DEATH OF TOM COLLINS.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 468, 3 May 1890, Page 6

DEATH OF TOM COLLINS.

WHO HE WAS AND WHAT HE DID. A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF HIS CAREER. Auckland, April 23. Death has been busy amongst us. The remorseless jaws which swallow so voraciously the combination of joy and sorrow, smiles and tears,-which we mortals have christened life, have opened once again, engulfing one whose name has for the last week at least been in the mouth of almost every Auckland citizen. Tom Collins is dead ! What a world of sorrow to Queenstreet loungers and jovial jokists of the bar is conceived in those few words. The sad fact became known yesterday afternoon. The door knocker of his house in Highstreet was muffled in crepe, and above a card neatly written in grand and tender English, the intimation that “HIS FUNERAL’S TO-MORROW.” The deceased gentleman, though known to everyone by name, and eagerly sought after by many, was known by sight to singularly few. He was only a recent arrival truly; yet there were few men whom the majority of citizens in this town desired more ardently to meet. It became quite embarrassing. Everyone stopped everyone else in the street to ask if they had seen Tom Collins, as they particularly wanted an interview with him. Well, well, the poor fellow is dead now. Rest his ashes. Before going any further it may be as well to explain to the minority who do riot already know who and what the deceased Tom Collins was. The defunct gentleman may be aptly described as a myth. One might, were this not a serious journal, almost describe him as a disembodied spirit, for he flourished chiefly in the better class bars of the city. Sad as it may seem, Mr Tom Collins was a hoax, though to give honour where it is due, it must be confessed he was a successful one. One of our reporters has done his best to collect facts and incidents connected with his life. Now that ho has gone, we hope for ever, there is no harm in publishing them. HIS APPEARANCE. Tom Collins was a fair-haired, middlesized man, with an imbecile expression of countenance, and the most astounding capacity for malicious lying. His imagination was fertile, and his conversation as piquantly and scandalously amusing as it was unveracious. He affected grey check suits and tan boots, and his principal peculiarity was the rapidity with which he moved from one hostelry or bar-room to another at the opposite end of the town, whenever in- 1

quiries were made for him. It appears that the late-lamented arrived here with Lord Fauntleroy, whose travelling companion he had been for some time. His first exploit happened as soon as the next day. A lady belonging to the Fauntleroy Company mentioned to a well-known scenic artist that Mr Collins had that day stated in public that he (artist) was in the habit of stealing the paints supplied him for his profession. No sooner did the outraged and grossly-libelled artist hear this infamous and impossible accueation than he started out in

A TERRIBLE RAGE

—and no wonder —to find Collins, who was stopping, it was stated, at the Imperial Arrived there, he was informed by the sympathetic host that Tom had gone out. He would probably be found at the Aurora. Arrived there, the nearly distracted victim was despatched to another bar, and thence to another, till he was tired of the quest. So thoroughly was he taken in—so the story goes—that he gob a couple of witnesses to go and testify at the theatre as to his unblemished character. One of the next victims selected by Mr Collins was a young insurance agent. On his return from W district he wasinformed by his friends that a man named Collins had been slandering him most terribly. He had, they averred, said that the agent had been regularly on the spree up at Waikato, and had furthermore pocketed the premium on a policy of £3,000. This preposterous libel and far-fetched imaginary accusation quite befooled the unfortunate agent. He reached for his hat, and rushed o(f to the Police Station, asking Inspector Broham to issue a warrant for Collins’ arresb AS A CRIMINAL LIBELLER,

While he was yet pouring the story of his wrong into the ears of the courteous official, in rushed, in a frenzy of excitement, a popular barber of French nationality. In his hands were his naturalisation papers, and as he waved them excitedly over his head, he cried for justice as a British subject. “ What was the matter ?” asked Broham, blandly. “ Matter! why, this was the matter,” answered Henry Saul, “ that he had been most shamefully slandered by a man named Tom Collins.”

The Inspector then “tugged the hoax,” as some one vulgarly expressed it, and advised both injured gentlemen to let the case stand over till to-day. All through the last few days countless young fellows—ay, and old ones, too—have been sent running round all the bars in Auckland in search of the imaginary Tom, whose fearful tongue has been busy against them. The way the joke was worked was, of course, simple. The jokers are gathered together in the street or round a bar. To them enters a victim. They hail him mysteriously, and ask him if he has yet heard the stories which a certain Tom Collins has been circulating. “ About me ?” questions the victim, “WHY, I DON’T KNOW THE FELLOW.” “ Well, he does you, and he was telling some nice little yarns about you !” answer the group. They then, according to their powers of imagination, invent certain libels against the victim, stating that Collins has been spreading the same over all Auckland. “ Where is the scoundrel?” shouts the victim, and he is forthwith despatched on a wildgoose chase round the bonny bars of Auckland. Such was the way of working the now celebrated Collins hoax. It has long been known in Melbourne and America, and is just at present in full swing in Sydney. There is no space to relate the various ways in which many of our leading townsfolk have been taken in. One young man was kept on the trot from ten in the morning till after ten at night. He pulled up at a wellknown bar at that hour near dead beat. The bar wa3 full of jokists. “ Has that blackguard Collins come back ?” he shouted wearily. “ Why, he’s just this moment gone out,” called back the delighted chorus. The poor fellow was rushing off again, when some good fellow took pity on him and told him it was a hoax. He wasn’t angry ; he appeared to think it the best of jokes. He slapped his leg, laughed loud and long, and “shouted” drinks round. The long beers and whiskies were supplied, and jollity reigned supreme. The victim having swallowed his drink and moved quietly near the door, he laughed again, and said good night. “One moment, sir,” said the barman, “ Who’s going to pay for all these drinks you shouted ?” “Oh,” returned the hoaxed one, turning on the hoaxers—“ Tom Collins will pay for your drinks, gentlemen.” Then he fled. He had them that time, they admit. One of the best-known victims was a solicitor of slab-like- proportions. He was accused by the mendacious Collins of all sorts of malpractices. The six-foot limb of the law was intensely annoyed, and had he and the redoubtable and mythical liar met, we should probably have been able to report bloodshed. A young athlete who is just going to Sydney to contest for the Champion Hurdle Race was another. Mr Collins had spread it about him that he was going to Sydney because this town was too hot for him, The outraged hurdle-hopper raced round the town at lightning speed, but nowhere could Mr Tom be found. Another budding solicitor in a large firm Mr Collins declared was living at an unYarley like pace, and could not possibly keepitupwithoutstealingfromhisemployer. The young man indignantly, knowing himself to be above suspicion, went direct to his employer, who sent him to Inspector Broham to demand a summons. The hoax was explained to him and he returned, pacified. Mr Collins’ door in Highstreet was besieged from morning to night with crowds of indignant and slandered individuals desiring a warm personal interview.

The street was crowded, and at last the “hoax” reached such proportions that a hint was given from headquarters that it ought to be dropped. Accordingly his local habitation was draped in crape and a card pinned up with the classic words “ His funeral’s to-morrow.” This suggested a last joke. A message was sent to an eminent undertaker, and he soon arrived in High-street to measure the defunct Collins for a coffin. The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred in their graves, so has it been with Collins. No one has a good word to say for the poor fellow whose brilliant tongue is stilled for ever—in Auckland.