Confessions of a Beachcomber by Edmund James Banfield (funny books to read TXT) 📕

the mainland. Having lost its way, it emerged from the sea at pretty Panjoo. So different was the locality from that to which the poor forlorn creature had been accustomed, it was at once seized with a fatal attack of home-sickness. Shedding a few tears natural--to it ("'Tis so, and the tears of it are wet"), it died ("and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates"). Such is the theory, annotated by Mark Antony's immortal after-dinner gossip, on the emotions and natural history of the species.



THE ARABS PRECEPT

"A Pearl of Great Price"

"Mister, I tell you, neber say anything. I hab bin reech once. I lorse my reechness for that I talk a little bit; but I talk too much. I poor man now. I lorse my chants. Suppose I no lorse my chants I am reech man of my country."

So said Hassan, the Arab with the pearly teeth, as he sat on the edge of the verandah one steaming January evening.

"Yes, Hassan. How did you lose your money?"

"I hab no money, Mister. But I hab a pearl. My word, Mister, I tell you my yarn about that pearl. My beauty beeg pearl. White pearl--more white than snow-white! my pearl!"

The thin-framed swarthy Arab, with the flashing eyes and glistening teeth, quivered with the intensity of his recollection.

"My beauty pearl. My beeg white pearl. My pearl of snow-white," he murmured as in a dreamy reverie he subdued the light of his great black eyes.

"But you never saw snow. How can you talk about a snow-white pearl?"

"Mister, I bin steward boy on beeg steamer. I been eberywhere. I bin in London, I bin in Antwerp. I bin see snow all over. That how I talk about my snow pearl. I tell you my yarn."

Hassan smoothed down his white jacket, lit a lean cigarette, rolled the incense--thrifty smoker that he was--as a sweet morsel under the tongue, permitted it to drift lazily from his lips, and gave his story.

"I bin deck hand on pearling lugger. To be spell about with wind pump. Sometimes I work on dinghy. Two or three times I dibe--not much dibe. I carn stand that work. Not strong for that so heavy work. One morning Boss he set me on to clean out dinghy. Too much rotten fish. You see, when diber bring shell up, Boss he open ebery one--chuck meat along dinghy. That dinghy, I tell you my yarn proper--close up half full stinking meat. I chuck that stinking meat ober-board along my hand. Close up I bin finish I catchem stinking meat like this. Hello! I feel 'em something! My heart he stand--he carn go. He stop altogether. I carn look! feel 'em beeg. I look! Ha! Beeg, beeg pearl! Round like anything. White like snow. Pretty--lobley. My heart inside go ponch, quick like that, I hear 'em jump along my shirt. No one look out. My pearl! I whistle for nothing; put my pearl easy like I find nothing in my pucket. Go on my work, steady. Heart jump about all the time. Chuck em out those stinking meat. Ha! First time I feel something--one pearl! Beeg, but no all the same like nother one. One more time chuck stinking meat. Ha! one more pearl! White, long like small finger here. My heart easy now. I think my good luck come. I say my prayer to Allah! I work hard. I finish that boat. Chuck gem out stinking meat, wash her down. My three pearls inside my pucket.

"For one week I neber say nothing. My good friend, my countryman from Aden, Ali. I tell 'em I find one pearl. Now, Mister, I tell you straight--neber tell nothing. You hab one good friend, one countryman. You lobe that man, your good friend. But you no tell 'em nothing. I made fool myself when I tell 'em. I big hoombug of myself. Two days, I am pulling dinghy up to lugger. Big Boss he on board schooner. I see him look me. Quick I think, 'Hassan, you make of yourself a fool. You lorse you white pearl!' He sing out 'Hassan!' I gammon I neber hear 'em. Sing out loud 'Hassan! You, boy! Come here!' I pull up to lugger. He sing out. 'Come here quick! I want talk you!' 'All right, Boss, I come, I go longa lugger first time!' He savage. Call out smart--'Come here, I tell you! Come quick!'

"I am little fright he might shoot with revolver. I pull up to schooner; make fast line. Go on board. Boss he say quiet, nice, like gentlemen, 'Hello, Hassan! Good-day. Why you no come when I sing out first time.' I say 'I hab that water for lugger.' He say, 'Well, my boy, you come quick when I call out. No good hang back. How you getting on? You come down my cabin. I no see you long time. Come down below.' 'All up,' I say myself. Hello! Nother man. Bottle rum on table. Plenty biskeet on plate, glasses--eberything. Boss he say, 'Come, my boy; come, Hassan, make yourself happy. Gib yourself glass rum. Take good nip.' That very good rum, strong too. I gib myself one good rum. I eat biskeet. Boss he say, 'Come, my boy, gib yourself nother rum.' I gib myself nother good rum; eat plenty of that sweet biskeet. We three fellow very good friend. I feel happy. Boss shake hand, he say--'Hassan, very good boy.' I gib myself nother good rum. We talk. Just now Boss he look straight. He say quiet--'Hassan, my boy, you hab something belonga me.' He look sharp like a knife. 'No, Boss, I hab nothing of you.' He talk loud--'Hassan, you hab something belonga me. Gib it up quick!' That other white man he stand longside gangway. I look straight. I feel cold. I say, 'No, Boss, I hab nothing.' He talk more loud--GIB UP THAT PEARL!' I fright. I put my hand to my pucket. I pull out pearl. I am all fire now. I shove 'em longa table. I shout--'There you blurry pearl!' Boss catch 'em quick. He say 'Get out my cabin, you dirty Arab! You dam thief. Subpose you gib my pearl first time I gib you something. Now I gib you kick!' I go.

