Failed

The Light That

By W. S. Bond

I HAD not, as yet, fully realised the tremendous grip that the movie cowboy has on the Maori imagina tion. If you are able to do anything that the cowboy is supposed to do, your popularity in the Cook Islands is assured.

When I first gave a little exhibition of rope-spinning, at Muri, for the enter tainment of village friends, I never dreamed that, by the following day, all Rarotonga would be talking of my skill and clamouring for a demonstration.

The upshot of it was that the manage ment of the far-famed “Royal Hall” invited me to “do my stuff”, where all who had the price of a ticket might view it from the comfort of a wooden form.

I must say that the management treated me very well, as regards the advertising. They were kind enough to emphasise that I was “greater than Tom Mix”. Naturally, I appreciated the com pliment—but I was thankful that Raro tonga was sufficiently remote from Tom Mix’s regular hang-outs to ensure that that fast-shooting gentleman was un aware of the statement.

A few days before the advertised date, I went to the Royal Hall for a stage rehearsal, accompanied by the Raro tongan who was acting as my personal manager. Immediately I stepped on the stage, before the large picture screen, I was possessed by the idea that it would produce a very striking effect if, during my rope-spinning act, all lights were blacked out and the spot-light concen trated upon me, throwing a strong silhouette of myself and the twirling rope onto the screen.

The manager of the theatre was ac quainted with the idea and agreed that it would indeed be effective. The operator would be carefully instructed as to what was required of him.

Came the great night. Having left my show costume back home, I had contrived a handsome pair of “chaps” from my wife’s best camel-hair blanket, decorated with “silver dollars” cut from cocoa tins.

A tennis shirt, dyed vermilion, and a gay neckerchief completed the outfit. The effectiveness of the rig was proved by the admiring chorus that greeted my appearance.

Before going on, I had inquired if the lighting arrangements were thoroughly understood. The manager assured me that everything was O.K. —he himself would stand in the wings and give the signals to the operating-box. I thanked him. The band struck up. I was on!

The first part of the act, with the long rope, went well enough. Now I changed to the short spinning-rope, and stepped to the centre of the stage. This was the pre-arranged point for “Black out!” and “Spot!”.

I started to spin. Nothing happened to the lights. I glanced towards the “flies”.

The manager beamed back and nodded assuringly, as he waved a white hand kerchief.

Moments passed, and still nothing happened. I looked again to the “flies”, and whispered out of the corner of my mouth: “Lights!” The manager nodded back and went on waving.

More moments passed; and I looked round anxiously. The manager wasn’t smiling now, and he was using the hand kerchief to mop his brow. I could distinctly hear him swearing.

I was feeling pretty warm myself. Rope spinning requires fine concentration; and this was where I did my best fancy twiddly-bits.

“Lights!” I appealed, in a desperate stage-whisper.

Things started to happen. The lights started to go out—not smoothly and directly, but sort of bobbing up and down in an undecided manner. At last, a moment of Stygian blackness—then the blessed spotlight!

My relief was short-lived. A couple of hall lights bobbed up. Somebody swore, and that seemed to scare them out again.

Another couple of seconds of spot-light —and the hall lights popped up agam.

Then some more hall lights—and the spotlight faded into oblivion.

I was all steamed up, and the vermilion dye was running. I mopped my face with my free arm, and the vermilion sleeve caused a quick-change from cowboy to Red Indian.

I managed to stagger through the act

without hog-tying or strangling myself, Then I made a hurried exit and went back-stage, to make a few observations on the subject of lights, My personal manager was despatched to find out what was what. Some con siderable time later he returned, hacking bis way methodically through half a blimp-sized water-melon, and ejecting Pips with machine-gun-like precision.

“I found out about the lights,” he said, between volleys. “The boy in the operating-box was enjoying your show immensely—but he said that when he tried the spotlight, it was no good, be cause the beam dazzled him and he couldn’t see you himself—so he had to put the hall lights on again!”

However, the show appeared to have

gone over all right. Next day, there were many horses drifting about without their anchor cables, and mothers were search ing for missing clothes-lines—while boys, from 8 to 80, were assiduously practising the intricate cowboy art of rope-spinning.

Some were even wearing sugar-bag “chaps”.

Rev. G. Voss, who is well known on New Britain, TNG, where for some time he was a worker for the Melanesian Mission, has joined the New Guinea Education department and will be sta tioned at Pila Pila. He returned to Rabaul recently after unsuccessfully applying to go overseas with the AIF.