219
It was beautiful out there, amid real pine-woods. Near the bungalow was a small monastery and the monks in their wisdom did not allow any wood-cutting on their property. The bungalow was clean and well kept by the caretaker. Chun was his name so far as I remember, a sinister-looking rogue with a squint, who rarely smiled. Perhaps it was the loneliness which made him morose and surly. He had no wife, at least, not officially, and the pay was so small that he could barely live on it, for it was expected that he would make a good deal of extra money from visitors. He brightened up when I ordered supper and told him I was staying for the night.
There were two big rooms, plainly but comfortably furnished, and the kitchen and scullery were outside. A number of good books were on the shelves and I found a lot of old visitors' books, some dating back to the early 'eighties. I had no idea the bungalow was so old, and I became so immersed in the books that I forgot everything else, until Chun came in with the supper.
It was October and getting chilly at night, so I told him to get a fire going in the big round stove, as I wanted to have a long, cosy browse afterwards.
Chun was becoming quite amiable, and started a long story in pidgin about a bewitched boar, a big fearsome brute, which no one could kill. I knew how superstitious the Chinese were and took the whole story with a pinch of salt, until he took out one of the visitors' books and showed me an account of a shoot written by a Mr. Currie, an old-timer no longer in the port. Chun must have memorised the place for he knew no written English, and it was clear that Mr. Currie—or "Cullee", as he called him—was Chun's great hero, and when Currie roamed the hills after pig that was the Golden Age for Chun. He got more and more excited: "That time, Master, plenty man come shootee shootee pig. Every week four five piecee man come. My catchee plenty cumsha (tips). My velly solly Mista Cullee have go homeside."
After he had cleared away the supper things I settled down with the visitors' book. There were some excellent accounts of pig-shoots by Currie and his companions, ranging over several years, and with all the usual ups and downs, failures and successes. It was clear that they were written by a man who loved the sport.
219
It was beautiful out there, amid real pine-woods. Near the bungalow was a small monastery and the monks in their wisdom did not allow any wood-cutting on their property. The bungalow was clean and well kept by the caretaker. Chun was his name so far as I remember, a sinister-looking rogue with a squint, who rarely smiled. Perhaps it was the loneliness which made him morose and surly. He had no wife, at least, not officially, and the pay was so small that he could barely live on it, for it was expected that he would make a good deal of extra money from visitors. He brightened up when I ordered supper and told him I was staying for the night.
There were two big rooms, plainly but comfortably fumished, and the kitchen and scullery were outside. A number of good books were on the shelves and I found a lot of old visitors' books, some dating back to the early 'eighties. I had no idea the bungalow was so old, and I became so immersed in the books that I forgot everything else, until Chun came in with the supper.
It was October and getting chilly at night, so I told him to get a fire going in the big round stove, as I wanted to have a long, cosy browse afterwards.
Chun was becoming quite amiable, and started a long story in pidgin about a bewitched boar, a big fearsome brute, which no one could kill. I knew how superstitious the Chinese were and took the whole story with a pinch of salt, until he took out one of the visitors' books and showed me an account of a shoot written by a Mr. Currie, an old-timer no longer in the port. Chun must have memorised the place for he knew no written English, and it was clear that Mr. Currie—or "Cullee", as he called him-was Chun's great hero, and when Currie roamed the hills after pig that was the Golden Age for Chun. He got more and more excited: "That time, Master, plenty man come shootee shootee pig. Every week four five piecee man come. My catchee plenty cumsha (tips). My velly solly Mista Cullee have go homeside."
After he had cleared away the supper things I settled down with the visitors' book. There were some excellent accounts of pig-shoots by Currie and his companions, ranging over several years, and with all the usual ups and downs, failures and successes. It was clear that they were written by a man who loved the sport
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