Wau, T.N.G.

Tennis Tournament At

ISIT in an after-theatre restaurant.

The waitresses give me black looks the while they noisily pile chairs on the tables in readiness for to-morrow’s mop-and-bucket brigade; for the lights go out at midnight—and so do my hopes of a night’s diversion.

The film I have seen has moved the world, but here it has been mutilated by a censorship so incredibly puerile as to make the continuity illogical and the conclusion completely incomprehensible.

I resurrect the stub of a cigarette doused, on the word of command, as I entered the theatre; and I reflect, with secret glee, upon the tram tickets I have dropped in the streets, the grass I have walked upon, the thoroughfares I have crossed at impossible angles, the cruising taxi-man I debauched by offer of a fare, the beer I surreptitiously con sumed at 6.35 p.m.—and the alacrity with which I have “moved on” when ordered by authority so to do.

And so, on a blue and burning day, to the galloping sea, the sea that sounds the keynote of sunny N.S.W. I travel, perforce, by train—the Transport Act having outlawed the motor-car —and occupy a corner seat in a crowded com partment euphemistically labelled “first class”. When I am not combing smuts out of my hair or rubbing them into my eyes, I stand up and hang on to the luggage rack in response to the oft repeated “Excuse me’s” of my fellow sufferers. It is that kind of corner seat.

The train arrives late. I sally forth in search of live bait, and capture half

a-dozen under-sized fantail mullet, which I hide in a derelict fish-trap; for the Fisheries Department’s inspector is a low and cunning fellow. The hospitable facade of the hotel is, at once, an in vitation and a challenge—for it is Elec tion Day. The publican, however, is a reasonable man and, soon, I am feeling for the brass rail. A horse whose name I like is engaged to-morrow which, if permitted, may win his race. I don’t know the animal’s price, for the ex

quisitely virtuous Sydney press is pro hibited by law from publishing such subversive information unless disguised in a numerological formula that baffles my simple mind. Can the publican ob lige me? He can, and does, and five bob changes hands.

I seek the nearest polling-booth.

Happily, my name is on the roll. A two pounds’ fine for non-voters is two pounds, despite one’s hatred of political claptrap and the bombastic humbugs who expound it. The party machines offer me the choice of a noisy windbag who knows everything except the mean ings of words, and a plausible rascal who, if not elected, will inevitably find himself again on the dole.

I cross out both names.

“Give me Liberty”, howled the old time Yankee patriot, “or give me Death!”

So they gave him a lemon; but, praise be, the jewfish are on the bite.

A snapshot during the recent tennis tournament at Wau, New Guinea. Supporters of Salamaua are shown modestly celebrating their success.