AUSTRALIAN EXPERIENCES
Eastward bound on the _Ortona_--Dinners and diners--Spoofing a
chief steward--A brush with the master-of-Arms--“Queering” a
poker game--Trouble in the smoke-room--We plan revenge--And
execute it--Potatoes as ammunition--The cold water cure--The
Captain sends for me--I decline to go--Trouble brewing--I run
my head into the lion’s mouth--And am frog-marched before the
captain--A stormy interview--I am threatened to be put in irons
--All’s well that ends well--A benefit performance at sea--
Arrival in Melbourne--A tale of two champions--Rabbit-shooting
extraordinary--I bag a laughing jackass--And am hauled before
the “beak”--Fined ten shillings and costs--I am glad at having
“got the bird”--The “interfering parrot.”
Of all my professional engagements outside the United Kingdom I look
back upon the days I spent amongst our Australian kinsmen with the
greatest pleasure and satisfaction.
I went out on the Orient liner _Ortona_, and my eldest child, a girl,
was born while I was upon the voyage, so I had her christened Ortona.
At Colombo the boat was surrounded by divers, who dived for silver
coins thrown into the water by the passengers, and very quick and
clever at it, too, some of them were.
Finally a one-armed chap offered to dive right under the bottom of the
vessel, going in on one side and coming up on the other, for a shilling.
“All right!” we said. In he went, and we all ran over to the other side
to see him come up.
Greatly to our surprise there were about twenty one-armed natives
there, all treading water, and each calling out loudly that he had done
the trick and demanding to be paid.
For a few moments we were utterly at a loss. Then the real one-armed
chap bobbed up, and the rest swam away, using both arms.
They had been holding one arm behind them, and in the water, against
their black skins, it was invisible to us.
On the Orient boats, both the first and second-class passengers dined
_à la carte_, a gastronomic system the advantages of which have always
appealed to me. I returned by the P. & O. liner _Moldavia_, and on
these boats, so far as regards the second-class passengers at all
events, we dined on the table d’hôte principle. This entailed a good
deal of waiting between the courses, while if one desired to miss, say,
the soup, or the fish course, there was more delay.
Some people are very quick eaters, some are very slow; and our pace at
dinner on the _Moldavia_ was set by the slowest amongst us. I, being a
quick eater, used to jib and fidget at this, and when we got to Colombo
I hit upon an expedient that resulted in my at least getting a little
bit of my own back.
I should have mentioned that at dinner the serving of each course was
ordered by the chief steward, a rather pompous and self-important
individual, who used to ring a small gong bell when everybody had
completely finished with, say, the soup course, as a signal to serve
the fish, and so on throughout the meal. Well, while I was on shore in
Colombo, I bought a small but very loud sounding gong bell, similar to
the one used by the chief steward, and when we went on board again I
fixed it underneath our table.
Most of us there were in the secret of the joke, and so no offence was
given, or any inconvenience caused to them, but I am very much afraid
that the diners at the other tables were at all events considerably
surprised when, half-way through the soup course, the bell suddenly
sounded, and the waiters began handing round the fish. Thereupon
confusion reigned supreme. The chief steward insisted that he hadn’t
rang the bell. The waiters insisted that he had, and bore one another
out. Shortly afterwards our bell sounded again, and at once the waiters
started on the third course, before some of the passengers had hardly
tasted their fish. Whereupon the chief steward seemed to go suddenly
stark, staring, raving mad, rushing from one group of waiters to the
other, storming, expostulating, threatening; while we guilty ones,
who were in the conspiracy, had hard work to prevent ourselves from
exploding with suppressed laughter.
I think it is Mark Twain, in his _Innocents Abroad_, who finds fault
with the self-assertiveness and bumptiousness that is so frequently
characteristic of a certain type of ship’s officer. I have noticed
the same thing myself. On the _Ortona_, for instance, on the way out,
I myself got into very hot water owing to my resenting what I chose
to regard as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence on the part of the
master-at-arms.
This individual is, of course, the chief of police on ship-board, and
is endowed with a considerable amount of authority, being answerable
to the captain only. Amongst his duties he has to see that the lights
are turned out in the public rooms at certain fixed hours, and to
this no one can reasonably take exception, provided it is done with a
due regard to the convenience of passengers and not in an offensive
or irritating manner. For, after all, passengers--even second-class
ones--have some rights on board ship. They pay their fares, and are
entitled to at least a modicum of courtesy and consideration.
