"PLACE CALLED HANSO”

Evening Star, Issue 19788, 11 February 1928, Page 17

"PLACE CALLED HANSO”

A TALL STORY [Written by Tat,. Johnston, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] There is a place called Hanso. It is a very simple matter to deny this and produce Hanso-less maps of the world as evidence in support of the denial, but such baseless incredulity will not shake my belief in its existence. Could I but introduce the sceptic to Webster O’Rourke, he, too, would believe and apologise for his doubt. It was this way: One warm evening a few summers ago I sat upon the ./barf edge and dangled my feet over the side. It was a restful moment, calling for the consumption of much to’acco and the weaving of dreams. A munificent cheque from a Famous publisher was on tjio point of emerging from the nebulie of beautiful improbabilities, when mundane influences reasserted themselves in the person of Webster O’Rourke.

“1 will throublc you for a fill av tobacco,” he announced with decision. Ho had the faintest suspicion of a brogue. “ I’m inclined to believe you,” I said. “ Will you sit down and burn it with mo?” ' . ,

“ ’Twas for th’ purpose av inflictin’ meself upon you Unit 1 spoke,” said he, attending liberally, nevertheless, to the matter of Ills first statement. “Your appearance bespoke a certain far-away-ness av tli’ thoughts, an’ I-misdoubt you were drainin’ av distant cities an’ th’ ‘ place beyond tb’ skylinfc, where th’ strange roads go down,’ were yon not now?”

His eye? wore kindly, and blue with a bint of tropic seas. “Something like that,” I admitted, lazily.

He polled luxuriously at, his surprisingly musical pipe for a minute; then, with the air of one about to impart momentous secrets, jabbed at me with a stubby finger and spoke in a low voice. “T am Webster O’Rourke,” ho said. “so named from the hook that was given mo in infancy, and on th’ covers of which I massaged me tender gums as an aid to tectiling. Th’ color av it ran an’ affected mo hair an’ temper in afther years. But that is beside th’ point. I will tell you plnvat no man has ever heard from me lips. I have been to Hanso!” “Reallv!” I exclaimed.

“I have been to Hanso!” he repeated firmly, “an’ th’ manner av me going was this. T left the old home an’ crossed over to London in search av fame an’ fortune. I was a young lad then—a very fine young lad at that, too—an’ mo hopes was high with th’ certainty av ultimate riches an’ honor awaitin’ mo in th’ great city. As I wandered the sthreots the people showed thimsolvcs in their nalive unfriendliness, pushing an’ jostling aginst mo like pigs in a lane, until T escaped from thim into a park an’ sat mesclf down upon a chair. Then a man in brass buttons, with a hag av money, thried to sell me a ticket for twopence. an* whin I pointed out that he’d been doin’ good enough business to get such a hag av money he called a. polisman. ‘Nah, then! Out o’ this!’ says th’ copper, an’ divil a hit would lie listen, to reason. ‘ Where can I ho goin’, in all this great place?’ says I, an’ ho told me in two worrds. ‘Not there,’ say.s I, ‘or at laste not yet, pin, so th’ pigs,’ an’ went from tli’ park wid anger in me heart. “ I got mesclf aboard a whackin’ great

i s. which same conveyed me to a place ho th’ name av Greenwich. There was a big weathercock there that reminded mo av a rooster I had at home. Says T: ‘Which way shall T goP’ an’ in answer to me worrds the cock swung around and pointed south. “ ‘ South it is,’ says T, takin’ th’ hint, and .south I went from that place until I came to the Equator. “ From there I turned to th’ loft an’ went onwards ontil I came to the place called Hanso, which you will know by the baobab trees that stand, two by two. at th’ roadside. It was the hour of noon he tli’ sun, an’ th’ rows of mud houses were quiet an’ peaceful. Hens .scratched in th’ dust, an’ dogs scratched among themselves in th’ shadows. Not wishful to disturb th’ good people at their rest hour. I walked to the open space between the houses an’ sat mesclf down upon a great, smooth lump of a stone that lay there in the shade of a tree.

“By-an’-by, when th’ shadow av tli’ tree had moved across th’ street, a big nnygur-lnokin’ gossoon crawled out from th’ door av a house an’ stood up blinkin’ in the sunlight. Then ho saw meself as I sat fannin’ a draught wid mo hat, and th’ feature got down on hi.s belly an’ wriggled away like a snake.

