A GENTLEMAN WASTER.

Waikato Argus, Volume IV, Issue 275, 16 April 1898, Page 2 (Supplement)

A GENTLEMAN WASTER.

It was hot, terribly hot, the sun descended in a pitiless blaze on tho whit.- strcxk of road, withering up every blade of grass, every vestige of herbage, an 1 almost driving 'ho very life out of every living thing opposed to its soorehin'-r ray*. The sheep and cattle on the bills huddled together until they wcro in danger of suffocation in the vain attempt to escape the terrible glare of the sun. The so'itary transport rider, who should have known better than to be travelling at such a time as this, sat limp on his wagon, and feebly urged his jaded oxen on. Th a postcart driver as his cart bumped into a rut cursed the heat and the Public Works Department in one breath, and then Itemed into hopeless apathy, and the unfortunate passenger in the postcart sat well back iu his seat, feebly wondering if there would be any chance of obtaining liquid refreshment at tho next stopping place, or whether, like the " Hotel " which they bad lately passed, they would have "just ruu out of all kinds of liquor." And through it all Fredonck Aikell was steadily plodding along. He could have informed the passonger iu tho post c.irt that bis wants in the way of liquid refreshments would be fully met at the A*oot Hotel, by which high-sounding title tho miserable mud and wattla shanty a little further on was called, but the cart rolled by him in a cloud of dust, the passenger raising sufficient energy to turn and look back, wonderiug what manner of man this could be who was walking on such a day as this. "Why doesn't h> steal a horse ; if he's caught gaol must be better than that sort of thing ?" ho said, half to himself, half to the driver ; who replied, " Ob, he's one of those blank tramps, they haven't energy enough to do anything, not even steal ;" and then brought his whip down sharply on the wheelers, as if sorry fa- bavin,' s:> far unbended as to hold converse with a mere passenger. Yes, there was liquid refreshment in plenty at the Ascot Hotel. .Aikell had arrived there that morning worn out from a loug walk before breakfast, with the sum of six shillings, his solo poFS3ssion, nestling in his pocket. He wa« hungry and thristy, the iatter predominating, as, unfortunately, it often did in his case. The bottles of beer on the shelf looked so tempting, and—well he had spent his all and was again on the road, still hungry and thirsty, but with a queer dazed feeling in his head that was new to him, probably the beat he supposed, and yes, he was getting on in years, thirty-eight years old.

A man could not carry on this sort of life for ever, it must tell on him sooner or latet, but tho heat, that was surely unusual, ho had never suffered from it like this before, but, Eureka, there in the distance stood a small white building, evidently a postcart stable, he could at loast get shelter there, and'with renewed strength he pushed on. It was killing work, but ho reached the havon at last, and throwing himself down in the shade of the building, fell asleep ; but not for long, the flies, annoyed at whit they probably considered an unwarrantable intrusion on his part, swarmed round him in myriads, making prolonged sleep an impossibility. When ho woko his head was still aching terribly, and when ho essayed to rise a strange famfness came over him and he sank back again. Ho looked round him as ho lay ; soma distance below stood a farmhouse, surrounded by trees, and with a river flownear it. It presented such a picture of homo and comfort as is not always seen in this country. He wondered who the owner was, he was a lucky man, anyway, whoever he was. Ho could picture him now, could also read his history. His father, an ex-soldier, had come out to the colony, left the army, taken up a small plot of land, and started farming on a small scale, tho palmy days of transport riding had arrived, money had flowed in, the property had increased steadily. The old people dead, his son now reigned in his stead, and had continued improving his property until it had reached its present state. Yes, he could see through it all, he thought. The soldier's son a landed proprietor, and he, the descendant of a family which had once born an historic name, a tramp—an outcast, without a place on which to lay his head. It was hard, bethought, very hard ; but who was to blame? He had come out to the Colony with great hopes, great ambitions to make a home for himself and his only sister, but the temptations wero many, and he was very weak. Poor little Mary ! he wondered where she was now. Living out her dreary life as a governess, he supposed, whilst he, who should have been her help and mainstay, was unable even to find the barest necessaries for his own existence.

But the beat, the pain was unbearable. How hot the road looked, and how cool the river seemed ? Who was it spoke about " walking by a river, and thinking that death by drowning was not such a hard death, but of all means of suicide the easiest and best ?" Oh, Dickens ; he remembered now, and Dickens was right —he always was. Come to think of it, what was the good of his existence ? No good to himself or anyone else. It was bound to end in this way sooner or later, and, well, is was no good putting it off any longer ; he had been dilatory all his life—he would be prompt this time. He staggered to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the river. He had to pass through the garden to get there. As he went by the house he looked in at the open window ; a young girl had just taken her seat at the piano ; the next moment her voice rang out clear on the still air, " Come unto Me, ye weary, and I will give you rest." With a sob, he fell on his knees on the long grass.