"You see, Mister my good friend, my countryman, he tell Boss about my white pearl. I lorse him now."

"But you got two more in your pocket"

"Yes, very good pearl; but not good like my snow pearl. I am sick now. Boss he sack me. I land Thursday Island. I gamble fantan. I no care. Soon I hab no pearl at all. I hab no work. I am hard up.

"Now, Mister, subpose I no say nothing to my good friend I am reech man of my country. I drink Mocha coffee. I am too poor. Suppose I go to my country, back from Aden, I carn drink coffee I am too poor, I drink coffee from outside. Inside coffee, we sell for reech people--you Inglesh, and Frinch, and Turkey men."

"What do you mean by outside coffee?"

"When you pick coffee, you Inglesh chuck away outside. We poor Arab dry that outside, smash 'em up like flour, boil 'em for coffee. All inside coffee we hab to sell, so poor that country. Mister, I bin tell true my yarn--neber tell you good friend nothing."


CHAPTER VI



IN PRAISE OF THE PAPAW

Properties varied and approaching the magical have been ascribed to one of the commonest plants of North Queensland; and yet how trivial and prosaic are the honours bestowed upon it. That which makes women beautiful for ever; which renews the strength of man; which is a sweet and excellent food, and which provides medicine for various ills, cannot be said to lack many of the attributes of the elixir of life, and is surely entitled to a special paean in a land languishing for population.

Distinctive and significant as the virtues possessed by the papaw are, yet because of its universality and because it yields its fruits with little labour, it gets but scant courtesy. It is tolerated merely; but if we had it not, if it were as far as that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, men would adventure for such merchandise--and adventure at the bidding of women. How few there are who recognise in the everyday papaw one of the most estimable gifts of kindly Nature?

Some who dwell in temperate climes claim for the apple and the onion superlative qualities. In the papaw the excellences of both are blended and combined. The onion may induce to slumber, but the sleep it produces is it not a trifle too balmy? The moral life and high standard of statesmanship of an American Senator are cited as examples of the refining influences of apples. For every day for thirty years he has, to the exclusion of all other food, lunched on that fruit. Possibly the papaw may be decadent in respect to morals and politics. The grape, lemon, orange, pomelo, and the strawberry, each in the estimation of special enthusiasts, is proclaimed the panacea for many of the ills of life. One writer cites cases in which maniacs have been restored to reason by the exclusive use of cherries. The apple, they say, too, gives to the face of the fair ruddiness, but the tint is it not too bold, compared with maiden blush which bepaints the cheek of the beauty who rightly understands the use of the vital principle of the papaw? Those who have complexions to retain or restore let them understand and be fair.

In North Queensland the plant grows everywhere. In the dry, buoyant climate west of the coast range, and in the steamy coastal tract, on cliff-like hill-sides, on sandy beaches a few feet above high-water mark, among rocks with but a few inches of soil, and where the decayed vegetation of generations has made fat mould many feet deep, the papaw flourishes. It asks foothold, heat, light and moisture, and given these conditions a plant within a few months of its first start in life will begin to provide food--entertaining, refreshing, salubrious--and will continue so to do for years. Its precociousness is so great and its productiveness so lavish, that by the time other trees flaunt their first blossoms, the papaw has worn itself out, and is dying of senile decay, leaving, however, numerous posterity. The fruit is delicate, too, and soon resolves itself into its original elements. Pears and peaches are said by the artistic to enjoy but a brief half hour of absolute perfection. The artist alone knows the interval between immaturity and deterioration. The refined and delicate perception of the exquisite and transient aroma and flavour of fruits deserves to be classed among the fine arts. Some people are endowed with nice discrimination. They are of the order of the genius. The higher the poetic instinct, generally the better qualified the individual to detect and enjoy the fugitive excellences which fruits possess. Can a gourmand ever properly appreciate rare and fragile flavours? Though he may be a great artist in edible discords--things rank and gross and startling--can he in the quantity of inconvenient food he consumes, be expected to pose as a critic of the most etherealised branch of epicureanism? The true eater of fruit is of a school apart, not to be classed with the individual who, because of the rites and observances of the table, accepts, in no exalted spirit, a portion of fruit at the nether end of a feast. He is one who has attained, or to whom has been vouchsafed, a poignant sense of all that does the least violence to