The Australian Plumber...

Free Lance, Volume III, Issue 122, 1 November 1902, Page 12

The Australian Plumber. . .

THERE used to be — perhaps still exists — a paper called the "British Workman." On the cover was a picture of a smug, sleek, wooden person, with a painfully clean face, complacently vacuous, and a bag of tools on its shoulder. There was not a line of care on "ts placid imbecile countenance, and it had a look of insufferable sobriety. This was the British workman idealised by the nonconformist press. Even as a boy, I hated him, and had a strong suspicion that if his bag was searched it would be found to contain a jemmy and a picklock. Years afterwards, I saw in London "Punch" a series of drawings illustrating the methods of the same British workman. And, now I have in my house the Australian workman. Between the two types there is little to choose. The day before yesterday, two Australian workmen came to fix three jets of gas in my house. They seemed to have about 118 different implements. Several sorts of saws, tomahawks, hammers, jackscrews, gimlets, and so forth. They came upstairs, and bored a hole in the wall of one of the rooms. One hole in one wall. And. they left a litter of plaster and wall-paper inches deep all over the floor. This seemed to please them, and they chatted amicably over the wreck for a quarter of an hour. Then one said, "I don't think she's quite plumb. Bill (hence plumber, I suppose). Better nut her a foot the other side." They closed the hole in the wall, and made another one. This effort exhausted them for the time, and they smoked and rested themselves. Then, they went into another room, and sawed off the corner of a wooden mantelpiece, which they seemed to think might be in the way of the gas-pipe. There was a lot of sawdust, and it seemed to please them. They were reminiscent for a while, and talked about girls. Then the senior said, "Bill we've cut off the wroiLP- end of that blanky man-tel-piece." Bill nodded indifferently, and went to work to cut off the other end. More sawdust. Lunch-time. They sat in the dining-room, eating sandwiches out of pieces of paper, and drinking cold tea. An hour passed by. An hour and a half. I went through the room, and found one of them peacefully slumbering with his head upon the table. "Bill was at a darnce last night," said the senior, by way of exnlanation. He himself was reading "The Hidden Tide," which he had picked up from a sidetable and wasi in th© humour for affable hterar- conversation. "Got to pass the time somehow," he said, closing the book. "I reckon the cove," referring to the distinguished author, "get's paid for writin' this sort of stuff." "Paid like a prince," I replied. "He is a wealthy man now." "Jupiter l " said the er. Then fell into a bottomless abyss of thought out of which he emerged with the remark. "Gimme Nat Gould." "Nat Gould," said I, "is a clever man. He knows his oublic. He lays to his book. But when it comes to dealing with the eternal verities and the mystery of things, and the painful problem of the weary earth, and the liorht that never was on sea or land, the conversation and the ~oet's dream — where is he?" "He knows a lot about 'orses," said the plumber. "You are ai man of intelligence and leisure," I observed. "You should be eclectic in your reading. Reading makes a full man, as Lord Verulam said. You should fill your mind with the great thoughts of the great writers of the past. They will comfort you more tihan apples, and stay you better than flagons in your intervals of toil. Take my word for it, there is nothing to compare with a good grounding in the works of the Greek dramatists." "Gimme Nat Gould," said the plumber. Then his mate awoke, and asiked what the time was. Half-past one. The head of the young man fell upon the table again, and he relapsed into slumber. "Poor Bill," observed the senior, with an indulgent smile, "darncin' takes it out of a young cove like him." * » * I went into my room, and got through a little writing. Finished. Walked through the dining-room again. Halfpast two. "Bill, we'd better get a move on. Hi, Bill, wake up'" Bill was really a handsome young fellow — with a fine, massive, silly head, and hair like gold-dusted spun flax and blue China eyes. "Give her a worltz and some beer " lie said, "it's your turn now." And fell asleefD again . 'Thinks he's still at the darnce," said tihe other affectionately "Poor young Bill!" It was really not my funeral — at first eight. — but I began to think it would be As a matter of fact, I thought the plumbers were bailiffs. This fancy made

me mad with, the landlord. To think that he could not have put in one of my friends in the usual way, but must send two burlesque persons with 118 different sorts of tools to take possession of the place and pretend that they were plumbers ! I had a few pictures which I valued, and hoisted them over the fence to a decent neighbour of mine, for whom I had done a similar good turn when he required it. "Give 'em some beer," he whispered. "AH bailiffs drink beer. Wouldn't be bailiffs if they didn't. Sixpennorth. I'll get it and '-•ut a touch of something in it that'll fix 'em. Then, we'll get a van — and — what ho ' she bumps — when they wake up l " It was a kindly suggestion, but there was no need to act upon it. Bill arose, and bored another hole into another wall. His senior regarded the operation with approval. Then, by way of compassionate criticism, he said, "Good enough Bill , but they don't want the blankv light in the blanky street." Bill was arranging things so that the lamp would have been of value to the passing public. "Pack up," said the senior — two days ago. "Pack up it is," said Bill. And they went away and left behind them 118 implements in my charge till the next day. Then I knew that they were not bailiffs. Next morning I came downstairs alert and vivacious. I had heard the voice of Bill, and brought him down a pillow, so that he might thereby get through his day's work with some comfort. But Bill's chief, and Bill and two extraneous Toms and Harries were in the backyard holding a symposium. "What do you think about that bit of pipin' ?" "I think it has a kink in it." Eight eye® regarded it, and eight legs were crossed for consideration. "Bit of a iob," said two of the eyes and the legs. "Wants thinkin' about." "We're not rushin' the job," said the chief nlumber. He was right. They are still in the house * • • The interesting artisans referred to above are not, of course, typical of the average Australian workman, .who is "a good man in hard ground," as the old Cornish miners used to say. But, they are fairly representative of a class with members of which I have come into contact at times. They are paid by time, not bv results. And they certainly give the time, so that, perhaps, there is not much to complain about. — By Creeve Roe, in the Sydney "Newsletter."