MR. HUGHES AND SQUATTER.

Taranaki Daily News, 18 June 1921, Page 9

MR. HUGHES AND SQUATTER.

EARLY DAYS RECALLEDDRIVEN AWAY BY A DOG* J Sydney, June 1. A typical story of William Mo.ris Hughes, now Australia’s Prime Minister and one of the world’s notable statesmen, is going the rounds at present. It is typical—and true. Air. Hughes, not long ago, was an honored guest at a rich homestead in New .South Wales. It was a luxurious place—internal telephones, private electric lighting system, direct wire to the nearest town, a shearers’ house that made the shearers blush when they looked at it. A distinguished company was at dinner, and Air. Hughes was the life and soul of the party. He was a fund of quaint anecdote and witty epigram. The host was called ttr the telephone, and when he came back he said someone had called him from Sydney to tell him that one of his horses had won a race. “Fane* being in direct touch with the city by ’phone,” said one of the guests. “What changes in 30 years!” j The small dyspeptic chuckled and glanced at his host. “Big changes, as you say,” he remarked. “Shall I tell theih ?” The host grinned a trifle sheepishly, and “Billy” told them. Thirty years earlier the boss noticed a dusty, dirty little man approaching the shearing shed and intercepted him. “What do you want he demanded?” The little man looked up at the big, frowning man, and returned a soft answer: “I thought you might let me speak to the men iu your shed.” “What do you want to talk about?” shouted the boss, for the little man appeared to be deaf. The little man wanted, he said, to talk about organising a union. Then the boss, who had heard about this pertinacious union “agitator” being in the district, broke loose, and used bullock-driver language. But the little man was not upset; he proved that he commanded a fair flow of language himself, and he by no means got the worst of the exchange. Then the boss directed attention to a most ferocious dog, tied up nearby. “I’m going to unloose that dog in ninety seconds,” he said. . . . The host passed the wine decanter. The Prime Minister declined wine and nibbled a npt. “The dog died long ago,” said the host. “1 Lave no doubt of it,” said Mr. Hughes. ‘‘But the union lived.” “I have no doubt of it,” said the host, grimly. “Tell us,” said someone, “did you get through the gate in ninety seconds?”

“No,” said the Prime Minister. “I was over the fence in less than 30 seconds*” *