T P i %\B' s i ^lOSANCElfj T" O ^KlOSANCELfj- o !>' -rj;. ^OAav ■SOV^" '^^AdMiNiV3'\\> WEDNIVER^-, >- ^ ^ v-< C5~ >- o C3 ^ FCAIIFO/?/! ^^A^V ^^ ],MNn-3WV ^\vlOSA-SGELfj^ JAINHJUV ^OFCAIIFO%. (> JITVOJO'f''^ UjIiVJJO^^ '^ o ^lOSANGElfj^ %a3AINn-3WV £ vj,lOSANCElfj> o JAlNn-3Wv ^lOSANCElfx^ o JAINH 3WV ■ -s^lllBRARYOr ^OFCAIIFO/?^ ^lUBRARYQr^ ;A;OFCALIFO%^ ^.UM.V,ULL.,^_ THE JUDD PUBLISHING CO., SYDNEY. Formed for the publication of original works of a general character by the best authors, and for the sale of the world's best literature, at prices within the reach of all. Address all communications, orders, etc., to E. E. JUDD, Rawson Bldg., Central St., Sydney. THE GIPSY ROAD By R. J. CASSIDY SYDNEY: THE JUDD PUBLISHING CO. 1919 PR CONTENTS. Page. The Roads 7 Simplicity 9 The Hill That Tipped Up 10 The Hunchback 12 The Travelling Home 14 Smoke Drift 17 The Hero Poet 18 A Youngster's Laugh 19 The Land of Topsy-Turvy 20 The Famine 22 The Speeder-Up 23 Thistledown 25 The Magic Mirror 26 Life 2 7 The Daddy Dialogues 29 The Rider 30 Blind Man's Buff 31 Odd Moments 35 Definitions 36 Jean Jaures 37 The Mansion 38 When Sussex Street is Still 40 Nature and the Unnatural 42 My Millionairess 44 Revelation 46 Who Should Have Laughed? , 48 Irony 49 The City 50 The Leaners 52 My Funeral 53 Their Points of View 54 The Storm 55 'Twixt Us and the Gatepost 56 Back o' Sunset 5 7 In the Bird-Shop 59 Two Patriots 61 Definitions 62 Selecting a Staff 63 The Primary Producer 65 A Little Look at the World 67 How I Died Both Young and Old 69 Potted Meat 71 The Public Hoardings 72 A Story of Varying Values 74 Concerning the Calamity of Friendship .... 76 Romance of Reality 78 The Harvest 79 A World of Philanthropists 81 I Wonder 83 Street Corner Chums 84 Fancy-Flights 85 Bushmen and the City 87 The Unpardonable Sin 89 The Lure 94 The Roads. The White Road leads to Sonxewhere-Sure ; the Red Road leads away To Somewhere-Certain; likewise, too, the vagrant Road of Grey. But give to me the Careless Road that I with Gipsies share — The bright road. The right road — Tlie Road-to-God-Know3-WhereI We live within our little spheres, as narrow as can be; And so, because that such things are, this road was made for me I The Careless Road that runs to where my Gipsied fancies range — The Lone Rond, My own Road — Through scenes forever strange. I've walked within a compassed zone. Convention by my side, With Custom for my board and bed, and Habit for my bride. Until 1 feel the maze of miles, the longing to explore The long road. The song road, I'd tramp for evermore. 8 THE GIPSY ROAD. The Gipsy people have the stars, the moon, also the sun; And it is written down by Fate their roads shall all ways run; Oh, for the lure of distances! — the open air! — the sky! — The star way. The far way, To follow till we die! Simplicity. Though luxury be luxury. And princes change to kings, I have my own philosophy: The joy of simple things. A kiddy laughing in the street Counts more with me than all The greatness of the Great Elite, Or fame's insistent call. A flower blooming by the way . . . I stoop and steal its scent; An opening bud that breaks with day And flees my discontent. A sparrow with enough to eat, A dog that barks with glee; Let all the Cognoscenti meet . . . That bark's enough for me! A woman happy with her child . . I'll stay and stroke a curl — Despite that credos labelled " wild " Throughout creation whirl I A kitten playing with a reel . . . (How far and far away Was Bonaparte, although a-kneel, From one sweet child at play I) A western breeze, a-scent with hint Of fragrant wattle-bloom. Provides me more than any mint With banishment of gloom. Away with all your debonair. Exalted, gilded glee — Enough for me to know and share The simple joys that be I The Hill that Tipped Up. Dear friends down on earth, this is written in Heaven — with a quill pen made from a feather from an angel's wing. (I have a sort of idea that the said angel used to be one of my sweethearts down there). Of course, my getting here was logical and inevitable — anybody who knew me knows that. But I fancy that the way in which I got here WASN'T logical — or even inevitable. I think there was an element of freakish accident mixed up in it somehow, somewhere. But perhaps I had better