FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1051, 15 August 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

.1/ YSTERIOUS "K[Jl>l ’ "Eddie,” tlio British Rugby team’s mysterious supporter, has been unmasked at last. The pseudonym which has baffled the visitors tor so long cloaks the identity of three girls, one Irish, another Scottish, and the third Canadian, who early in the tour formed the idea of sending the tourists a wire before and after each match, and have kept it up religiously ever since.— News item. Now who on earth is “Eddie?" lie Has been our lucky star. He's cheered us on right faithfully, M'ith telegraphic ecstasy— Come, pledge the lad in letters H And E and E and It! We’ll find that chap before we go And grip his friendly hand; M-e'U let the amber nectar flow. Then try to pay the debt we owe By staging a back-slapping show That fail-ly beats the band' Well, truth to (ell. we must agree That every guesser misses—Our “Eddie" is a company— A syndicate of maidens three We’ll have to gargle healths in tea And pay our debt in kisses! M.K. MAYOR .-t.V/> DIPLOMAT D.T.: Sh-h-h-sh”, .Auckland! Our Mayor, Mr. George Baildon, by his exploits in Sydney, is earning a reputation as a diplomat. He attended a meeting of the Sydney City Council, just to observe how local bodies should operate with proper dignity. Unfortunately for the Lord Mayor of Sydney, who wanted to put on a good show for his New Zealand guest, tilings did not go too well. It was the Auckland City Council all over again, for the Lord Mayor, at one stage, was hard put to stop his councillors from lighting. With Mr. Baildon gazing on impassively, the Lord Mayor was embarrassed. A Sydney newspaper sought Mr. Baildon’s impression of the meeting, but this was el! it was able to remark: “Councillor Baildon is a diplomat. All he would say was that Auckland’s civic representatives were quiet men." Auckland will chuckle over this. One seems to remember that, at the last council meeting at which Mr. Baildon presided, half the councillors walked out. in order to block a discussion, a gallery of the public gave cheers for favoured councillors, and Mr. Baildon himself was hooted. Ah! Our quiet councillors! AT THE DOOR So many different mejhods have been tried by the house-to-house cadger and hawker of trifles that the majority of housewives have learned to steel their hearts to all tales of woe. Here, howev.er, is a new line of approach, said to be achieving success in other parts:—He knocked at the hack door, and when opened thrust in his hand holding a package. “Lady,” he said, “1 ain't got no hard luck story; T didn’t lose my job through the talkies; I ain’t got no starving wife and six children—l’m trying to earn an ’ouest living Buy this needle-case for lid.” The lady bought. Departing, he said, “You know, lady, there’s a silver lining to every cloud, and this little sixpence is just that.” JUXTAPOSITION ’Twas at a busy Queen Street intersection. Two sandwich-board men had stopped to pass the time of day and combine business with pleasure by displaying their announ tements to the passing throngs. As they talked the boards were displayed close together. and a somewhat ominous juxtaposition became apparent. On one board were the words: “Try a Meal at the Restaurant.” So far so good. But on the other board was the following notice: “For broken Dental Plates, go to , the leading dentist.” Could it be that this was a case of a coming event casting its shadow before? BOREDOM ALOFT It requires the exercise of very little imagination to visualise the discomforts and deadly monotony ot a non-stop, refuelling air record now that the time aloft has been stretched to the best part of a month. Think of spending 23 days or so seated in the cramped cockpit of an airplane—fly ing round and round and up an down, day in and day out! Mr. Dale Jackson and Mr. Forest O’Brine, who have broken the existing record and are still demonstrating the wonderful stay ing power of the engine attached to their fabric prison, surely must have plumbed the N'th degree of utter boredom. All they can do between tricks at the joystick and more or less thrilling refuelling operations is eat, sleep, and perhaps read. Probably the last pastime would be the greatest solace, yet, after 23 days in a small airchair even Mr. Edgar Wallace might fail to please. There is no suggestion, of course, that the aviator-reader would exhaust the Wallace products Such a feat -would be quite beyond the “single-sitting” scope of any record breaker or purring airplane motor.