I had a friend who was able to save some money and wanted to buy a house.

One day he visited me, a newspaper in his hand. He had noticed an advertisement in it which attracted his attention and seemed to be a suitable proposition for him. It was about a house offered for sale, and that house, besides some other attractive features, was supposed to have a glorious view.

He wished to inspect this wonderful house and asked me to come along to help him as regards the English language.

As the address given in the advertisement was in a known slum area, I became doubtful as far, at least, as the glorious view was concerned, and thought that there was no sense in wasting our time on the inspection of this property.

But my friend insisted for he thought that — who knows? — it might really be the type of house he was looking for, — a house with a good view of the surrounding scenery.

So we went for an inspection of the house.

We found it in a narrow street of the suburb which, as we could see, fully deserved its reputation as a slum. Old, ugly, half dilapidated little buildings, more shacks than houses, stood there with very little space between their side walls. Some of them had even no space there, for they were so to say two-front semi-detached cottages having common side walls. There was a long row of such cottages on one side of the street.

An old man with a red nose opened the door of one of the little houses and showed us around the premises.

From the front window we could see only the narrow, dirty street, lined up with the same sort of cottages, and nothing else. At both sides the neighbours' houses stood very close to the boundary as if there were not enough space in the large, almost empty continent. There were no windows in the side walls, to say nothing of the glorious view. From the kitchen window there was a view of a small yard with a big heap of rubbish in the middle; a few neglected fuchias grew alongside the rotten, partly collapsed fence.

To our surprise the house had no electricity.

Upon the completion of our inspection, we were invited inside into a dark sitting room where everything was in want of repair.

"Will you pay the deposit right now?" asked the old man.

I took the newspaper and looked at the advertisement in question.

"A nice, strongly built house, attractive both from in and outside, with picturesque garden, modern conveniences, bright possibilities and glorious view offered for sale. Spendid proposition for migrant family," read I.

"There seemingly must be some error here," I said looking at signs of decay and degradation around me. "They have probably mixed up the contents and addresses of two different advertisements."

"Why?" asked the old man in an unperturbed manner. "There is no error here."

"That is something I cannot understand," I said. "You have, for example, advertised that this house is strongly built."

"And why not?" answered the old man. "I got it from my father, who inherited it from his grandfather, who built it when he was a young man about 100 years ago. It is so well built that no repair was so far necessary."

"You state in your advertisement that the house has bright possibilities, but there is even no electricity in your house," I continued.

The old man looked triumphantly at me.

"There are bright possibilities owing just to the lack of electricity," he said. "Isn't the possibility of electricity a bright possibility indeed?"

"You state: 'modern conveniences'. I saw a primitive wood stove in the kitchen. Do you really mean an ancient wood stove is a modern convenience?"

"When my great-grandfather arrived in Australia he had to cook his meals at a camp fire. Isn't a stove, even a wood one, a modern convenience comparison to such cooking or, in comparison, I suppose, to what you chaps had in your New Australian countries of Europe?" answered the old man.

"Perhaps! But what about the view? Where is the glorious view you state this house has?" I presented my biggest trump.

The old man stood calmly up, walked to the window and pulled it up.

"Come and have a look!" he commanded, pointing to one of the cottages on the opposite side of the narrow street.

I did as he said.

"I only see an old house," I said. "There is nothing even remotely resembling something glorious."

"Look into the room," he ordered. "That one with the open window. Do you see a picture on the inner wall of the room?"

I looked across the street and really saw a picture on the wall. Owing to the distance it was, however, impossible to tell what kind of picture it was.

"Well, and what has this picture to do with glorious view?" I asked.

"To have a better idea, use this," said the old man and took field binoculars from a shelf nearby and handed them to me.

I took the binoculars and studied the mysterious picture on the inner wall of the opposite house.

I saw some old-time sailing boats anchored in the sea near a shore which had very familiar scenery. An agitation could be noticed aboard, among sailors in the uniforms of the second half of the 18th century, as well as on the shore, among black, naked men, armed with bows, spears and boomerangs. A kangaroo could be seen jumping among eucalyptus trees.

"Do you know what is it?" asked the old man solemnly.

"I think it is the arrival of Captain Cook in Australia," I guessed. "You're right!" said the old man, "It really is."

And then, having crossed his hands upon his chest like Napoleon, he looked at me as if I were reduced to ashes and asked:

"Isn't it a glorious view indeed, eh?"