UNDERWORLD LIFE

Hokitika Guardian, 17 November 1928, Page 8

UNDERWORLD LIFE

SYDNEY'S “J>IRTY HALF .MILE.”

Strange tales of Sydney underworld life, where people slash each other with razors, and murders are more than occasional happenings, are told by a. young New Zealand journalist, Mr A. (i. Sleeman, of Christchurch, who has spent ten months living in Darlinghurt’s infamous “Dirty Half Mile.’’ He worked as a free lance journalist, turning in stories to the Sydney papers on the things he saw, the people he met, and his experiences would fill a hook. Mr Sleeman is now on his way to try his luck in San Francisco.

He is a most casual young man. and remarked in an off-hand way, when he arrived on the Malieno the other day, that all his baggage was on the sytlney wharf when lie left. He had a vicious-lookng four days' growth of heard, and it was certain at least that he did not have a razor. Ho had intended to catch the Niagara from Sydney, hut had missed, and so had hoarded the .Malieno. and as she milled out a taxi man with his luggage came dashing along the wharf. Ami so this young “stunt" merchant arrived in Auckland, sans baggage, sans clothes, anti, above all. sans portable typewriter—which to him was ever more important than clothes.

“ft was a hit of had luck,” said Mr Sleeman. “and I suppose I will have to buy new clothes and a new typewriter, hut it doesn't matter much. I have made enough money to keep me going for a while.” Leaving a good job on a Christchurch paper ten months ago. Mr Shemail arrived in Sydney with a few pounds in his pocket, and not the slightest prospect of getting a permanent ioh. He tried, but it -was useless. So he went to tlk* editor ol a well known Sydney weekly, and it was here that h<* was given his first ioh. A paragraph in a daily slated that a returned soldier had been fin--•il at a Svdnev court for forging a drug presrri pit ion. That was all. He was told to go and get the story of the man who did the forgery. New to Sydney, and knowing nothing of its ins and outs, he was hard up against it. Somewhere in the vast city wars this dope fiend, where, lie had not the slightest idea. At last, at police stations and at hospitals, he managed to find where the man lived. This was the story which all Sydney read a day or two later:—

THE STORY OF THE II I'M AN

WRECK

As a seventeen year old hoy tins derelict went away with the Australian Forces and fought in France. He had not seen much of the front line dghting before lie was badly woiindivl •n the head. He lay in hospital, critical. for months, and to relieve the agony which tormented him. to distiel the demons which his wrecked brail 1 conjured up. nurses gave him drugs. Only wlfeii he was do"ed did he have any real rest. At last doctors found (■hat he was being given too milch drug, and so it was decided to slowly docroasc tlio doses. But the decrease was too sudden and the old demon* haunted him. .So he was discharged from the hospital a human wreck. Rack to his native Sydney went this broken man, his memory onUtelling him of tin* lighting he had done for his country of the torment which he had suffered during the year* that had passed. He was given a drug prescription by a doctor and was allowed a certain amount at set intervals, hut the quantity was not enough to make him forget his fantastic horrors. So he had altered the prescription and .for a time he was aide to get a big quantity, and lie lived comoaratively free from his terrifying dreams. Then he was found out.

Huddled in a dilapidated armchair, his clothes tattered and torn, his shoes worn through, his brown hair long and unkempt, his eyes glistening, the pupils contracted to a pinpoint, this pathetic figure told his story. Me did not know what would become of him. Nobody knew, nobody eared. He lived as best he could, ca.ting a pie at some down-town restaurant sometimes once a. day, and sleeping in his cheap and disreputable room. Once he had held a good job, but now his was a lile of squalor, he said.

TALKED WITH GUNMEN

“That’s only one of the dozens of cases of the kind which are found in DarlingTiurst,” said Mr Sloe man. “Paris lias got its Montmatre, London its ijiinohon.se, Xew A ork its Bowery. 'Frisco its Chinatown, hut? if there an' stories such as 1 heard, actions which I saw as bad as those I have experienced in Dari in "hurst, yell, i think I’ll keep away. You have absolutely no conception of the life these •'conic live. T have talked with "tinmen, members of the razor-gangs, yell known pickpockets, and women crooks. They are unite prepared to talk to yon. aiid they s|ieak just as though von were interviewing some follow on British trade while he sits in an office. “s'onm of the*"’ restaurants in the ‘Dirty Hair Mile’ are hot-beds of crime. It's as much as your life’s yuvth to ask a. man to pass the salt. T have seen men wounded by revolver shots in these places, and quite often have seen razor fi"hts. Once 1 was sitting alongside a fellow when a chap, in moving to another table, knocked the eater’s arm. Them was a volley of abuse, then the fight started. It ended in one man stabbing the, other in the forehead with a fork, [hats the sort of thing that goes on nearly every (lav. Mv gosh, you see things M'ppen there,” said Mr Sleemau.

SON OF A MILLIONAIRE

Another .story Mr Sleeman told was one of an Australian millionaire’s son. who is the black sheep of the family. He is a remittance man in Sydney and is in love with a chorus girl. He is given an allowance by his father, and tlio pair hit the high spots. Soon lie proposes to marry the girl. “'I he way these pconle live is an eye-open-er,” said Mr Sleeman.

“ Quite a number of writers, clever men who have held good jobs in the States, men from Fleet Street and from Paris, cartoonists who sell an occasional drawing, actors who have faded away, live in these strange environments. They know each other and they give each other a hand. There is a. certain tragic romance about their life, but they never seem to worry, and battle along in the easiest way. It was a very fascinating experience, and I have not regretted a minute of it. There are plenty of good stories to he found, and I managed to make £9 or £lO a week.. “How did you get that black eye. “That’s another story. Von can t live in the ‘Dirty Hall Mile’ lor ten months without getting an occasional smack,” said Mr Sleeman.