Gaol-Breakers In

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A Trader’S Tale By “Tukapa

Koko”

A HOARY old sinner, The Hermit, an acquaintance of mine in the moun tain, was pouring into my youthful ears, not wise saws and admonishing proverbs, but Rabelaisian reminiscences and soliloquies Cytherean.

Ancient, beaky, pipe in mouth, he looked like a wicked, piratical old par rot from the ship of Captain Kidd—less the verbiage. He. in spite of 50 years as trader in Polynesia, was not addicted to oaths, but the sprightliness of his aged discourse made one forget the absence of adjective and noxious noun.

He held forth—all the more shock ingly, for it was the Sabbath, and his “missus” and all other godly natives were in church— pausing occasionally to spit into a little box, sand-filled, like that resorted to by an old maid’s kitten, .on the floor beside his chair.

“Yes, we had some fun in the old days,” said The Hermit. “There was a court, and a gaol, at that time in Raro tonga, even though there was no ad ministration. The law was Mission Law —you daren’t be seen with a girl after dark, unless you had a lighted rama (palm-leaf torch) in one hand. Strangely, there was no very great objections to the unoccupied arm being round her neck.

But- there had to be light; and if you were wise, there WAS light.”

The Hermit spat into the sand-box.

“One time, there were some girls in the Stone Jug, charged with ori po (night-wandering), and they looked SO lonely! Me' and a little fellow named

Wilson felt right-down sorry for ’em.

“They were there to stay, until the fines were worked out; but it seemed a shame, and a waste of good time as well.”

The Hermit re-charged his pipe with a plug of shag.

“Old Tura—he’s been dead this many a year—was the cop in charge, but even half-a-crown wouldn’t persuade him that the ladies were wasting their sweetness on the desert air. It seemed like noth ing doing; but Tura was in the habit of having a smoke outside the gaol each evening, and on such occasions he had the key in the pocket of his sleazy, slept-in khaki jeans—not that there was any hope of a ‘snitch’ while Tura re mained conscious”

The Hermit struck a reflective match, applied the light to his pipe.

“Things didn’t look rosy,” he continued, “but Wilson, who was in funds, thought of getting a bottle of trade square-face —they .were selling it on the beach at two bob then—and trying to soften Tura’s hard heart with that, so that Love could laugh at lock-Schmidts.” (The Hermit here revealed his origin; for he first saw the light in that land that has given Hitler to an admiring world —though having nothing in com mon with that hero.) “The square-face was a big tempta tion to us,” continued The Hermit. “It was a toss-up; drink the bottle ourselves, and lose better, or let Tura drink it, and maybe not find the ladies kind, after all.”

He spat again into the sand.

“We decided that one must suffer a little evil to gain a great good, and that the fracture of hen-fruit is necessary to the manufacture of omelets.

“So we joined Tura in his evening smoke, and Wilson later produced that

whereby Tura was to stumble —if all went well.

“Tura took very kindly to the bait, as there was no one about, and the main drawback to error—being found out—was minus.”

The Hermit stirred the cuspidor-sand with a stick, and again refreshed nim self.

“Well, you know that when a native and a bottle of square-face get together, they don’t part in a hurry. The deed was done. Tura, like Nelson, fell at the post of duty before the bottle was three quarters empty, and soon he was snor ing. And the gaol key was in the pocket of his khaki pants.”

The Hermit fell silent for a second or two, ruminating with a smile that almost united his nose and chin. “The ladies received us with very kind hospitality.

When we left, we very carefully locked up the gaol—just in case some burglar might break in—and we and the ladies went home together.”

He sighed, a wheeze of regret for the glories of the past.

“But what about Tura?” said I, recall ing the Roman Sentinel.

“Oh, he was all right!” replied the Ancient. “Tura was out to the world, and it began to rain a bit; so we put him inside, out of the wet, before we locked up!”

Constable G. Innes, Chief of Police in Rarotonga for nearly four years, has now left with Mrs. Innes for their home in NZ. He has been replaced by Constable C. Best. A farewell presentation was made to them and to Mr. C. F. Cowley, Transport Officer, who also left by the same boat, after several years in the Cook Islands.