, and I cordially accepted his offer before his father, who appeared dubious, had time to interpose.
“If you feel called upon to make this sacrifice for the cause, Abel,” said Mr. Adam Baggpott, “it must be made very clear on the bills, my son, that you are doing it from the highest motives. Your public reputation must not suffer by your temporary association with professional theatricals, who are believed by most people to be very worldly.”
The more Mr. Abel Baggpot was starred in the bills as Wanaunga’s leading temperance apostle the better our prospect of good houses, so I cordially agreed to this suggestion.
“My next condition,” said Mr. Adam Baggpott, emphatically, “is that you and your company shall leave this hotel and put up at the excellent temperance establishment of Mr. Marrow’s down the street. It is not seemly that a company which is going to produce Ten Nights in a Bar Room, under the auspices of the two most powerful temperance organisations on the East Coast, during an election struggle in which all our forces are employed to thwart the drink evil, should themselves be living in one of the dens of infamy they will be publicly denouncing every night. The thing is ri
diculous and monstrous. Besides, why should the drink curse fatten and batten at our expense, when worthy Mr. Marrow has his house half empty, and would be glad of the money?”
It did seem incongruous. I was the readier to agree to change because the hotel was dirty, ill-kept, and comfortless. Mr. Baggpott painted a glowing picture of the home comforts, not to say luxuries, of Mr. Marrow’s establishment, and said he would call in there on his way home to prepare the proprietor for our coming. He gave me lucid directions how to find the place and his own shop, for it seemed that Mr. Baggpott conducted a general store in the centre of the town, with the assistance of his son.
“Look out for the white flag over Marrow’s verandah,” he said, “with the motto, Good Accommodation for Man and Beast, but No Strong Liquor for Either. My shop is right opposite.”
There were no more conditions, so Mr. Baggpott said they would be going. Abel promised, at my desire, to attend the rehearsal of Ten Nights in a Bar Room in the hall the following morning, and then they departed, taking with them a bundle of tickets which they agreed to sell on account of the Merry Marauders, deducting ten per cent, for their trouble. This, of course, was merely a business arrangement and not an indirect payment for their temperance patronage. Their services in that cause were beyond price.
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