a Guest

I Reassure and Entertain a Guest A Tooth-and-claw Memory of Vila

By “Snikwad”

I COULD see that something typically tropically tragical had happened to the hollow-eyed and cadaverous cheeked wreck of his former self, who sat before me. So I said: “Pour your self a bracer, and tell me all about it, from the beginning.”

“Well,” he said, shakily, “I went out aboard the ‘Morinda’ and there was quite a crowd of the shore people there, including the nurses from the hospital; quite a merry party. We all had a few drinks, and all came off together on the last launch, and just as we were getting off at HP’s wharf I had the ”

“Yes, yes,” I interjected. “I quite understand. Now, tell me what you did and everywhere you went after you—er— landed.”

“Well —er —feeling sure I’d have a pretty stiffish attack of fever after my — er—”

“Yes, yes; go on,” I said.

“I went into the Bar Condominium and had a couple of strengtheners, and — er —”

“You mean, you don’t want to admit to more than a couple,” I interrupted.

“But never mind. Did you go straight home after that?”

“Well, as straight as I could. I have some recollection of loitering somewhere under a tree, and I have a hell of a sore shin.”

“Oh,” I said. “Excuse me. Fill your self another, while I give my boy some instructions.”

I went to the kitchen and held rapid converse in Pidgin with Kalamua, and then returned to my distressed guest.

Ten minutes later I heard a call, “Mastah,” and there was Kalamua, grin ning from ear to ear.

I went to the kitchen again and filled a glass with water, listening to Kala mua’s breathless recital the while.

Then I gave him some more instruc tions and returned to my guest, poured out drinks, and addressed him.

“Be of good cheer, my boy. When you have been in Vila as long as I have you will know that misjudging your distance from launch to wharf, when returning from ship and Residency parties, might almost be called a pleasant diversion here. Every male inhabitant does it sometime or other. You’ll be guyed over it, of course, but the Native Advocate, who did it last, and was nearly drowned, will be tickled to death, as the guying will now be transferred from him to you.

“The second matter,” I continued, “occurs to most of us almost as fre quently, but it is rather more serious.

The nearest dentist is at Noumea, a mat ter of hundreds of sea-miles away, and there is only a boat once a month.”

“Kalamua,” I called.

Kalamau appeared, his big broad hand encircling a tumbler.

“However,” I said, “owing to my local knowledge and Kalamua’s keen eyesight and greater local knowledge”—l took the glass from Kalamua —“your denture has been recovered. Not, Kalamua tells me, where you were sick under the flam boyant tree, near the Ecole des Jeunes Filles, nor where you barked your shin on the culvert on your journey to re-dis cover the Rue Bougainville; but some considerable distance away along a gutter.

“A piece chipped from the back edge, and certain claw scratches indicate that it had been dragged off by a hermit crab. The crab apparently came to the conclusion that appearances were deceiv ing, and that the first promise of edi bility was a washout and held nothing more than a stale whisky-like flavour, and, in the second place, in spite of its shell-like hardness, that it lacked the contours necessary for its adoption as a covering for his tender rear. Hermit crabs will try anything once.

“Well, now, put your teeth in. What a transformation! From tropical derelict to pukka sahib in one act.

“Kalamua will bring the kai in a min ute. You’ll certainly need some solid refreshment.

“Don’t worry about falling in the water occasionally for the amusement of our

Vila ladies. They like it. And, any way, there’s more water in the world than anything else, so it’s no disgrace.

“With regard to the second mishap: prudence is its own reward. Write to your own dentist and order a set of spares. Next time, .the hermit crab might snap out a bigger lump of vul canite, or drag it down a hole or into the middle of the road, to be trodden on by a wandering cow.

“Such things have happened.”

Mrs. J. McGeady, of Suva, Fiji, has been advised by the NZ military authori ties that her son Ernest (“Paddy”), pre viously reported as “missing believed killed”, now has been located in an Italian prisoner of war camp.