The New Telephone

By Rosa Moore

1 NYTHING might have come \ out of the jungle—out from under those curious bush trees nth their random scarlet leaves, nd the prim little kapok tree, and tie berry-laden bushes which, a loment before, were heavy with :ealthily swinging fruit doves, and le trees with the perfumed green owers—anything at all, after the iirious chopping noise, the tramp ng and the shouts heard for the ast half-hour, coming nearer and earer up the steep hill, Mrs. Gordon, leaning on the erandah rail, listened to the ap roaching sounds in a state of in vested diagnosis. It was a typical ruadalcanal day: frying-pan sun, ;eamed pudding ground, jellied lue sea, clouds like meringues.

Down below, the leaf-roofed Gov rnment buildings positively wag led in a haze of heat.

Her cookboy joined her, quite re lectfully, polishing a glass with a Lngy tea-towel to show her he was o mere sightseer. And at that loment, out from the trees, there acked a heated party of six Solo lou Islanders struggling with what ppeared to be a particularly un i-operative python.

They swayed on the brilliant reen clover lawn, the sun beat own on torsoes glistening with veat; and what they carried be veen them was a gigantic reel of ire.

“Me think,” said the cookboy, ith a rare flash of perception, altogether make ’im telepone come ow.”

“Ah, the Messrs. Bell,” murmured [rs. Gordon.

Four Messrs. Bell sat down sud enly and heavily on the writhing ire. Two Messrs. Bell gathered up ae slack, fell down into the jungle nd then re-appeared on a higher ivel among the violent greenery, here they hung sundry little gar mds of wire and nails and optim ;m on to handy trees.

An anxious cry, full of question, rifted up from below. All lifted leir heads and gave triumphant mgue: “HIM NOW!”

And Mrs. Gordon heard the tid

ings dropping down the hillside, relayed from boy to boy, until the merest whisper from the valley below seemed to indicate that the news must have finally arrived at the office, where presumably Cap tain Gordon sat in state, awaiting the happy moment when he could demand at a moment’s notice a thermos of tea or the file of papers in the left-hand top drawer in the dressing table from his dutiful spouse.

AND now the subdued and amen able wire was dragged slowly towards the house. Up three ladders darted three Messrs. Bell, and the leaf roof rustled furiously as the line was hauled around the eaves and on to the gallery.

It was a tricky business, persuad ing it to climb up over the shower room wall, around the corner past the verandah door and along the wall to the gun cupboard, without leaving any loops to choke door hinges or catch unwary heads.

Triumph: Everybody congratu lated everybody else. Diminished triumph. Nobody had remembered to bring the telephone itself.

The smallest expert was bundled off down the hill to fetch it, while the others sat down on the grass and held a departmental confer ence until he came gasping back.

Then came tattooed Toleoli’s big moment. Nonchalantly hitching up his calico, he stepped into the house with the make-talk box. He set it on the floor and, calm under a battery of saucer eyes, he squatted down beside it and somehow crocheted loose ends of wire on to suitable spots.

Solemnly he turned the handle and, picking up the handset, he shouted, without preamble, “You hear ’im me? You stop, eh? You hear ’im me good fella? You stop, eh?”

Results were apparently disap pointing, “Him’e no stop,” he an nounced, cranking briskly and pressing the earpiece to an ear like a soup plate.

“Me talk now,” he bellowed. “You talk more. Me listen.”

No sound from the ether.

Toleoli tried cajolery, “More better me listen first time, you talk long me,” he wheedled. (Speak, oh speak, beloved).

AS long as fiddles were the faces round him. But reluctant science could be dealt with yet.

To the edge of the jungle sped an enterprising Mr. Bell. Leaning over

into the valley, he uttered at length to the effect that Toleoli’im’e wait now long telephone—and again Mrs.

Gordon heard the message drop ping and fading down to the office in the valley.

Sensation! The telephone gave a delicate but unmistakeable tinkle.

“You stop now, eh?” Toleoli roared menacingly, cross-eyed with the effort to hear. “You hear ’im me goodfella?”

A small squeak from the tele phone.

“Talk more strong,” urged Toleoli anxiously. “Me hear ’im little bit no more.”

A loud bark from the telephone.

Toleoli recoiled and rubbed the operative ear.

“All right, all right, now me try ’em bell-o.” he cried. “Shut ’im up and listen more.”

Somehow, that broke the magic spell; the telephone went to sleep.

The experts buzzed like flies and shouted their distress down to the valley. Toleoli grew into a house hold fixture there on the floor, while houseboys dusted round him and Mrs. Gordon accepted, as part of the morning, his anguished, pleading, threatening conversation, broken occasionally by tired little rings from the telephone.

“II faut souffrir pour etre Mr.

Bell,” she thought irrelevantly.

But slowly, slowly, coherence crept into Toleoli’s monologue.

“Him’e sing out good now, eh?” he declaimed at last. “You hear’m me time me talk all the same? Yes, me savvy everything something long talk belong you. Me think tele phone number one now. Tha’ ’s all.”

HE hung up with a triumphant grunt, hauled down his calico, and with a glorious flourish lifted the telephone to the top of the cup board.

“I now declare telephonic com munication between home and office formally established,” was what he conveyed in his final leave-taking phrase of “Him now.” Away filed the glowing Messrs. Bell, and the crashing in the jungle died away behind them.

Mrs. Gordon wondered briefly whether to ring Captain Gordon with the cheering news that the gap of half a mile had now been bridged between them. But she de cided against it, picturing him purple and growling after trying to work in an atmosphere racked with such suspense. Time enough for the telephone to ring when it had to, she thought, and went back to her letters.

Next day, Mrs. Gordon was sur prised to hear more curious chop

(Continued on Page 71.)

ng noises down in the jungle, ben there was a sinister creaking und, a chorus of yells, a shatter g crash and, finally, a horrifying nding, tearing and thumping all >out her, while the house swayed otestingly and the leaf roof ipped like a banshee.

Out skittered the houseboys to vestigate and Mrs. Gordon ixiously trailed behind.

Away from the house, like hairs gged from a head, and away from e trees had been pulled all the lephone wires, supports, nails and latnot. And the new and still iused telephone lay sombrely on e coral path.

The omnipresent cookboy brought b explanation in five minutes flat. \ rival gang, clearing scrub for b new water scheme, had oughtlessly felled a tree smack to yesterday’s masterpiece. 30, soon after, there backed on the clover lawn a party of six lomon Islanders struggling again th what appeared at first glance be a particularly unco-operative thon, \nd this (Mrs. Gordon pictured j Messrs. Bell sadly murmuring) where we came in . . .