"How long have you been up?" I asked.
"Three or four hours," he replied. "You see, the flames were coming
over this way, and we all lent a hand to get it under."
"But, bless my soul," I said, "why on earth did you let me sleep on
here?"
"Oh, you were all right," he returned, airily. "We didn't want to
disturb you till the last minute. You've a long journey before you."
I knew that it was kindly meant, but at the time, at least, I did not
quite appreciate it. I had been a sort of unconscious Casabianca for
the best part of the night, and that "last minute" might have been a
very exciting one. Yes, Pahiatua is one of the places I shall _not_
easily forget.
I suppose one does get used to these little eccentricities of Nature.
I remember, when I visited far-away Thursday Island, the landlord
of the Grand Hotel, who had arranged a match for me, said in a
confidential aside to me just as I landed on the quay:--
"I don't think you will find the table very straight, Mr. Inman. We
had a bit of an earthquake here last night, which shook it up a bit!"
"That's nice, cheerful news," I said. "How often do you have
earthquakes?"
"Well, we're not so bad as some places," he answered. "They only
happen about three times a week!"
My stay at Thursday Island lasted exactly twenty-four hours; I am not
anxious to acquire an intimate knowledge of earthquakes. I brought
away with me as a souvenir a copy of what is proudly claimed to be
"the smallest newspaper in the world," the _Thursday Island Pilot_, a
facsimile of which is here reproduced. It is a single sheet, measuring
about fourteen inches by eight.
On one occasion I "put my foot in it" fairly. It happened in Southern
India, at a place where I was booked to play at the local club. The
journey took twelve hours by boat, and when I arrived I was told that
a gentleman was waiting for me. I thought that he was bound to be
the secretary of the club, who had arranged all details with me, and
chatted to him as we made our way towards the village.
Presently we passed a ramshackle-looking building, the walls of which,
as far as I could judge, were made out of empty biscuit-tins and
soap-boxes. It straggled over half an acre of ground, and troops of
hungry dogs were sniffing around it.
[Illustration: THE "THURSDAY ISLAND PILOT," WHICH IS BELIEVED TO BE
THE SMALLEST NEWSPAPER IN THE WORLD.]
I thought that I might venture on a little humour just to liven up the
conversation, so, pointing to the building, I said:--
"A cow shed, I suppose?"
He followed the direction of my outstretched finger, and a pained look
came into his eyes.
"That's the hotel you're going to stay at," he said.