start from the beginning. I was sitting on a hillside overlooking a bay. It was a grassy hillside — very smooth, but not at all steep. I was fascinated by the scenery across the water. I looked at it for twenty minutes — thrilled to the finger-tips with its incomparable beauty. Then I looked down on the water, and, remark- able to relate, I discovered that the hillside had grown steeper. And in the bay directly beneath me I saw a massive fish mouth projecting, wide open, from the water. It was a shark standing on his tail. Gradually the hill got steeper. And I noticed that other sharks, all with their mouths wide open, had joined the first. The hill grew steeper still — and the sharks, stand- ing on their tails, ever increased, and their mouths ever opened wider. Instinctively I dug my heels into the earth; but the grass was very slippy. 10 THE HILL THAT TIPPED UP. 1 1 Looking down again I perceived that the sharks had increased to thousands. And their mouths, projecting perpendicularly from the water, were agape to the maximum extent. The hillside steepened still more. In sheer desperation I stuck my finger nails into the grass . . . but all in vain; I felt myself slipping, slipping down. I looked at the v/ater again — indeed, I couldn't help looking at it. And now^ I realised that the sharks' mouths were go many that you couldn't have thrust a pointed stick between them. In short, in the ratio that the hillside grew steeper, the sharks increased in number, and their mouths opened wider. And let me remark that there was nothing wrong with their teeth. Then it happened. The hillside, which had been steep before, SUDDENLY TIPPED UP STRAIGHT. I tried to cling to the grass, but it was young and green, and broke off the moment I frenziedly grabbed it between my fingers. And so, of course, I went to the bottom . . . where the sharks were waiting. You can guess the rest — included in the guess being the fact that, although a shark miay eat a man's body, it cannot eat his soul. And, say, you down there, wouldn't you like mj' quill pen for a little souvenir? The Hunchback. I know a little hunchback; he's happy as can be. So think the folk who listen to his glad repartee. He laughs at jokes as ancient as Noah's jokes are old; You'd never guess that Fortune to him was hard and cold. . . . But, oh, 1 note the sorrow that creeps into his eye When someone else's sweetheart goes lightly tripping by! He lives in ease unbroken; his people's house is fine (Far finer than that castle we dreamed was yours and mine). The sculptures — Ol the sculptures! the pictures! — by the score! The carpets — O! the carpets of some old Emperor! They fill my little hunchback with positive delight . . . But, oh, the hopeless longing when Blue Eyes comes in sight! There's not a thing denied him. Await his beck and call The sweet, white-apron'd servants to help him, one and all. Each little wish is waited, each little fancy brings A service that is greater than that bestowed on kings. . . . But, oh, his aching burden when many maidens dine, Their voices splashed with laughter, their red lips wet with wine! 12 THE HUNCHBACK. 13 The books of all the authors are littered by his side — The costliest editions, gilt-edged, and margin'd wide. The news of all creation is given unto him From the furthest of far corners, from the world's remotest rim. . . . But, oh, the grim heart-breakings when She, the Beauty, bends To stroke his hair in pity, and whisper: " We'll be friends." His points of view are taken — and no one disagrees; The multitud'nous callers see as His Highness sees. And no one dares to combat his stupidest remark; Nor jeer his superstitions emergent from the dark. . . . But, oh, the painful heartbeats that pulse within his breast When women's eyes are shining with the glory of their quest! He has all that Wealth can bring him; and all that friends can do Is his for less than asking — who'd grudge it, tell me, who? . . . But, oh, his sadden'd gazes, the yearnings in his soul. When the workingman goes past him to load the wood and coal. And, oh, the hurts his heart has, the bruises, and the scars. When the poorest man and maiden make love beneath the stars! The Travelling Home. A city building firm advertises that it has portable houses for sale. A