We Love To Listen-In

WHAT price is copra in London, Bill?”

“Dunno!”

“Isn’t your wireless going?”

“Yeah . . . But reception ain’t too good in the mornings.”

“Can’t you get the evening news?”

“Well . . . Yeah . . . But the weather ain’t been too good either, lately, in the evenings.”

“Good Heavens! Then what use is the thing?”

“Aw! It’s great having it. Keeps a man amused, y'know. I get bonzer .reception from LXI3YPB Siberia around 2 a.m., and I get South America, an’

Japan, an’ Central China, an’ Holland, an’ . . .”

“Yes —yes! Quite. But what’s bene ficial about that?”

“Well, it’s pretty fair, don’t you think?”

“I’d think it a better wheeze if I could get something broadcast in English.

Don’t you ever hear anything you can understand?”

“ ’Course I do. I got the news from Queensland this morning.”

“Oh? Any war news?”

“The Germans are doing something or other at some place.”

“How d’ye mean. . . ? Something or other . . . ? Some place . . . ?”

“Well , . , Y’see, she faded out just as the codger was starting on the news, and b’ the time I got ’er tuned in again, he’d finished.”

“Hell’s bells, man! What do you get out of it?”

“Aw, she’s alright. Yessir! Plenty o’ music, y’know, from all over the world.”

“Music?” I bleated. “But dammit! I get music from all over the world with a gramophone.”

“Ah! But you don’t get the latest!”

“Oh?” ‘No! That’s the point! I heard one this morning—a real corker —about three little fishies.”

I reeled.

“Three little fishes?” I gasped. “Why, I had that one sent up four steamers ago.”

“Well come up to-night an’ listen-in.

Stay the night if you’re not in a hurry to go out. And, say, have you got your gramophone on board? Good! Bring it up, too.”

“Gramophone?”

“Yeah! Fetch it up. I’d like to hear that there Three Little Fishies again.”

I’VE been to Bill’s on three occasions since he purchased his radio, and circumstances have been so similar that I will say nothing of the previous two. On this visit, he assured me that he had new batteries, and what I needed was a dose of civilisation after nine months on an out-station, and I could take it from him that an hour or two with a wireless would be just what the old steamer doctor would order.

So, when the shades of evening and pouring rain were falling fast, r left my comfortable bunk, rowed ashore, and slushed along through the wet grass and bog-holes towards his bungalow, with mixed feelings. A man was a fool —yes.

But one can’t pass-up an opportunity to listen-in without a struggle. Slip, you may; fall face forward into numerous ditches, you are compelled to; get your self soaked through, you assuredly will; but go, you simply must.

Bill is a good fellow, an Australian of Scotch descent —though it seems a hard thing to say about a cobber —with a long frame, an O.S. heart, an ability to con sume anything drinkable except water, and a large cellar that holds everything drinkable except water. He has one of those faces which would be improved by any kind of accident—be it ever such a smash-up—and apart from the fact that he considers all women are angels, he is quite sane.

His only vice is the possession of a wireless, and his virtues are too numer ous to recount. The main one, however, is worthy of note, it being his habit —at least, it was before the radio-bug bit him —to mooch around perpetually fill ing the glass (or glasses) of his guest (or 'guests), try he (or they) ever so hard to keep it (or them) empty.

IN less time than it takes to tell, Bill had several whiskys and myself inside some dry clothes, thus giving me an erroneous impression that God was in his heaven and all was right with this particular part of the world.

Dinner music was conspicuous by its absence, but with kai-kai defeated, smokes going and the soda-syphon func tioning well, I sat back contentedly while mine host approached the “works”.

Said “works” showed considerable resentment when requested to perform for the visitor, and, unlike an unfor tunate child for whom I once felt deep sympathy, they could not be slapped into

obedience. There was nothing I could do except manfully to pretend that I was surprised, and tickled to death.

He cajoled the thing wtih numerous tongue-clickings, “dear-dears”, “drat-its” and “what-d’ye-know-about-thats”, entic ing it only to make hideous noises.

“That’s POQ Calithumpia,” he said, after a time.

“Really?”

He twirled a streamlined knob. The “works” uttered a protesting squeal and lapsed into statical mutterings. After much ado a weak musical whine could be heard faintly in the background. It was, however, quickly stonkered by other more robust uproars.

For all that, it had been there; and as the smell of blood is to a man-eating lion, so was one note of music to my cobber Bill.