“At the time I thought may ho they went that way to save ih’ feet av them from thorns, but presently f found it was done out nv respect to meself, an’ thought better av them for it. Soon Ih’ whole boilin’ av them crawled along to me, an’ two old wans raised themselves on the stone like a dog will when he’s after putting his head in your.lap, and looked harrd at me hair. Wan av them put his dirty old elaw out an’ poked me head wid it. Then ho pulled me hair. ‘ May th’ dlvil fly away wid ye!’ f roared at him. an’ th’ two av them flopped down on their knees an’ slobbered th’ toes av me boots.

“ ’Twas not long before 1 found that they were frightened av me an’ wishful to be humble in mo presence. I tried them by pointin’ to me month an’ mnkin’ th’ movements of eatin’. In two shakes there was enough eatables brought to me as would have fed an army. Then they fetched me a drink av some liquor that would lake th’ paint from a boiler, but which creates a fooling of pleasure whin your breath returns.

“The hospitality av them haytheiis was an excellent antidote for the poison av hostility what has soured the natives nv th’ folk in London, an’ I felt that 1 had done right for moself in coinin’ among them. ’Twas not for some time that I. discovered th’ reason for it.

“When,they had feci me, th’ two old ’uns made signs for me to follow them, leadin’ th’ way backwards with much bowing an’ humblin’ av thimselves.

“They led me to a great hut in th’ centre av th’ village, waved their hands around a few times, and pointed to me, sayin’ as plain as conjd bo that 1 was to make mesolf at home.

“ At one end av the hut was a crature carved from stone. His head was covered in round lumps av red glass, eivin’ him the appearance of havin’ a red, curly wig. For eyes ho had two lumps av blue glass, an’ his fare was painted white. A small fire burnt on a flat slab in front av him, an’ a shrivelled qld man tended it. In front av the lire again was a heap of the red lumps the same as the top-knot on th’ ugly divil, an’ it all sparklin’ an’ winkin’ in th’ firelight, “Th’ wizened old man waves to mo to he seated, indicatin’ a block av stone by th’ idol. I seated meself.

“ Now, 1 have told yon that I cut nio teeth on a. dictionary, so that th’ gift av languages comes to mo like swimmin’ to a duckling. “ Th’ old man spills sonic water from a jug, points to it, an’ says ‘Refaw!’ I sec that he’s meanin’ to teach me th’ lingo, so ] dabbled me fingqr in the puddle, repeatin’ th’ worrd.

“Th’ fire is called ‘Erif,’ an’ food is * narcs,’ an’ the bits av red stone was ‘ ybur,’ an’ so jin. Twas but a short time before I was jabberin’ away with them like an’ old hand at th’ game. ‘Erif ynd!’ I would say, meanin’ that th’ gods were pleased to hang th’ sun

oift an’ quit monkeyin’ wid th’ rain tap. ‘Liahl 0 der daeh,’ they would shout, bowin’ low in riverence to meself. ’Twas all fine an’ dandy while it lasted. “They told mo that there was an’ ancient legend among them concernin’ the stone idol. A prophet had told them many years ago that there would come amongst them a man av might, wid hair like the glow av red embers an’ eyes like the sky after rain, and, although they considered me actions to be more or less like an' ordinary man’s, I was th’ nearest approach they had seen to fulfilment av th’ prophecy. “The head av th' tribe was a woman, which is not usual among natives. Her name was Azil, an’ she had a temper av her own. She would have no truck wid me, sayin’ that I had upset th’ balance av power, which meant that she was jealous av mo popularity. “ Wan mornin’ as I was baskin’ in th’ sunlight before mo temple I heard a screech like a banshee’s coinin’ from th’ palace av Azil, an’, thinkin’ it might bo a mouse had disturbed her highness, I ambled across to give aid to th’ disthressed.

“ ’Twas not a mouse, but a poor divil av a serving girl that had committed some offence such’s inakin’ th’ porridge lumpy, an’ Azil was proceedin’ to carve a Iretwork pattern on her wid a stone knife.

“I rescued th’ poor thing an’ appointed her second assistant housekeeper in me own quarters. “ For three years I lived a quiet life amongst them, an’ then disaster overtook me in th’ shape av news from th’ outside world.

"Some years before my arrival one av th’ men had gone huntin’ in th’ bush. Followin’ th’ trail av a wounded beast be had travelled many miles, being av a stubborn nature. He wint so far that ho got right out av th’ country over which th 1 woman Azil has power, an’ there fell in wid a gang av Portugese slave dealers. “ White or near-white men were unknown to the people av those parts, an’ before th’ poor man could recover from_ his astonishment th’ dagos had him in irons an’ marchin’ to th’ coast. Alter some years av slavery lie managed to escape an’ make his way back to Hanso.