home designed for Gipsy folk, to suit the fancy free — Of all the homes the travelling home appeals the most to me! To Hell, I say, with brick and stone that weigh your spirits down, And all the sordid things that keep you tethered to the town. I hate the very sight of homes all set in stodgy rows — For me the home that shifts about in preference to those I If Cant and Custom hem me in, as Cant and Custom do, I've only got to pack my kit, and turn the wheels anew! And O! 1 take the glorious road that ever leads away. With none to bid me hesitate, with nought to bid me stay. O, Joy! the sound of turning wheels, the bump of laden springs, What time the travelling home forsakes the pale of tiring things. 14 THE TRAVELLING HOME. 15 The smoke hangs brown above your roofs, the grime is in your soul. And hke some drab automaton you pay your weekly toll. You toil your helpless manhood out in places murky mean, You worshippers of multitudes, you slaves to Dull Routine. But out beyond the City's marge, and out across the range, 1 see the lures of Liberty, the pageantry of Change. Your piles of brick and mortar blot from sight the shining stars For you the smell of Dagoes* fish, the roar of crazy cars; But where the travelling home shifts out I view the open sky — And O! the winds that fan my cheek are not more free than ll No smell of burning fish for me, Delilah's face unseen ; Instead the north, south, east, and west, and the wonder-ways between! How good to leave the place that palls — to pack at once and leave The things at which my heart revolts and all my senses grieve. I thank this day the kindly Fates — the thanks my conscience feels — That someone of the Gipsy group has planned a home on wheels! While you, beset by prison bars, pursue your daily grind, I'm grateful for the privilege to leave such things behind! 16 THE GIPSY ROAD. Ah me! to travel all day long and far a-thro* the night, And then to wake at morn and find a world of new delight; To leave the old hates far astern, frayed friendships and old foes; To breathe the breath of novelty in every wind that blows; To leave the tinsel and the sham, the creeds of disrepair. And take the road, the long white road, that leads to God-knows-wherel Again I give thee thanks, oh Fates, that tend the Gipsy tribe. And spread a world for me to rove that none can circumscribe. Ah me! the scent of gum-leaves, and the bush birds' simple song As sweet as wild bush honey is, and long as life is long. Of all the homes the travelling home appeals the most to me — A home designed for Gipsy folk, to suit the fancy-free I Smoke Drift. We are here to-day and in love to-morrow. ••{. V V- •'{■ Poverty may be a sign of virtue, but it is more often a cause of vice. ¥ ¥ ^ V They tell us that brains make money, but suppose I were to affirm that money often buys the brains which make the money — for somebody else? r^ •^ r^ ^ Many a man gets credit for being heroic and virtuous, when he is merely too cowardly to be other than cautious. ¥ ^ ¥ V There are sinners who never look in a mirror. That's why they never see the reflection of US. V V •!• •!• There is a notice that the grass mustn't be trodden on, but none to extend the same immunity to the workers. ;ji ;^ ;p ;j; There is no rest for the wicked. But let us be thankful that there is a lot of v/ickedness for the rest. ^ »ji »fr •!• I have always been puzzled to reconcile the two statements to the effect that the first kiss is the sv/eetest and second thoughts are best. * * * * A reformer is a man who would remove a bad smell by cutting off the people's noses. •ji ^ ^ *Z* And now for a paradox. Some married men went to the war to get peace. V T* •?• •*• Laughter is the froth of life. You'll never find it at the bottom of the glass. 