Fed-up Trader
pp. 46-47 · Read in the full issue
The Soliloquy of a Fed-up Trader
By J. W. Wilkinson
I HAVE reached the conclusion that I am a great philanthropist.
Yesterday, I received my mail, which comprised mainly bills. To-day I am go ing over the accounts. ’Tis a heartbreak ing job.
Here is a credit from PCB. H’mmmmm —it will just pay that bill, with enough left to make a token payment on the next.
Blazes, a letter from the firm saying copra sacks are scarce and un in price.
Another bill —quite a big debit balance there. Let me think. Yes. the copra in PCB now should settle that one, but there will be very little to spare.
Oh, here’s a credit for trochus shell— that’s handy. It has been so long away that I had forgotten it.
I think I will have a drink on the strength of that. There is no mistake: a drop of grog helps to brighten the outlook for a time.
Her'eVs the latest bill for stores. O death where is thy sting? Flour gone up again —meat rationed—N/S (that means no stock) of soap, tobacco, blankets. Hang it all, I’ll have another drink —purely for medicinal purposes this time. Oh, well —I suppose I can get along for a time.
The next letter: The Prices Com missioner has brought rice down 2/- a cwt. Well, that is something, anyway.
We must be thankful for email mercies these days. It may be the start of a drop in prices. It is the first time any reduction has been made in foodstuffs.
Definitely, it is worth a drink.
I suppose I’d better look at the other letters. One from PCB. They may have found that they owe me some more money. Whaaaat, smoke-dried copra go ing down £2 a ton! Hades, why couldn’t the price of other copra go un? It’sh a shame the way we are treated. That’sh a shock —have to have another drink.
Nothing to shpare thish monsh.
Who ’sat? Oh, bossboy, boy—shorry— foreman. What? Copra drier on fire? — Put it cut, put it out!
Eh? It is out —burnt out—! !
“Well, here I am still alive —that’s some thing to be pleased about. Or is it?
Have to get another bottle. That’s better.
Let me look at things. Have enough for all the bills this month and enough to pay Eddie Ward for another month of exise-exshershise-exercise. That word takes a bit of saying, but I did it. Worth another drink. Yes, I am a phanthropist, no, a philanthropist. Work for nothing.
Pay all my money out in a good cause.
Nothing like it. Feel better already.
There’s always shomething to be happy about.
But what have I got to be happy about.
There’s still some grog left —that’s some thing. Oh, yes, I am a phantist. No, that’s wrong. Well, what am I? From where I’m sitting it looks as if I am a fool. Sho are a lot of other poor planters and traders.
Who said the war was over? Who fought for democracy? Better have a lil snort, house might catch fire next. Never know your luck. Boy—no, labourer —no, em ployee—no matter. No money, no copra drier, no more grog. I’ll join the Gov ernment and become reshpectable. Or what about the Missions?
Better have a lil sleep first. Might win the lottery—might not, too. Ah, well, here we go. * * * The mighty Wilkinson sleeps. Let’s hope he has sweet dreams. It’s about all any
(See Col. 1, opposite.)
(Continued from Previous Page ) one can have these days, without paying a fantastic price for it or getting a licence for it, or finding it is rationed or not in stock, or not up to the standard laid down in the Ordinance. All applica tions to be made in triplicate accom panied by regulation fee. No—l am a little ahead of myeelf there; but not much. It won’t be long now.