Tile whole trouble was in him seein’ me first, which same he did, takin’ a good look while he was about it. Then went an’ had a pow-wow wid Azil. Late in th’ night it was whin J was awakened by th’ girl I had rescued from AziJ. She was shakin’ at me shoulder an chatterin’ wid fear. M hat now!’ I says, not likin' to be disthurbed at me rest. Dcr-daeh!’ she whispers, fearnil like, ‘you must fly!’ “ ‘Am I a bird?’ says I. No, Dcr-daeh, bub Azil is about to present you, with the winged thing,’ she says, mentionin’ a local method nv showm displeasure, the same bein’ painful even to behold. ‘‘‘The, inni) who come buck has spoken gvjil ol you/ she continued, f and the people are bondin’ palm trees for you this minnit. You must fly!’ thinks I; ‘1 will fly now in one piece or later in two, an’ Hie first bein’ more conductive to Jong life is th’ method for me.’

‘“1 will fly I’ 1 agreed; addin’ th’ native worm moanin’ ‘ Too right!’ Now I had forgotten th’ old man who, looked after th’ fire, but I was reminded av his presence when ho Jumped on me back as J sneaked from the door, him scroechin’ to beat th’ baud.

“1 caught th’ old un by the necklace of beads he wore, an’ cast him Irom me. Bo th’ time I won clear av th’ tribe an’ reached th’ coast me feet was worn to th’ ankle joints, an’ a groat weariness was upon me. I had no money, but, as luck would have it, I found two av them red bits av glass in me pocket. I’d been in th’ habit av throwin’ them at th’ birds, an’ these two must have been overlooked. J took them to a curio shop, an’ th’ man was so eager to get them that I withdrew to think th’ matter over. Finally, decidin’ that i.’d keep them for a while, I put them in a tobacco box, an’ shipped aboard a tramp steamer, which landed me in Sydney. “ I regret to say that I celebrated mo return to civilisation by getting completely drunk.

“Whin J, recovered mo senses I found that someone had rung the changes on me two hits av glass, removin’ them from th’ tin an’ substitutin' two lumps av stouo. 1 didn’t grieve much for thim ontil 1 picked up this bit av an English paper.” Here my adventurous companion handed me a cutting from the ‘ Daily News,’ which told of the discovery of two record rubies and the purchase for L2U,OUU by an American millionaire. “But,” 1 protested, “those stones were discovered in Burma.”

“Burma is convanienily distant,” said O’Rourke. “So is Cochin-China, an’ both arc grand places for discoverin’ tilings, TIB thavin’ spalpeen had. to give ’em some port av origin, hadn’t he?”

“True!” 1 agreed. “Thou,” said he with a triumphant air, “ hero is th’ very box 1 carried thim in.”

Ho produced for my inspection a tobacco tin of disreputable appearance. After thatj who could doubt? “That settles it,” 1 said, decidedly. “It does so” he affirmed. _ “ An’ now, because i. have taken a likin’ to yon, an’ you have th’ air av a man av honorable breeding, i will put you in tli’ way av mnkin’ a fortune. Yon will remember I spoke av a heap av the red stones Yes? Well, it is in me to journey back to that far place an’ gather a sack or two av them. _ You shall have a half-share, wid nothin’ to do but sib here or elsewhere an’ await me return.” “This is too much!” i protested, but ho silenced mo with a wave of his hand. “Since .von protest—why thin, I will allow you to linance th’ expedition,” he offered, grandly. “How much ?” J. faltered. “ Wi<l me knowledge av the worrld, I could do th’ trip wid live'pounds,” he answered. Sly heart sank “ Would five shillings be of any use?” I asked, hardly liking to mention so small a sum, yet drawing the coins from my pocket. He looked about him with an expression of disgust on his face. There was no one about save a solitary policeman, who strolled in our direction. “’Twill serve!” said O’Rourke, taking the coins, “ but i will be compelled to thravcl steerage. There is a boat leavin’ to-night from Bluff. I will catch Hi’ thrain that connects wid it. God bless you until mo return!”

With these words, my ‘friend and bonefactor-to-ho marched rapidly away in the deepening dusk.

The policeman wished me “Goodnight!’’ as ho strolled past. Time has slipped away since that memorable evening, but of Webster ana the rubies there is no sign. "Sometimes I fear that ho may be hampered hy lack of capital. The famous exploit of a certain Sir H. IV!. Stanley gives me an idea. I will boat a syndicate—“The'’ Hanso Rescue Syndicate” would sound well—and travel to the far places after my friend. 1 will he at home to capitalists every evening from 6 til! 8. "(The end.)