17 The Hero Poet. He read his favorite book beneath the sky; He wrote a verse about a butterfly; He watched the flashing of the swallow's wing, And heard the thrushes sing. He saw the magic of the opening rose The sort that in a poet's garden grows). And oh! it filled him with a vast delight To see the lilies white. He thrilled to see the golden sun subside In tints by unseen brushes multiplied. And oh I the glorious perfume of the breeze Brought untold ecstasies. Each vagrant cloud that blew across the skies A marvel was that filled him with surprise; The leaves that drifted on the shining streams Went coursing thro* his dreams. The smiling of a child upon its way Was something to remember all the day; The prattle of a baby was as sweet As food the angels eat. All nature was a miracle to him; All sounds the singing of the seraphim; The night and day were jewels past compare. And joy was everywhere! And where did he. My Poet, earn the wage That gave him right to hold this heritage? He worked in — ah, a Flero-Poet he — A bonedust factory I 18 A Youngster's Laugh. I heard a youngster laugh beneath my window yesterday, The laugh we grown-ups used to laugh before we lost the way. No sign of sorrow in its sound, but sweet to have and hear; I thanked the kindly fates that brought a priceless gift so near. But in the flights of fancy I could hear the cannons roar, I saw the morning palled with smoke, the green earth red with gore; Amidst the scenes of infamy, of sword, and shot, and shell, I saw mankind to devils changed, and fruitful lands to hell. 1 thought me, too, of broken homes (and deep was my distress) ; Of tender mothers widows made, and children fatherless; Of hopeless hopes, and dull despair, of dead in trenches piled — But all the while I listened to the laughter of a child! The Wise Man came and spoke his thoughts. "How strange," he said to me, "That children's laughter fills the place when men fight bitterly." "It's stranger still to me," I said, to Truth's ideals stirr'd, "That grown-ups can be devils when a kiddy's laugh is heard!" 19 The Land of Topsy-Turvy. I always hated the orthodox. Convention was ever a rip-saw that scragged across my nerves when it wasn't a broad-bladed knife that stuck into my heart, and persisted in turning round. One day in sheer despair I set out. ** Somewhere," I told myself, " there is a land Where All is Different." So I plodded on. It was a long expedition. But ultimately I reached the Paradise of My Desire. Brothers and sisters mine, it was a curious land I came to. But it was a land I was loth to leave. In that land the mountains were down in the valleys. The flats and plains reared their majestic peaks, and penetrated like needles into the everlast- ing skies. The rivers, without exception, ran uphill. And I was particularly pleased to note that there was more water at their sources than at their outlets. I v/as overjoyed also to see that the frondage of the trees was in the ground, while the roots were in the air. And I thrilled with satisfaction when I saw that all the birds were flying backward. The emu warbled beautifully. The canary and the nightin- gale were as dumb as the desk of a mute. It was summer time, and the snow was falling fast. And it did me good to hear that in winter the heat was unbearable — so unbearable, in fact, that the residents had to wrap themselves in blankets in order to keep cool. Furthermore, 1 liked the people in that queer !?0 THE LAND OF TOPSY-TURVY. 21 unorthodox land. To lie, they told the truth; to tell the truth, they lied. When they wanted to make themselves heard they whispered. When they wanted to tell secrets to each other they shouted at the top of their voices. Still more, I noticed when I went to a theatre that the audience was on the stage; the actors were acting down in the body of the hall. And, what was still more satisfactory, the actors had to pay for admission, while the audience divided up the rnoney. Needless to say, I was one of the audience. And there were other strange but er.iremely satisfying circumstances. For instance, the flowers that smelt sweet didn't; the flowers that didn't, did. Black was white, and white was black. All the square things were round; all the round things were square. The wells, instead of going down into the ground, stuck up into the air — and the w^ater was at the top. The dogs wagged their heads, and barlced with their tails. When a man wanted to swear at you he prayed. When he wanted to pray for you he utilised every swear-word from Genesis to Dan. Every saint was a sinner; every sinner was a saint. The millionaires were all poor; the pocr had more money than they knew what to do with. The badly-dressed people wore the best clothes; the best-dressed people went about in rags. The politicians voted