The trouble on the _Ortona_ began in the smoke-room at ten o’clock
one night. A game of poker was in progress, and there was a “Jack
Pot” on the table with a considerable amount of money in it, when the
master-at-arms entered, and without saying so much as “By your leave,
gentlemen,” without in fact uttering a word, turned out the light,
leaving us in total darkness.
Naturally this made us mad, and as soon as he had gone, I got up and
switched the light on again. Whereupon the master-at-arms returned,
and, using a very foul expression, turned the light out for the second
time, and this time finally, locking the switch in such fashion that we
could not use it.
Amongst the second-class passengers were a score or so of hefty lads
going out to Australia to try their luck there, and they resented the
action of the ship’s officer as strongly as I did. Between us we made
up our minds to pay him out.
And we did. For several days and nights on end we made the poor man’s
life a misery to him. Going down the Red Sea the heat was terrific,
and everybody nearly--not even excluding the ladies--slept on deck;
although, of course, the fair sex were screened off. This was our
opportunity. The master-at-arms, going his rounds at night, used to
find himself lassooed by mysterious ropes that issued he knew not
whence, and vanished he knew not whither. Cords stretched taut across
gangways where no cords by rights ought to have been, tripped him
unawares. Once he was greeted with a fusillade of raw potatoes; big,
round, hard potatoes that bruised him black and blue.
Then, when we thought that possibly he had learnt his lesson, we let
up on him for a couple of days, and allowed him to see that we were
willing to call a truce, if he was. But no! He was as bumptious and as
disagreeable as ever; more so, in fact, and sought every opportunity he
could to annoy and molest us. So we held a cabinet council, and decided
unanimously that the situation called for a resumption of hostilities.
That afternoon, as luck would have it, I was walking on the afterpart
of the boat, when I spotted a partly open skylight, and peeping down
I saw our hated enemy lying below in his bunk fast asleep, his mouth
wide open and his face turned skywards. This I concluded was too good a
chance to be missed, so calling the others together I hastily informed
them of my discovery, and together we concerted a plan of action.
In a few minutes we knew that the bell would ring for tea, and that
then there would be nobody about on deck. This was our opportunity.
Twelve of us hurried below to our respective cabins, and returned with
a full glass of water apiece, carefully hidden about our clothing;
then, when the bell rang, we lifted the skylight and emptied all twelve
glasses simultaneously through the open space, and on to the sleeper
reposing peacefully below.
There followed a terrific spluttering and gurgling, and an angry roar
from the bunk. But we did not wait. Each man made a bee-line for his
cabin, and deposited the empty tumbler where it belonged, after which
we quietly filed into the tea-room and settled ourselves down at table
as if nothing had happened.
Somehow or other, however, the master-at-arms must have guessed that I
was the ringleader in the plot, for half an hour later I was approached
by one of the officers.
“Mr. Carlton,” he remarked, in quiet, matter-of-fact tones, “the
captain sends his compliments, and he wants to speak to you in his
cabin on the first-class upper deck.”
“Very kind of him I am sure to desire to make my acquaintance,” I
replied suavely. “But the desire is not reciprocated. Go and tell the
captain so.”
Another thirty minutes or so went by. Then the first officer,
accompanied by two others, marched up to me. “Mr. Carlton,” remarked
the spokesman of the deputation, “the captain desires to see you on the
first-class upper deck.”
“So I’ve heard,” I remarked in assumedly bored tones. “But I’ve already
explained that I don’t wish to see the captain. And anyhow, if he wants
to speak to me, I’m here. He knows where to find me. Let him come down
to me. Certainly I’m not going up to him.”
At this they began to turn nasty, explaining to me that the captain was
a magistrate on board his own ship, and that his expressed wishes must
be taken as being in the nature of commands, to be obeyed implicitly
and without question.
“Now are you coming, or are you not?” they concluded.
“No,” I repeated doggedly, “I’m not.”
“Then,” they said, “we shall have to use force, and take you.”
“Well,” I remarked, pointing to the others, who had by this time come
crowding round, “there are about twenty of us in it. If one goes, the
lot goes. You’ll have to carry us. It takes at least four men to
carry a resisting man against his will. That means that you will be
obliged to summon certainly not less than eighty sailors to do the job
properly. Meanwhile, I suppose, the navigation of the ship can go hang.”
They got angrier than ever at this, but judged it wiser, apparently,
to make no attempt to molest us, contenting themselves with going off
and reporting the matter to the captain. The rest of the day passed
uneventfully, somewhat to our surprise, and when the best part of the
following morning had elapsed without anything untoward happening, we
began to think that we had won hands down.
