For first cut 100 rupees.
Second cut 50 rupees.
Third cut 20 rupees.
Any subsequent cut 10 rupees.
Judging from the appearance of the cloth, I should think that
table must have been a veritable gold-mine to its proprietor, if he
collected all the fines. Evidently his motto was "Cut and come again."
[Illustration: "JEST PUTTIN' THINGS TO RIGHTS A BIT."]
While staying at Wellington, New Zealand, I was invited to play at the
Tararua Club, Pahiatua, some hundred and twenty miles away. I accepted
the offer and, assuming that my stay there would be very short, left
my wife at Wellington and travelled up to Pahiatua alone. I was met
at the station by a number of gentlemen, and, after the usual liquid
refreshment, went along to see the table on which I had to play. When
I entered the room I saw a long, thin man squatting cross-legged in
the centre of the table, stitching away at the cloth for all he was
worth. Somewhat surprised, I introduced myself, whereupon the man
explained that he was the local tailor, "jest puttin' things to rights
a bit" for me.
[Illustration: "A WILDLY-SPITTING, FURRY OBJECT SWUNG ACROSS THE
ROOM."]
[Illustration: THE TARARUA CLUB, PAHIATUA, N.Z., WHERE MR. INMAN MET
WITH SEVERAL AMUSING EXPERIENCES.
_From a Photograph._
]
The table itself wasn't at all bad, but when I looked at it closely
I noticed that the billiard spot (the black spot on the table which
indicates where the red ball is usually placed) was at least three
inches too far to one side.
I had become fairly hardened to trying conditions by this time, but
to attempt to play with the red ball inches out of its recognised
position was more than I dared do.
"What's the matter with that spot?" I asked. "It isn't right, is it?"
The man of the needle slued around on the cloth and squinted at the
spot.
"Seems sorter crooked," he agreed, slowly; "but the fac' of the
matter is that we change the position of that yere spot once a week.
Otherwise it'd work a hole in the cloth!"
That beat me. I fled for the hotel and sought out the gentleman who
had invited me to come there. He listened to my tale of woe and then,
asking me to wait for a moment, disappeared.
I don't know whether they balloted or not, but the spot was moved into
its right place, and the situation--so far as I was concerned--saved.
I had been told when I arrived there that, although there were no
passenger trains from Pahiatua to Wellington at that hour of the
night, I should still be able to get to Wellington when the game was
over, as a goods train, known locally as the "Wild Cat," stopped at
Pahiatua some time about midnight on its way down-country.
When the game was over, however, and I got back to the hotel, I found
that the "Wild Cat" was a very doubtful kind of train and only stopped
at Pahiatua when it thought it would! This particular night, it soon
appeared, was one of its "off" nights--it never showed up at the
station at all!
[Illustration: "THE 'UMAN RACE STARTED FROM MONKEYS--AND DON'T YOU
FORGET IT!"]
Everybody was very kind to me and made me as comfortable as possible.
While I sat in the bar, waiting for the train which never came, I
noticed in a corner a couple of men with their heads together, talking
very earnestly. One of them was an old squatter, the other an obvious
new-comer, and their argument seemed so heated and absorbing that I
gradually edged my way along the seat towards them to try and hear
what it was they found so engrossing.
I half expected it would be sheep, or land values, or old-age
pensions, but when I came within hearing distance the squatter was
saying:--
"I tell you, sonny, the 'uman race started from monkeys--and don't you
forget it!"
Darwin's theory in the back-blocks of New Zealand! I went straight to
bed after that. To run up against a philosophical tailor, a movable
billiard spot, a train with ideas of its own, _and_ Darwin's theory,
all in the same afternoon, was putting too severe a strain on a mere
perambulating billiardist.
Even then, however, I had not finished with Pahiatua. In the small
hours of the morning I awoke and saw that the room was filled with
a dense, pungent mist. It would clear away for a moment, and the
daylight would filter into the room; then down would come the fog, and
the same peculiar smell would rise to my nostrils again. I lay still,
watching this peculiar phenomenon for some time. I had seen so many
strange things happen in the country that I accepted this as another
of them.
Presently I heard heavy footsteps crossing my room.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Only me, Mr. Inman," answered the voice of one of my friends of the
previous night. "I've just come along to tell you not to be scared.
The fire is nearly out."
[Illustration: "FIRE! I JUMPED FROM THE BED AND RACED TO THE WINDOW."]
Fire! I jumped from the bed and raced to the window. Immediately
opposite the hotel I saw a huge pile of blackened wood, from
which thick clouds of smoke were slowly curling. The mournful heap
represented all that was left of a huge store, whose proprietor I had
met and chatted with some eight hours before.
[Illustration: THE GRAND HOTEL, THURSDAY ISLAND, WHERE THEY HAVE
EARTHQUAKES "ONLY ABOUT THREE TIMES A WEEK!"
_From a Photograph._
]