for the electors, and the said electors ruled the chairman out of order. ^ ^ 'It *T' I am going back to that topsy-turvy land of mine to-morrow — and what matter if in that unconven- tional place to-day is to-morrow and to-morrow is to-day I The Famine. " And who are these who beg for food? Pray tell me who they be," I asked. " Are they the utter dronea Of our Society? Are they all wasters to the core. Whom we should feel no pity for?" " Nay, foolish one," the Wise Man said, His lips a trifle curl'd; " These people whom you see, produce The wealth of all the world. And now they are in Hunger's clutch Because they have produced too much I' 22 The Speeder-Up. Once in Sydney it would have been ino*t undignified for a funeral procession to exceed the traditional walking pace, but during the influenza epidemic the horses drawing the hearses and mourning carriages were speeded-up to a trot. A prominent medical scientist declares that undoubtedly the influenza scourge w^as a product of the war. Disease I am who's talking — And I will not be denied! In the old days you were walking With slov/ and solemn stride. 'Twas dignity, and rightful — But nov/ you've got to haste; For when my mood is frightful No time there is to waste I So faster still — and faster I You loafing sons of sin; For I'm your Lord and Master When demands of mine begin I In olden days the slower You went the more you pleased Your boss, an easy-goer — In those days — not in these I Your slow, majestic tramping Along the city ways Was there to give a damping To eyes — in olden days. 23 24 THE GIPSY ROAD. But faster still — and faster I My slogan must be now; My murdering mood is vaster — No loafing I'll allowl Men dared me with their battles On maggot-moving fields. And now my order rattles With the bones my anger yields I And you, my hoofed, and blackened Grim pullers of the hearse, I swear will not be slackened Till men regret their curse. So faster still — and faster I — A gallop I demand. No matter what disaster Be yours on either hand I From ancient times, grown hazy, When you were wont to plod, You've grown too fat and lazy . , . But I am Ichabod, And I have now decreed it, No odds how swiftly goes The traffic, you must lead it To where the poppy grows. So faster still — and faster! — Both up and down the hill . . . An aeroplane — you passed her? — BUT QUICKER— QUICKER STILL I Thistledown. The crayfish was travelling — backwards. " Now, there's progress for you," said the Politician. ^ ^ '^ 'f* " There is no such thing as failure," said the Optimist. " And straightaway I'll scissor the cursed word out of my dictionary." He made the deletion, and lo and behold! when he turned over the page to look for the word " glory " he found that it was missing. It was on the opposite side of the piece he snipped from the book. ¥ y ^ ^ The difference between us all is mostly of degrees- While I am robbing someone else another's robbing me I V V *^ V He picked up a beautiful dead butterfly, and placed it between the leaves of a volume of poems. One day he opened the book, and the butterfly flew away. Then he looked for his favorite poem — and it wasn't there. All he saw was a blank page stained with the colors of the butterfly's wings. "i* •!" "I* V The chemist produced a bottle — corked and hermetically sealed. "What does it contain?" I asked. " The laughter of the world," he replied. " Take two drops every morning before breakfast." Suddenly the bottle slipped from my fingers, and broke into fragments on the floor. " Why, it was empty 1" I exclaimed. " Of course it was," said the chemist. 25 1 he Magic Mirror. There was once a Nation that asked the question: " Is there anyone who will save me?" Militarism handed it a sword. The Church handed it a prayer-book. The Politician delivered a speech. The Editor of the Daily Paper wrote a leading article. The Financier said: " Allow me to lend you some money at 5| per cent." The Freetrader said: "Abolish your tariff." The Protectionist said: "Your tariff is too low; multiply it by throe." The Capitalist said: " You are saved already." The Philosopher wrote an essay. Then the Fool came along and handed it a mirror. " What is this for?" asked the Nation. " Gaze into it," said the Fool, " and you will behold your only