Towards midday, however, being by then lulled into a false sense of
security and completely off my guard, I went as usual to the barber’s
shop to get a shave. This necessitated my going down to the first-class
part of the ship, a fact of which the enemy was, of course, perfectly
well aware.
It was the opportunity they had been waiting for. I had hardly settled
myself comfortably in the chair, and the barber had just started to
lather me, when no fewer than four of the ship’s officers appeared at
the open door.
“When you’ve finished your shave, Mr. Carlton,” said their leader, “the
captain wishes to speak to you on the first-class upper deck.”
Now, thought I, they’ve got me, but at the same time I made up my mind
to stave off the evil moment as long as possible. If only one or two of
the others would take it into their heads to come down to the shop? But
no! Not a soul came near the place. And all the while the four stood
guard outside, completely cutting off my escape.
I had a shave. Then I had a hair cut and a shampoo. I had my nails
manicured. I bought shirts and collars, of which the barber kept an
assortment in stock for the convenience of passengers. I purchased
curios, and picture postcards, spending as much time as possible over
examining them and choosing them. But still nobody from our part of the
ship came down that way, and in the end I had to come out alone and
face the music.
“Well,” exclaimed the leader of the gang, as they closed round me, “are
you coming?”
“No, I’m not,” I replied; and as they made a grab for me, I threw
myself flat on the deck, and let out a yell like a hyena.
“Help! Help!” I shouted. “Help! Murder! Help!”
Instantly the ship was in an uproar. Passengers and sailors came
running from all directions. But the master-at-arms had taken up a
strategic position at the top of the staircase leading down from the
second-class part of the ship, and none of my friends were able to pass
him, and come to my assistance.
Single-handed, of course, I could do nothing. They frog-marched me up
on to the upper deck, and deposited me panting and perspiring before
the captain in his cabin.
I have never seen an angrier man than he was. He literally boiled over
with rage, and for ten minutes he told me off as hard as he could. In
the end, however, he was obliged to stop owing to want of breath.
Then it was my turn. I asked him how he dared to treat me in such a
manner? What had I done to deserve it?
“You know very well,” he shouted in reply. “You threw water over the
master-at-arms.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “You were not there.”
“Silence!” he roared. “I’ll have you put in irons.”
“How many sets of irons have you got?” I inquired.
“Oh! About six,” was his reply.
“You’ll want more than that,” I said. “There are about twenty of us
in it, all big, hefty chaps. We’ve sworn to stand by one another.
Besides,” I added soothingly, “I don’t think it will look very well in
the papers, or do you any good with your employers, when it comes to be
published broadcast that you could not maintain discipline aboard your
own ship without putting half your passengers in irons.”
“But,” he spluttered, “this is rank mutiny. I’ll put you ashore at the
first port of call.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Fremantle,” he replied.
“Well,” I retorted, “even if you do, I shan’t cry about it. I suppose I
can take a train to Melbourne.”
“Then you suppose wrong,” he snapped. “There is no railway
communication whatever between the two places.”
All this while the other officers had been standing respectfully at
attention, waiting further instructions. The captain now sent them
away, and closed the door.
“Take a seat, Mr. Carlton,” he said.
I sat down, wondering what was coming next.
“Have a drink?” he inquired, producing a decanter of whisky and a
syphon of soda.
“Now you’re talking,” I said; and we both laughed.
This was the end of the bother. And not only that. Next day the
captain came and had dinner with us in the second-class saloon, a thing
he had never done before; and we, not to be outdone in generosity,
gave a benefit show, half the proceeds of which went to the Seaman’s
Orphanage, the other half going to the Music-hall Benevolent Fund.
I should add that I had previously explained to the captain during
the latter part of our interview in his cabin, exactly how the bother
began; and he agreed with me that, although we might have been to blame
in regard to the method of our reprisals, the master-at-arms had only
himself to thank for the trouble he had brought down on his head, since
for him to have used the exceedingly foul expression he did towards us
on so very trifling a provocation was absolutely inexcusable.
By the way, while on the subject of disagreeable officials, there used
to be a certain ticket-inspector at Waterloo Station who was very
particular in regard to clipping each passenger’s ticket, and once
or twice he made me lose my train while I was searching for mine in
various pockets.
So one day I decided that I would get even with him, and I placed a
penny under my ticket, holding it in such a way that the coin was
invisible to him.
I shall never forget the surprised look on the man’s face when he found
that his nippers refused to clip my ticket. Try it yourself. Anybody
can do it. It is not necessary to be a professional conjuror.
