The Visit of an Author

By “Tukapa Koko”

, YEARS ago, we on isolated, map-specK Mangaia were favoured by a visit from a real, live book-writer, who had fathered a goodly tome—yes, and had it printed, even. .

That was in the days of the consulship of—not Plancus, for he was said of know ledgable Romans to be a just ruler; our reigning pro-consul was then a man of irascible temper and some self-conceit, and when he was around I, and others, found it a good idea to imitate Biblical Agag and be as infrequent as possible.

Bibson, the literaire, was on a material-gathering trip, and had stopped off at Mangaia to see if there really was such a place. Like a donkey’s corpse, many refused to accept the possi bility of the little-known island as a visible reality. Bibson, an American, though not the Man From Missouri, was in our midst to see—perchance even to conquer, for he was a very devil with the ladies.

I, small trader and general dealer, found Bibson a customer for a line that I had deemed a dead loss.

Some years before, the native school teachers had asked me to order for them various “penny-horribles”, priced at four pence per volume, and detailing the pis tolic adventures of Buffalo Bill: which I did. The thrillers, about four dozen of them, arriving, there was nothing doing.

The market collapsed, for they were written in English. . . The Mangaians had not realised the ignorance of the civilised world, that has not yet had the sense to adopt the Maori tongue as a medium of conversation and romance.

Till Bibson came, the despised volumes languished on a shelf. But he. coming

? ne ; d / y ’ of idle curiosity, to see what I had for sale, happened on the pile of trash, and was delighted.

I acquired four dozen fourpences, and Bibson the market-drug that, despised by other men, began his fashion in Man gaia. We became friends.

There were dances. Bibson was there; and, with him, I. There were feasts where the guests numbered dozens; and, of them, I. Bibson, eloquent of past adventure in the States, was entertain ing when he had well drunk.

He had one friend who stuck closer than a brother, and with whom he lived.

Theirs was a tolerant household, a menage-a-deux—the gentlemen, and their respective ladies to wait on them. The pair, Bibson and his trader pal, had so much in common that they got on right well together.

The trader was the stronger person ality. He made the ammunition for Bibson to fire, and found the author a useful man to have around when it was a matter of argument with the Resident Agent over liquor supplies, which a paternal Administration restricts to two bottles of tiger-juice per month—unless the Bacchanalian beneficiary can pro duce doctor’s recommendation for more, by reason of ill-health.

There came a ship; came, also, a doctor.

Bibson, well gone already in liquid cheer, was prevailed on by his trader friend to present what the latter re presented as a medical order for enlarge ment of liquor supply to the Lord of the Manor, in whose hands lay the keys of heaven or hell, according as the petitioner could produce proof of claim for more.

The Resident Agent was not in his office, behind the counter of which lay the “Bonded Store”—a packing-case con taining the liquid joy.

Bibson, not to be deterred, visited the

Residency itself. His cargo, already ample, seemed to have shifted, for he had a marked list to port, and also had a certain difficulty in negotiating the three gates he saw. The middle one proved to be not a mirage; he staggered to the verandah.

The Lord of All was there; but if he was glad to see Bibson, he made no un mannerly demonstration of his joy. kfis “What d’you want?” was curt, and the baronial visage grim.

Bibson, t stuttering slightly, indicated drought; produced the alleged passport to Elysium.

The paper was an obvious fake, an illegible scrawl. The Cat, watching from the Road, saw that the Monkey, though burning his paws, got no chestnuts. The Cat, cunning trader, grinned a Cheshire grin.

The Lord of the Manor indicated to Bibson that there was positively nothing doing, and that he was at liberty to de part in peace.

Bibson, balked, refused to wend his way liquor-less; at last, apostrophising the Overlord as the offspring of a female of canine species, he made, as far as his condition permitted, physical attack on the vice-royal person.

The Overlord, like a lamp-post swung on by a child, let Bibson maul him for about three-fifths of a second, Then, springing into action, he divested himself of the clinging form of Bibson, who was battering him with one hand, while he held on with the other, and grasped the literaire by the scruff of his nether habiliment.

It looked, from the motion that fol .lowed, as if “over the garden wall” was the final destination of Author Bibson.

When the shio departed, the Man From Missouri was a passenger—he had decided that Mangaia did -not agree with him.

Which, I rather fancy, was a fact!