Following the Equator: A Journey Around the World. Марк Твен
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to do all the work. I was in Australasia three months and a half, and saw only one Governor. The others were at home.
The Australasian Governor would not be so restless, perhaps, if he had a war, or a veto, or something like that to call for his reserve-energies, but he hasn’t. There isn’t any war, and there isn’t any veto in his hands. And so there is really little or nothing doing in his line. The country governs itself, and prefers to do it; and is so strenuous about it and so jealous of its independence that it grows restive if even the Imperial Government at home proposes to help; and so the Imperial veto, while a fact, is yet mainly a name.
Thus the Governor’s functions are much more limited than are a Governor’s functions with us. And therefore more fatiguing. He is the apparent head of the State, he is the real head of Society. He represents culture, refinement, elevated sentiment, polite life, religion; and by his example he propagates these, and they spread and flourish and bear good fruit. He creates the fashion, and leads it. His ball is the ball of balls, and his countenance makes the horse-race thrive.
He is usually a lord, and this is well; for his position compels him to lead an expensive life, and an English lord is generally well equipped for that.
Another of Sydney’s social pleasures is the visit to the Admiralty House; which is nobly situated on high ground overlooking the water. The trim boats of the service convey the guests thither; and there, or on board the flag-ship, they have the duplicate of the hospitalities of Government House. The Admiral commanding a station in British waters is a magnate of the first degree, and he is sumptuously housed, as becomes the dignity of his office.
Third in the list of special pleasures is the tour of the harbor in a fine steam pleasure-launch. Your richer friends own boats of this kind, and they will invite you, and the joys of the trip will make a long day seem short.
And finally comes the shark-fishing. Sydney Harbor is populous with the finest breeds of man-eating sharks in the world. Some people make their living catching them; for the Government pays a cash bounty on them. The larger the shark the larger the bounty, and some of the sharks are twenty feet long. You not only get the bounty, but everything that is in the shark belongs to you. Sometimes the contents are quite valuable.
The shark is the swiftest fish that swims. The speed of the fastest steamer afloat is poor compared to his. And he is a great gad-about, and roams far and wide in the oceans, and visits the shores of all of them, ultimately, in the course of his restless excursions. I have a tale to tell now, which has not as yet been in print. In 1870 a young stranger arrived in Sydney, and set about finding something to do; but he knew no one, and brought no recommendations, and the result was that he got no employment. He had aimed high, at first, but as time and his money wasted away he grew less and less exacting, until at last he was willing to serve in the humblest capacities if so he might get bread and shelter. But luck was still against him; he could find no opening of any sort. Finally his money was all gone. He walked the streets all day, thinking; he walked them all night, thinking, thinking, and growing hungrier and hungrier. At dawn he found himself well away from the town and drifting aimlessly along the harbor shore. As he was passing by a nodding shark-fisher the man looked up and said —
“Say, young fellow, take my line a spell, and change my luck for me.”
“How do you know I won’t make it worse?”
“Because you can’t. It has been at its worst all night. If you can’t change it, no harm’s done; if you do change it, it’s for the better, of course. Come.”
“All right, what will you give?”
“I’ll give you the shark, if you catch one.”
“And I will eat it, bones and all. Give me the line.”
“Here you are. I will get away, now, for awhile, so that my luck won’t spoil yours; for many and many a time I’ve noticed that if – there, pull in, pull in, man, you’ve got a bite! I knew how it would be. Why, I knew you for a born son of luck the minute I saw you. All right – he’s landed.”
It was an unusually large shark – “a full nineteen-footer,” the fisherman said, as he laid the creature open with his knife.
“Now you rob him, young man, while I step to my hamper for a fresh bait. There’s generally something in them worth going for. You’ve changed my luck, you see. But my goodness, I hope you haven’t changed your own.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t matter; don’t worry about that. Get your bait. I’ll rob him.”
When the fisherman got back the young man had just finished washing his hands in the bay, and was starting away.
“What, you are not going?”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“But what about your shark?”
“The shark? Why, what use is he to me?”
“What use is he? I like that. Don’t you know that we can go and report him to Government, and you’ll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty? Hard cash, you know. What do you think about it now?”
“Oh, well, you can collect it.”
“And keep it? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is odd. You’re one of those sort they call eccentrics, I judge. The saying is, you mustn’t judge a man by his clothes, and I’m believing it now. Why yours are looking just ratty, don’t you know; and yet you must be rich.”
“I am.”
The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went. He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a “stand-up.” There was a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings. He tendered a sovereign, got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, “There isn’t enough to buy clothes with,” and went his way.
At half-past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper. A servant put his head in and said:
“There’s a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir.”
“What do you bring that kind of a message here for? Send him about his business.”
“He won’t go, sir. I’ve tried.”
“He won’t go? That’s – why, that’s unusual. He’s one of two things, then: he’s a remarkable person, or he’s crazy. Is he crazy?”
“No, sir. He don’t look it.”
“Then he’s remarkable. What does he say he wants?”
“He won’t tell, sir; only says it’s very important.”
“And won’t go. Does he say he won’t go?”
“Says he’ll stand there till he sees you, sir, if it’s all day.”
“And yet isn’t crazy. Show him up.”
The sundowner was shown in. The broker said to himself, “No, he’s not crazy; that is easy to see; so he must be the other thing.”
Then aloud, “Well, my good fellow, be quick about it; don’t waste any words; what is it you want?”
“I want to borrow a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Scott! (It’s a mistake; he is crazy.. No – he can’t be – not with that eye.) Why, you take my breath away. Come, who are you?”
“Nobody that you know.”
“What is your name?”
“Cecil Rhodes.”
“No, I don’t remember hearing the name before. Now then – just for curiosity’s sake – what has sent you to me on this extraordinary errand?”
“The intention to make a hundred thousand pounds for you and as much for myself within the next sixty days.”
“Well, well, well. It is the most extraordinary