Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 354, 15 May 1928, Page 4

Mundane Musings

Cheerful Friends “It was good of you, George,” I said, j “to come and cheer me up.” “Not a bit,” said George gloomily. He sank into the armchair on the j other side of tlie fireplace, and, thrust- j ing his hands into his pockets, sighed | deeply. I had had a slight influenza chill, of the kind that leaves behind it vague thoughts of prussic acid, and a morbid desire to explore the insides of gas ; ovens. When, therefore, George looked in to see how I was getting on, 1 as- j sured him that the sight of a friendly countenance had just interrupted my speculations as to whether I had the energy to drive into the wall a strong nail to which 1 could hang myself . without excessive discomfort. “And how’s the world been using you, George?” I asked. 1 can only attribute to my state of extreme debility my use of this obsolete expression. But George did not : seem to notice my lapse. He gave another sigh.

“Rubber’s still down,” he said after a slight pause. George has a few hundred pounds in rubber shares. Their present value to George, I gather, is less in their monetary worth than as a topic of conversation. “Is it?” I replied; “never mind, George, I expect it will go up again soon—rubber’s very elastic.” I considered this, for one who has discovered life to be completely meaningless, and death a welcome friend, rather bright. But George did not appear to share my view. He looked if possible more depressed than before. “Weather report’s bad,” he said after a few moments; “wireless says there is an anti-cyclone approaching.” “But might not an auti-cyclone,” I said, trying to be brave, “be rather a good thing? I can never make out, myself, what an anti-cyclone does, exactly. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to like it or hate it; to ask it in or tell it to go away. There’s nothing in tlie announcer’s voice to warn you whether it is a friend or an enemy. He himself seems to be completely impassive about it. But perhaps announcers, like umpires, are not allowed to take sides.” “It’s not only the anti-cyclone,” said George, “there’s a deep depression over Iceland.” “Well, George, as long as it is over Iceland ” “It’s moving south,” said George in a hollow voice. There seemed no hope, whichever way one looked. From the west, an anti-cyclone; from the north, a deep depression; from the east and south, cold winds, with severe frost and occasional local drizzle. We were hemmed in like rats in a trap. There was no escape. “Have you read any nice books lately. George?” I asked in desperation. It is a horrible and devitalising question. When put to myself by others, it has the effect of driving the nlune of every book I have ever read out of my head, and leaving me an unlettered and uncouth barbarian. But I considered that in the circumstances George deserved it. ‘One or two,” said George. “There’s rather a good one I got out of the library yesterday. It was recommended by the critic in the ‘Onlooker.’ He’s generally pretty sound.” “Good. What is it called?” “ ‘The Ordeal of a Hangman.’ It is told by the hangman himself, in the first person. He describes how the girl he loved was tried for murder and convicted. He knew all the time she had not done it, and that his own brother had, but if he had come forward and told what he knew it would have killed his old mother, who had stinted and scraped to have him put to a lucrative profession and given a start in the world. So he kept silent. And, of course, he had to hang her himself.” “What—his old mother?” “No, of course not—the girl he loved. And she knew he knew she had not done It, and died cursing him. And the last chapter breaks off where he is just going to take cyanide of potassium. It’s awfully well told. It is so real. I’ll lend it to you if you like.” “Thanks, George.” I said with a sob. I began to wonder if cyanide of potassium would be pleasanter to take than prussic acid, after all. “Things look bad in the Far East,” said George after a pause. “Don’t things always,” I pleaded in a broken voice, “look bad in the Far East?” “Not so bad as they do now,” said George. “This last rising of the Mah Jongs is pretty serious. One of those apparently small affairs that act as a match to a train of gunpowder. Like the Sarajevo murders in 1914.” “George!” I wept, “you—you don’t think there is going to be another war?” “Some day,” said George. “It’s inevitable. And it will be an unspeakably frightful one. Did you see thev have invented a new kind of poison gas—by jove, is that the time? I shall have to shunt. So long. Hope your cold will be better.” On the whole, I was not sorry .hat George had discovered it was time to go home.