“By heck!” He eyed the knob, as a world-famous engineer would eye the button prior to pressing it and blowing four or five mountains out of the way, and got right down to it.

His whisky forgotten, he knelt before the set with hands poised over knobs, scarcely daring to breathe.

“Delicate things, these,” he whispered.

“You gotta be careful or you go right past the station on to another.”

The fact that we were after no par ticular station didn’t matter to him. Per sonally, I would have been overjoyed if he had got on to anything by merely going past something else, and catching it unawares, so to speak.

Meanwhile, the musical whine came in and out a time or two, to be overwhelmed by splutters, crackles and roars.

“I’ll get it d’rectly,” said Bill “Here’s luck!” said I, raising my glass.

THE sounds issuing from the set reminded me of a morning I once spent at a poultry market. I re member the solution I used that same morning to get the quacks, cackles, barks and yabbering out of my system. I used it again now. The bottle wouldn’t last too long unless he got some music, I decided.

“Here’s luck!” I said again.

Occasionally very occasionally the spot of music floated in and was gone.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

He was too engrossed to answer. His whole attention was centred raptly on his beloved’s dial. Kneeling there, with arms outstretched, and eyes staring pleadingly upwards, he reminded me of that frontispiece of Christian on my grandmother’s copy of “Pilgrim’s Pro gress”.

I continued with the perseverance of a heckler who is going to make his point or get chucked out in the attempt.

“Wonderful static, fella! Quite as good as any I’ve heard. One wonders how such a small machine can cope with it, doesn’t one?”

A grunt was all reply I got.

“Marvellous!” I said, appreciatively.

“Astonishing! That’s what I call static.

Practically no musical interference what ever.”

“Shssssh!” said he.

“Eeeeepee! Stahkee! WeeeeeeePPEE!

Squark-crash-bang! EEeeeeeEEEEEee!

WOoooroooOH! ” said the “works”.

“I dunno what station this is,” said Bill, quite seriously.

“What are you on?”

“Short wave.”

“I thought perhaps you might be on ‘reacher-out-and-bring-it-back’. It sounds like Ancient Rome to me. I can hear lions roaring: the blood-thirsty cries of a multitude: and every now and then the terrified shrieks of Christians in mortal agony. Are you sure you haven’t inadvertently tuned-in to The Colosseum of bygone days?”

“Aw! Shut up!”

“Just made the suggestion for what it’s worth, son. Take it or leave it.” I bent the elbow again. “Well —here’s luck!”

Luckily I'm not a sensitive chap and I wasn’t offended because I seemed to be doing all the drinking, by myself.

Bill suddenly got on to something with a crash. At the moment, I thought the house had collected a Nazi bomb, and accordingly I sat as though petrified.

Bill, however, wasn’t the least bit dis mayed.

“I’m getting Victoria,” he explained.

“Y’ can’t beat Victoria. Always get a good reception from Victoria. Bound to be a snifter programme from Victoria.”

Victoria seemed to do the dirty on him

after that first careless rapture, though, and he twiddled feverishly.

“Dam’!” he said.

PRESENTLY there came a whinge — it may have been a musical sound when it started out from Victoria, but you know how these tropics deterio rate things. A whinge, I say, floated feebly in; was gone; in again; away; more static; in with a sudden rush; swelled to enormous proportions; roared our heads off for three seconds; faded; roared again. Dead silence. Bash!

Crackle! Spit!

Apparently this suited Bill, for he left the thing and resumed his “spot”.

The “works” then proceeded to enter tain us thus: — “WAAOHAAH! ome . . . mmm . . .

Swee . . . Eeeesquealee . . . There’s . . . no-ooh . . . whistle.. .place... Eepeesqwee . . . oomme . . . There’s . . . no-oOH . . . peeupee-crack-whistle . . . like . . . silence . . . mmm . . . crackle-pop-bash!”

“That was ’ome sweet ’ome they was sinein’,” said Bill.

“You don’t say! I must get it for my gramophone. Is it one of the latest?”

But I doubt if he heard me. He was busy putting a sock in it.

“Didja bring y’ gramophone up?”

I said “No!” and, “What would I be lugging it about in this weather for?”

He went to the cupboard to get another bottle.

“I wish y’d brought it,” he said plain tively. “I’d’ve liked to hear that there

Three Little Fishies again.”

J. G. Mci.