The Tale of Timber Town. Grace Alfred Augustus
citizen “on the block” was Tresco himself, but what he lacked in tailoring he made good in serene benignity of countenance. His features, which beamed like the sun shining above him, were recognised by all who passed by. It was, “How do, Benjamin; bobbin’ up, old party?” “Mornin’, Tresco. You remind me of the rooster that found the jewel – you look so bloomin’ contented with yourself.” “Ah! good day, Mr. Tresco. I hope I see you well. Remember, I still have that nice little bit of property for sale. Take you to see it any time you like.”
With Benjamin it was, “How do, Ginger? In a hurry? Go it – you’ll race the hands round the clock yet.” “Good morning, Mr. Flint. Lovely weather, yes, but hot. Now, half-a-pint is refreshing, but you lawyers have no time – too many mortgages, conveyances, bills of sale to think about. I understand. Good morning.” “Why, certainly, Boscoe, my beloved pal. Did you say ‘half’? – I care not if it’s a pint. Let us to the blushing Hebe of the bar.”
Tresco and his friend, Boscoe, entered the portals of The Lucky Digger. Behind the bar stood a majestic figure arrayed in purple and fine linen. She had the development of an Amazon and the fresh face of a girl from the shires of England. Through the down on her cheek “red as a rose was she.”
Tresco advanced as to the shrine of a goddess, and leant deferentially over the bar. Never a word spoke he till the resplendent deity had finished speaking to two commercial travellers who smoked cigars, and then, as her eyes met his, he said simply, “Two pints, if you please, miss.”
The liquor fell frothing into two tankards; Boscoe put down the money, and the goddess withdrew to the society of the bagmen, who talked to her confidentially, as to their own familiar friend.
Tresco eyed the group, smilingly, and said, “The toffs are in the cheese, Boscoe. You’d think they’d a monopoly of Gentle Annie. But wait till I get on the job.”
Boscoe, a wizened little tinsmith, with the grime of his trade upon him, looked vacuously to his front, and buried his nose in his pot of beer.
“Flash wimmen an’t in my line,” said he, as he smacked his lips, “not but this yer an’t a fine ‘piece.’ But she’d cost a gold mine in clo’es alone, let alone brooches and fallals. I couldn’t never run it.” Here one of the gaudy bagmen stretched out his hand, and fingered the bar-maid’s rings. The girl seemed nothing annoyed at this awkward attention, but when her admirer’s fingers stole to her creamy chin, she stepped back, drew herself up with infinite dignity, and said with perfect enunciation, “Well, you have got an impudence. I must go and wash my face.”
She was about to leave the bar, when Tresco called after her, “My dear, one minute.” From his pocket he drew the dainty ring-case, and held it out to the girl, who took it eagerly. In a moment the gem was on her finger. “You dear old bag of tricks!” she exclaimed. “Is it for me?”
“Most certainly,” said Benjamin. “One moment.” He took the ring between his forefinger and thumb, as if he were a conjurer about to perform, glanced triumphantly round the bar-room, held the girl’s hand gallantly in his, deliberately replaced the ring on her finger, and said, “With this ring I thee wed; with my body I thee worship; with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
“Thanks, I’ll take the ring,” retorted the bar-maid, with mock annoyance and a toss of her head, “but, really, I can’t be bothered with your old carcase.”
“Pleasing delusion,” said Tresco, unruffled. “It’s your own ring!”
A close, quick scrutiny, and the girl had recognised her refurbished jewel.
“You bald-headed rogue!” she exclaimed. But Tresco had vanished, and nothing but his laugh came back through the swinging glass-door.
The bagmen laughed too. But Gentle Annie regarded them indignantly, and in scornful silence, which she broke to say, “And now I shall go and wash my face.”
CHAPTER II
The Maori is a brown man. His hair is straight, coarse, black, and bright as jet. His eyes are brown, his teeth are pearly white; and, when he smiles, those brown eyes sparkle and those white teeth gleam. A Maori’s smile is one of Nature’s most complete creations.
But as Enoko poked his head out of the door of the hut, his face did not display merriment. Day was breaking; yet he could see nothing but the flying scud and the dim outline of the shore; he could hear nothing but the roar of the breakers, battering the boulders of the beach.
He came out of the hut, his teeth chattering with the rawness of the morning; and made a general survey of the scene.
“It’s too cold,” he muttered in his own language. “There’s too much wind, too much sea.”
With another look at the angry breakers, he went back into the hut. “Tahuna,” he cried, “there’s no fishing to-day – the weather’s bad.”
Tahuna stirred under his blankets, sat up, and said in Maori, “I’ll come and look for myself.”
The two men went out into the cold morning air.
“No,” said Tahuna, “it’s no good – there’s a north-east gale. We had better go back to the pa when the day has well dawned.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when a sudden veering of the wind drew the scud from the sea and confined it to the crest of the rocky, wooded cliff under which the Maoris stood. The sea lay exposed, grey and foaming; but it was not on the sea that the men’s eyes were riveted. There, in the roaring, rushing tide, a ship lay helpless on the rocks.
Enoko peered, as though he mistrusted the sight of his eye – he had but one. Tahuna ran to the hut, and called, “Come out, both of you. There’s a ship on the rocks!”
From the hut issued two sleepy female forms, the one that of the chief’s wife, the other that of a pretty girl. The former was a typical Maori wahine of the better class, with regular features and an abundance of long black hair; the latter was not more than eighteen years old, of a lighter complexion, full-figured, and with a good-natured face which expressed grief and anxiety in every feature. “Oh!” she exclaimed, as a great wave broke over the helpless ship, “the sailors will be drowned. What can we do?”
“Amiria,” said the chief to her, “go back to the pa, and tell the people to come and help. We three,” – he pointed to his wife, Enoko and himself – “will see what we can do.”
“No,” replied the girl, “I can swim as well as any of you. I shall stay, and help.” She ran along the beach to the point nearest the wreck, and the others followed her.
Tahuna, standing in the wash of the sea, cried out, “A rope! A rope! A rope!” But his voice did not penetrate ten yards into the face of the gale.
Then all four, drenched with spray, shouted together, and with a similar result.
“If they could float a rope ashore,” said the chief, “we would make it fast, and so save them.”
The vessel lay outside a big reef which stretched between her and the shore; her hull was almost hidden by the surf which broke over her, the only dry place on her being the fore-top, which was crowded with sailors; and it was evident that she must soon break up under the battering seas which swept over her continually.
“They can’t swim,” said the chief, with a gesture of disgust. “The pakeha is a sheep, in the water. We must go to them. Now, remember: when you get near the ship, call out for a rope. We can drift back easily enough.”
He walked seawards till the surf was up to his knees. The others followed his example; the girl standing with the other woman between the men.
“Now,” cried Tahuna, as a great breaker retired; and the four Maoris rushed forward, and plunged into the surf. But the force of the next wave dashed them back upon the beach. Three times they tried to strike out from the shore, but each time they were washed back. Tahuna’s face was bleeding, Enoko limped as he rose to make the fourth attempt, but the women had so