saviour." But a curious thing happened. Looking into the mirror, the Nation saw, not its own likeness, but the reflection of the Fool I 26 Life. The vulgar dog pursues a-pace the swiftly scudding tram, Which most persistently declines to care a tinker's damn. The cultured canine lets it pass — a different dog is he; His quarry is the motor car of Good Societee. The fat man runs to catch the boat, and misses it — of course. The fellow by me in the tram is loudly talking horse. But no one talks of politics, for politics, it seems. Are further south than frozen facts, and further north than dreams. The flapper flaps her flappy flaps of red and white and blue. And makes the gladdest eye of all at me — or is it you? The baldhead tries to look aghast, but inwardly doth say: "Oh I God of Love, put back the clock, and give me yesterday!" The patriot in the motor car he flies a little flag. And hurries to his city club to win the war with brag. I know the talk is loud and long, I know the whisky flows — I'm not a Sherlock Holmes — but oh I that red, convicting nose I 27 28 THE GIPSY ROAD. The blowfly bangs the window-pane; he wonders why the air Has suddenly solidified — a happening most rare. The butterfly a-wings its way o'er rose and butter- cup — And that reminds me bitterly: the price of butter's up. The poet wants to write a pome, and rubs his marble brow, No inspiration comes — he says: " Well, isn't that a cowl" The journalist has got the blues, and little else beside; He's booked to write a column — and his lady waits outside. The urchins in the gutter fight; the mangy dogs join in, And from a door there comes a voice that sounds like verbal gin. The holy man is making love to someone else's wife — And yet we take most seriously this hotch-potch thing called Life! The Daddy Dialogues. ** Does honesty pay, father?" " Yes, my son, so long as you keep your honesty a secret." " What do you mean, father?" " I mean, my son, that if you don't keep it a secret the dishonest man will take advantage of your honesty to rob you." " But in that case, father, wouldn't honesty still pay — I mean, wouldn't my honesty pay the other fellow?" "Exactly, my son. If you are wise you will be the other fellow; if you are honest you will be yourself. You have to decide between wisdom and honesty." " I think I will be a lawyer, father." " My son, you are very wise." 29 The Rider. A king caine riding into town, A king came riding in, And oh I his silver saddle-gear Jangled a-din, a-din. The people doffed their hats and cheered, They made the welkin ring Until the echoes flung the words: ** Long life to him, our King!" The king went riding out of town. The king w^ent riding out; But weighed like lead within his mind Doubt, and the spawn of doubt. The cheers were gallant cheers indeed. Gallant, and gay, and free. . . . But well he knew that they were meant For the Man he could not be I 30 Blind Man's Buff. A STORY SPOILED IN THE TELLING. The Blind Man arrived at the polling booth in a thousand-guinea motor car. No, it wasn't the Blind Man's motor car; for he belonged to the Working Class — the class that builds thousand-guinea cars for the Shirking Class to ride in. In the ordinary work-a-da}' world, so far as the Shirking Class was concerned, the Blind Man was a man of no account. Shall I tell you the story of the Blind Man's blindness? It seems a necessary prelude to the story of the Blind Man's vote. Ten years ago Joe Brooks, the Blind Man (only he wasn't a blind man then) worked for Skinflint in Skinflint's quarries. Skinflint owned all the quarries in the muni- cipality. Owning all the quarries, he v/as able to secure all the gilt-edged contracts for metal, and waxed exceeding fat. You mightn't be able to get blood out of stcne, but you can get money out of it, provided you own all the stone in the neighborhood, and all the neighbors want it. Anyhow, Skinflint made much money; that is to say, Joe Brooks and the several Bills and Jims who were Joe's mates made the money, and Skinflint got it. And out of the money that Joe Brooks and Co. made for him Skinflint bought land and builded many houses thereon. 