“Old Bill” Of Papua.

A Goldfields Memory.

By Moni.

THE Great War was at its height when I landed in Port Moresby, I had no work in view there. I took a room at the Moresby Hotel. The town was dead, and the residents seemed to be suffering from chronic malaria or bad beer —the effects of which are similar in the Islands.

I sought work at several places. The Government told us that it had jobs only for soldiers, and the business people gave work only to natives. I was assured that an old man of 67, like me, would be better out of the Ter ritory.

I would soon show these people about the old man, I thought. I heard about the Yodda goldfield, and I decided to “waltz Matilda” there. When I reached the Owen Stanley range, about 7,000 feet high, some bush natives, thinking I was mad and might bring them bad luck, took my swag, and escorted me to the Government station at Kokoda, where I was hospitably received. The magistrate seemed also to conclude that I was an escaped lunatic when I told him of my lone journey without carriers or firearms. Anyway, he was a good chap, and made me have a bath and a good meal, which I needed badly. After a rest of three days, I felt no harm from my 76 miles’ journey over the mountains.

I felt fit to try my luck on the Yodda goldfields, 7 miles from the Kokoda station. The magistrate pro vided me with some food and carriers.

On arrival at Yodda, I went to the first house of native material. Two miners were seated at a table, with some bottles of rum and two tin pan nikins at hand. They were singing, with all their might— “"Drink and the devil have done for the rest: Yo ho! ho! and a bottle of rum.”

I was heartily welcomed, and in vited to stay “as long as I liked.”

After the rum was finished, we finished the party on paregoric, and felt bad for three days.

When we were all well again, “Old Bill,” the finest digger I have ever met in the bush, gave me four natives, and showed me a place where I might "“find grub.”

The first few weeks I made wages, and eventually I saved enough to go on to Edie Creek, in New Guinea, When it broke out, I did well.

Some few months ago, I met “Old Bill” again. He still believes in rum, and sings the old song from “Treasure Island.” I joined him again, drank to his future in O.P. rum, and sang in my best voice “Yo ho!”

The world is better for rum, if it keeps alive and happy such grand old pioneers as “Bill.”