On my arrival at Melbourne I found everybody there singing a song
the melody of which was exceedingly catchy, and the words of which
concerned themselves with various Australian notables, portraits of
whom used to be thrown on a big screen at the Opera House while the
song was being sung on the stage by the artiste. One verse of this
topical ditty ran as follows:
Australia! Australia! She has her champions too.
There’s old Bill Squires, and Georgie Towns,
They’ve shown what they can do.
In ev’ry land, in ev’ry clime,
She’s kept her flag unfurled.
Now, Australia can hold her own
With the wide, wide world.
Squires, I should explain, was the champion heavy-weight of Australia.
He had beaten everybody there. Not one could stand up against him. And
Australia, and the people of Melbourne more especially, were awfully
proud of him in consequence. George Towns was, of course, the champion
sculler of the world, and also an Australian.
Well, as luck would have it, the latter was beaten just about this
time by Dick Arnst, the New Zealander; and the very same week, I am
not certain that it was not the very same day, Squires was knocked out
in one round in America by Tommy Burns. (The Australian was knocked
senseless by almost the first real punch delivered by Burns in the
first round, and did not come to for half an hour or so. Then, seeing
all the people going home, he concluded he had won, and his first
words were: “Well, what do you think of your bloomin’ champion now?”)
This double disappointment greatly upset the Melbourne people. It also
completely spoilt the song, which had to be withdrawn, much to the
disgust of Harry Rickards, the manager of the Opera House.
Afterwards, just for a lark, I used to go into a hotel bar known as
“Under the Earth,” situated in Burke Street, and a favourite resort of
the sporting element of Melbourne, and start to hum over the song and
words to myself. This always led to a scene. “Go home, you long slab
of misery,” they would yell in unison. “Who do you think you’re taking
a rise out of?” “Why, what’s the matter?” I would ask, in assumed
surprise. “Can’t a man sing what song he likes in this God-forsaken
country?” Sometimes some of the boys there who didn’t know me very well
began to get really angry, but before things went too far I always made
it plain that it was only meant for a harmless bit of “kid” on my part,
and a hearty laugh and “drinks round” soon caused peace and harmony to
reign once more.
Nevertheless, some of the “boys” felt sufficiently sore about it to
want to get even with me, so they invited me to go rabbit shooting.
This is a joke that is frequently worked off on a “new chum,” rabbits
out there being looked upon as vermin. Nobody dreams of shooting them,
for sport at all events.
But I, of course, knew nothing of all this. I thought it awfully kind
of them, and accepted the offer with alacrity. We motored out into the
bush on Saturday night after my show, slept in the car, and when day
dawned I found myself surrounded by millions of rabbits. They covered
the earth to the horizon as far as the eye could reach; they were
gathered in myriads against the wire fences; the car had even run over
quite a number of them. And so tame were they, I was able to kick them
out of my way. I never saw such a sight before, or imagined any such;
no, not in my wildest dreams. The other members of the party were in
fits of laughter. “Go on!” they cried. “Have a shot. See if you can hit
one.”
Of course to shoot them was not sport, in the sense that we in England
understand the word. Nevertheless I killed half a dozen or so. I
couldn’t help it. Then I wandered away from my companions into the
bush, looking for something else to shoot that would be really worth
while.
Presently I heard a loud “Ha! Ha! Ha!” from somewhere behind me. I
wheeled quickly but could see no one. “Some of the boys having a lark
with me,” I thought, and walked wearily on in the direction whence the
sound had seemed to come.
Presently another peal of loud laughter rang out, this time from the
bush away off on my right rear. Again I wheeled, and was just in time
to catch sight of a bird, about the size of a magpie, flitting from
one gum tree to another, and from whose throat the sound had evidently
emanated.
I knew then at once what it was, for I had often heard the bird
described. The laughing jackass, a big kind of kingfisher peculiar
to Australia! It is also known as the cuckaburro, which is probably
a corrupt native rendering of the name bestowed upon the bird by the
early voyagers from Spain, “burro” being, of course, the colloquial
Spanish for “donkey.” Yet another name for it amongst Australian
backwoodsmen is the “settler’s clock,” because it invariably starts to
utter its peculiar gurgling laugh precisely at dawn and dusk each day.
These birds, by the way, are strictly preserved, it being forbidden
to kill them under heavy penalties. One reason for this is that they
kill the snakes, which are the pest of the farmers out there. This feat
the bird performs by darting upon the reptile and carrying it aloft in
its talons, afterwards dropping it on the ground from a considerable
height. It then flies down and pecks out the snake’s eyes, leaving it,
if not already dead, to perish miserably.