31 32 THE GIPSY ROAD. He let one of these houses to Joe Brooks for 1 3a. a week. You see, 1 3 was Skinflint's lucky number. And Joe was a reasonable man. He reckoned that one good turn deserved another. And since Skinflint was good enough to give him a job, Joe contended that it was only fair to pay 1 3s. a week to live in a house that was built out of the money he (Joe) earned but didn't get. Joe, as you will perceive, was a firm believer in the mutual identity of Capital and Labor. Joe Brooks was a capable and a conscientious workman. He was a jealous guardian of the Boss's interests. And because he was a capable and a conscientious workman, and jealously guarded the Boss's interests, the Accident occurred. The fuse hung fire. It was a cheap, and there- fore inferior, one-thread fuse, sold to Skinflint by a Big Contractor whose greed was equalled only by his girth. There were three-thread fuses in the market. These were essentially safe fuses; for if a fault in one of the three saltpetre threads happened to cause a break in the continuity of the spark the other two would carry two other sparks along to the heavy charge, and all would be well. But one-thread fuse was cheaper than three-thread fuse. And Skinflint was quite safe, anyhow. He didn't work in the quarries. This day, as I have said, the fuse hung fire. In such cases it is usual to wait for at least two hours to " make sure "; for occasionally a kink or a fault in the thread will arrest the spark, or cause it to smoulder instead of " run." But Joe Brooks didn't wait two hours. The Boss's time was too precious to be wasted. So he BLIND MANS BUFF. 33 started to take out the " tamping." This disturbed the fuse, and set the arrested saltpetre rpark on its way. And then the Accident happened. A deafening roar, a flash of flame, and with both came blackness and insensibility to Joe. When he regained consciousness the blackness was still around him. And it was a blackness that neither the sun nor stars, nor all the lights of artifice, could penetrate or dissolve. Joe Brooks (and perhaps I should have mentioned this before) was a married man with a big small family, and, as you will readily understand, he soon found himself Up Against It — the " it *' being grinding, hopeless poverty. Luckily, however. Skinflint came to his assistance. For Skinflint was a good boss, and, like Joe, believed that the interests of Capital and Labor were one and the same. At anyrate, he gave Joe £20, and notice to quit. Joe quitted; for, being a reasonable man, he realised that a blind man in a quarry would be as much out of place as a fish out of water. You will guess the rest. And your guessing will save me telling a very sad but a very old story. And there are so many new stories waiting to be told that my literary soul revolts at chronicling^' the tame and the trite. Suffice to say that Joe had a hard time, and was eventually driven to selling boot- laces in the street. That is the story of Joe Brooks's Blindness. Now we come to the story of Joe Brooks's Vote. * * * * The Blind Man arrived at the polling booth in a thousand -guinea car. It was Skinflint's car. Skin* flint, let me add, was the capitalistic candidate. The 34 THE GIPSY ROAD. Big Contractor who sold Skinflint the inferior one- thread fuse was his campaign secretary. Being a compassionate man, the Big Contractor brought Joe to the polling booth in Skinflint's thousand-guinea car. He also told Joe that if the Labor Party were returned to power blind people would be given a pension, and, very probably, would not be permitted to sell bootlaces in the street. Such a thing, he carefully pointed out, would sap the independence of the individual, and eventually bring about the downfall of the British Empire. Brothers and sisters, just here I would like to effect a clever climax by saying that Joe Brooks went into the polling booth, and there, before the assembled officers and scrutineers, voted openly for the Labor candidate. It would make a pretty and an effective story, wouldn't it? If I were writing this tale for a magazine of fiction I would make it end that way, and the editor, being a discerning man with an eye for dramatic effects, would send me a cheque for my story, with a bit extra for the unexpected ending. But alas! this is a etory of the truth, and — well, Joe Brooks voted the capitalistic ticket, and an hour later was selling bootlaces in the street. •