Beer!
Why the Montoro Waited
THE official notice, at the head of the gangway, was quite definite. The Montoro was to sail for Queensland, Pa pua and New Guinea at 5 p.m., on Novem ber 29.
But it was 5.15; and the Montoro still lay motionless at the Walsh Bay Wharf, Syd ney.
Quinine-soaked gentlemen pottered fussily about the decks. Squealing female tourists leaned over the rails, and collected a few more streamers, and screeched out another farewell message to “Mum.”
Hard-faced fellows from Wau, whose waistlines had been destroyed long since by a combination of pickaxes and alcohol ism, skipped into the smoke-room—“time for another quick one.” Impatient district officers and resident magistrates, who had ceremoniously ended their long leave by kissing sundry tearful ladies, glared re proachfully at every officer in sight.
And still the Montoro did not move!
For once “B.P.” did not stand for “beastly punctual.” A junior officer shamefacedly removed the offensive board.
Then a whisper ran around the crowded decks and quay. It increased to a mur mur, then to a roar.
“Beer! ”
The Islands liner was waiting for a con signment of several hundred cases of bottled ale, which had been shipped from some southern brewery by the Cathay, and the Cathay was behind schedule. The Cathay berthed late in the afternoon: sweating watersiders dug the precious liquid out of her holds, swung it onto light ers, and punted it hurriedly alongside the waiting Montoro.
Miners and matrons, civil servants and uncivil traders—their bad temper gone, they thronged the ship’s rail, and kissed their fingers to the rattling derricks. If the delay had been due to any other rea son on earth or heaven, they would cheer fully have insulted the captain and assassinated Mr. Wallin. But—beer!
The Mandated Territory of New Guinea is the greatest beer-drinking country on earth. No man dare leave a social gather ing there until he has drunk two or three full bottles of Australian brew. They pay 3/6 a bottle for it in Wau, and sing as they pay it.
All over Morobe, you may find heaps of empty bottles, and thus you may calculate exactly the size and duration of the min ing camp. Three bottles of beer per miner per diem. I often try to picture the puzzlement of the archaelogist of a thou sand years hence when he uncovers those heaps of indestructible glass.
There had been bad news lately from Wau and Edie Creek. Someone had mis calculated, and supplies of chilled beef and beer ran out. Beef did not matter mueh —one can always “kill a tin” or chew tobacco. But the plaintive echoes of the beer famine were heard even in Sydney.
The temper of that crowd changed in a moment. The merry laughter of the de parting Islanders almost drowned the scream of the winches, as they swung the cases of beer aboard. Wau’s clamant thirst was provided for!
The ship was very late in sailing. There were over 60 passengers. Every passen ger asked two friends to stay to dinner.
A frantic chief steward, who had catered for 64, had to feed 140. He charged the visitors 5/- each.
No one cared. The beer was safely
aboard.-