But unfortunately I was not aware of this, and I followed the bird up
some distance, and eventually shot it. Possibly I should not have been
so keen on getting it, for there was nothing strikingly remarkable
about it, but for the fact that the wretched thing seemed to my excited
imagination to be bent upon mocking me with its irritating raucous
laugh. Every time I got within range, and raised my gun to my shoulder,
he would emit another loud “Ha! ha! ha!” and fly off to another tree.
These tactics he repeated perhaps a dozen times, and when at last,
hot, angry, and thirsty, I succeeded in bagging him, he had led me
such a dance that I had not the remotest idea where I was, or in which
direction to seek the other members of the party. I was, in fact,
bushed; and wild visions of my fate if I did not succeed in attracting
the attention of my friends rushed into my throbbing brain.
In vain I “cooeed,” and fired off my gun again and again. There was
neither answering shout, nor shot, nor any sign of human life or
habitation; only all around and about me the waterless, foodless,
shadeless bush. I was beginning to get really frightened, for I had
fired away my last cartridge, when greatly to my relief I heard in the
far distance a faint call, and by “cooee-ing” back, and following the
answering sounds, I was at length able to rejoin my friends.
But there was more trouble awaiting me. In shooting the laughing
jackass I had committed a crime in the eyes of the Australian sporting
people, akin to that perpetrated by a man over here who has the
temerity to shoot a fox, and when I returned to Melbourne and emptied
my bag proudly on the floor of the “Under the Earth” bar, consternation
reigned supreme. My “crime” was explained to me in language more
forcible than polite. The rabbits I had shot, and which by this time
were exceedingly odoriferous, were the cause of much merriment. I had
also shot two or three rosella parrots, and these were passed round,
and duly admired. But the laughing jackass was quite another matter.
However, in the end, Mrs. Hill, the genial proprietress of the
establishment, consented to smuggle it over the bar, and even went to
the length, after a lot of persuasion, of promising to have it stuffed
for me. This, I may add, she did, and I have the bird now. But the
affair got talked about, and in the end I was summoned before the
magistrate for my breach of the Australian game laws.
“Why did you shoot the bird?” asked the “beak” sternly.
“Because he laughed at me,” I answered on the impulse of the moment.
At this the Court roared, and the magistrate inquired blandly whether
I wasn’t used to being laughed at? “Would you shoot me if I laughed at
you?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
I knew then that I was all right, and was immensely relieved, for I
had visions of a heavy fine staring me in the face, or even possibly a
term in the local gaol. In the end I was fined ten shillings and the
costs, and I of course paid up cheerfully, glad to have been let down
so lightly; and glad also, for probably the first and last time in my
life, at having “got the bird.”
Speaking of birds reminds me that just before leaving Australia I
bought a talking parrot from a dealer.
I was strolling through a turning off Burke Street, Melbourne, when my
attention was particularly drawn to the bird owing to hearing it repeat
two or three times, “Marie! Marie! I love Marie!”
Now Marie happens to be my wife’s name, and it at once occurred to me
that it would please her very much indeed if I took the parrot home,
and when I presented it to her explained to her how I had caught it in
the bush, and toiled hard through many weary weeks to teach it to speak
these beautiful words, always present of course in my own mind--“I love
Marie.”
I bought the parrot fairly cheap, the dealer explaining that it spoke
no other words. This, I reflected, suited me admirably, and I bore my
prize away in triumph, inclosed in a handsome cage.
Directly we embarked for home I gave the parrot in charge of the
butcher, telling him to look after it well, and promising to tip him a
sovereign for his trouble when we arrived at Southampton. During the
voyage I didn’t bother much about my purchase, beyond inquiring now and
again as to the bird’s welfare.
The day before we were due to reach England, however, I went down to
have a good look at it. Imagine my horror when I was greeted by it (in
addition to its stock phrase “I love Marie”) with a perfect flood of
the most awfully profane language it is possible to conceive.
The wretched bird simply turned the air blue with a string of
full-blooded sailormen’s oaths, coupled with certain other phrases
that, besides being profane, were shockingly indecent.
Naturally I was furiously angry, but the butcher vehemently protested
that he was not to blame. The deck hands and stokers, he explained,
were constantly at the bird, teaching it all manner of bad language
while his back was turned.
Of course, to introduce the now hopelessly depraved parrot into a
decent household was altogether out of the question, and in the end I
turned bird and cage over to the butcher in lieu of the promised tip;
an arrangement, I may add, with which he was well content.