The Story Of

A Bottle

Levuka, Circa 1890

As related to R. W. ROBSON by an old resident of Levuka, who swears the story is true.

It was a long time ago back in the last century. There

had been much pilfering of

liquor apparently an after

hours traffic from the old

Royal Hotel. The police had

been instructed to keep a close watch on the hotel at night.

ONE evening, after dark, an alert policeman saw a man come furtively through the hotel s back gate, pause a moment, and then walk quietly away towards the waterfront. He carried something.

The policeman walked quietly after him.

The man walked quickly.

So did the policeman.

The policeman met another policeman, who joined in the pur- The suspect broke into a trot. So did his pursuers.

Now aware that real trouble loomed, the man began to run The policemen were equally speedy.

The chase went on for hours. A Levuka poet, who once put the story into narrative verse, said It extended into the mountain valleys behind Levuka. „ , r „„„ But the policemen eventually ran down the suspect, who surrendered his person—and his bottle—to tne law without resistance. He was lo< Next Corning, he was charged with theft from the Royal Hotel.

He pleaded guilty—offered no argu ment. He was a humble seaman from a ship that came often into the then busy port.

The magistrate—who also was a local medical practitioner—seemed uncertain of the course to pursue.

“I know this man,” he remarked.

“He’s a decent type. Why does he want to steal liquor?”

He added, “What kind of liquor is in the bottle, sergeant?”

“I don’t know, your worship,” said the sergeant. “He pleaded guilty.”

The Magistrate Sniffed

“Pass it up here,” said the magis trate. He removed the cork, and sniffed.

“Doesn’t smell like liquor to me,” he said. “In fact, it smells like— here, sergeant, see if you know what it is.”

The sergeant took the bottle, sniffed, wrinkled his nose. “No, sir, I don’t recognise it by the smell.

“Well, taste it, and see if that conveys anything,” said the magis trate, with a solemn face.

The prisoner, who had followed the proceedings with interest, now registered lively concern. “Please, sir, it is—,” but the Bench waved him to silence.

The sergeant tipped up the bottle, took a dainty sip, then spat and spluttered.

“I don’t know what it is, your honour,” he said. “Nothing I’ve ever tasted before.”

The magistrate turned sternly upon the prisoner. “What’s in that bottle?” he demanded.

The man in the dock squirmed miserably. “It’s my . . . it’s my . . .

But the story soon came out.

The sailor was not well, so wen„ for a medical overhaul. The doctor —as most doctors do, still—in structed him to bring a specimen in a corked bottle. He could not find a bottle with a cork, so he slipped into the hotel’s backyard, and took what he needed. Then he filled the bottle, as instructed and was on his way to the doctor s house when he noticed the police were on his trail. He knew he had stolen the bottle, and he was greatly ashamed of what was in the bottle, so he tried to escape.

The sailor was dismissed, with a caution. ..

The magistrate, with sympathetic understanding, led the outraged sergeant into the hotel bar.