Produced by Alison Hadwin, David Yingling and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
SKOOKUM CHUCK
FABLES
BITS OF HISTORY,
THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE
(Some of which appeared in the Ashcroft Journal)
BY
SKOOKUM CHUCK
Author of "Songs of a Sick Tum Tum,"
and some others
Copyright, Canada, 1915, by R.D. Cumming
Preface
It is more difficult to sell a good book by a new author than it is to
sell a poor one by a popular author, because the good book by the new
author must make its way against great odds. It must assert itself
personally, and succeed by its own efforts. The book by the popular
author flies without wings, as it were. The one by the well-known author
has a valuable asset in its creator; the one by the new author has no
asset but its own merits.
I am not contending by the above that this is a good book; far from it.
Some books, however, having very little literary recommendation, may be
interesting in other ways.
There are several things instrumental in making for the success of a
book: first, the fame of the author; second, the originality of the
theme or style; third, the extent of the advertising scheme, and fourth,
the proximity of the subject matter to the heart and home of the reader;
and this last is the reason for the "Skookum Chuck Fables."
If the following stories are not literature, they are spiced with
familiar local sounds and sights, and they come very close to every
family fireside in British Columbia. For this reason I hope to see a
copy in every home in the province.
THE AUTHOR.
Contents
SKOOKUM CHUCK FABLES: PAGE
OF THE ROLLING STONE 9
OF CULTUS JOHNNY 17
OF THE BOOBY MAN 24
OF HARD TIMES HANCE 35
OF THE TOO SURE MAN 55
OF THE UNLOVED MAN 60
OF THE CHIEF WHO WAS BIGGER THAN HE LOOKED 66
OF SIMPLE SIMON UP TO DATE 72
OF THE HIGH CLASS ESKIMO 79
OF THE SWEET YOUNG THINGS 89
OF THE TWO LADIES IN CONTRAST 97
OF THE RUSE THAT FAILED 100
OF THE REAL SANTA CLAUS 107
OF THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW 113
OF SICAMOUS 118
OF THE UBIQUITOUS CAT 122
BITS OF HISTORY:
OF THE FOOLHARDY EXPEDITION 127
OF THE LAWS OF LYCURGUS 133
OF JOAN OF ARC 138
OF VOICES LONG DEAD 144
OF THE WHITE WOMAN WHO BECAME AN INDIAN SQUAW 151
THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE 157
Of the Rolling Stone
Once upon a time in a small village in Bruce County, Province of
Ontario, Dominion of Canada, there lived a man who was destined to
establish a precedent. He was to prove to the world that a rolling stone
is capable at times of gathering as much moss as a stationary one, and
how it is possible for the rock with St. Vitus dance to become more
coated than the one that is confined to perpetual isolation. Like most
iconoclasts he was of humble birth, and had no foundation upon which to
rest the cornerstone of his castle, which was becoming too heavy for his
brain to support much longer.
His strong suit was his itinerate susceptibility; but his main anchorage
was his better five-fifths. One of his most monotonous arguments was to
the effect that the strenuousness of life could only be equalled by the
monotony of it, and that it was a pity we had to do so much in this
world to get so little out of it.
"Why should a man be anchored to one spot of the geographical
distribution like a barnacle to a ship during the whole of his mortal
belligerency?" he one day asked his wife. "We hear nothing, see nothing,
become nothing, and our system becomes fossilized, antediluvian. Why not
see everything, know everything? Life is hardly worth while, but since
we are here we may as well feed from the choicest fruits, and try for
the first prizes."
Now, his wife was one of those happy, contented, sweet,
make-the-best-of-it-cheerily persons who never complained even under the
most trying circumstances. It is much to the detriment of society that
the variety is not more numerous, but we are not here to criticise the
laws that govern the human nature of the ladies. This lady was as far
remote from her husband in temperament as Venus is from Neptune. He was
darkness, she was daylight; and the patience with which she tolerated
him in his dark moods was beautiful though tragic. It was plain that she
loved him, for what else in a woman could overlook such darkness in a
man?
"You see," he would say, "it is like this. Here I am slaving away for
about seventy-five dollars per month, year in and year out. All I get is
my food and clothing--and yours, of course, which is as much necessary,
but is more or less of a white man's burden. No sooner do I get a dollar
in my hand than it has to be passed along to the butcher, baker, grocer,
dressmaker, milliner. Are our efforts worth while when we have no
immediate prospects of improvement? And then the monotony of the game:
eat, sleep, work; eat, sleep, work. And the environs are as monotonous
as the occupations. I think man was made for something more, although a
very small percentage are ever so fortunate as to get it. Now, I can
make a mere living by roaming about from place to place as well as I can
by sitting down glued to this spot that I hate, and then I will have
the chance of falling into something that is a great deal better, and
have an opportunity to see something, hear something, learn something.
Here I am dying by inches, unwept, unhonoured and unsung."
To be "blue" was his normal condition. His sky was always cloudy, and
with this was mingled a disposition of weariness which turned him with
disgust from all familiar objects. With him "familiarity bred contempt."
One day when his psychological temperament was somewhat below normal the
pent up thunder in him exploded and the lightning was terrible:
"Here I am rooted to one spot," he said, "fossilized, stagnant, wasting
away, dead to the whole world except this one little acre. And what is
there here? Streets, buildings, trees, fences, hills, water. Nothing out
of the ordinary; and so familiar, they have become hateful. Why,
everything in the environment breeds weariness, monotony, a painfully
disgusting sameness. The same things morning, noon and night, year after
year. Why, the very names of the people here give me nervous
prostration. Just think--Cummings, Huston, Sanson, Austin, Ward, McAbee,
Hobson, Bailey, Smith, Black, Brown, White--Bah! the sound of them is
like rumors of a plague. I want to flee from them. I want to hear new
names ringing in my ears. And I hate the faces no less than I do the
names. I would rather live on a prairie where you expect nothing; and
get it--anything so long as it is new."
Now, that which is hereditary with the flesh cannot be a crime. The
victim is more to be pitied in his ancestral misfortune, and the monkey
from which our hero sprang must have been somewhat cosmopolitan.
Of course his wife had heard such outbreaks of insanity from him before,
so she only laughed, thinking to humor him back to earth again with her
love and smiles.
"Conditions are not so bad in Bruce county as you paint them," she said,
"and if you do not go about sniffing the air you will not find so many
obnoxious perfumes. Why, I _love_ the locality; and I like the people.
And I like you, and my home; and I am perfectly satisfied with
everything. Things might be a great deal worse. You should have no
complaint to make. You have a steady situation, a good master, a
beautiful home, plenty to eat--and then you have me," she exclaimed, as
though her presence should atone for all else in the world that he did
not have. And perhaps a treasure of this kind should have been a
valuable asset, and an antidote against all mere mundane cares.
"Look out through the parlor door," she continued. "Could anything be
more beautiful? The sun is just setting. The lake is asleep. See the
reflection of the trees beneath its surface. How peaceful, how restful!
My mind is just like the lake--perfectly at ease. Why do you not control
your storm and calm down like the lake? Look at the tall shadows of the
contented firs reaching away out across its bosom. How like a dream."
"Bah! Don't mention lake to me. I hate the sight of it. I have seen it
too long. It is too familiar. It is an eyesore to me. I am weary of it
all. I want a rest. Here comes Brown now. Let me hide in the cellar. It
would be hypocrisy to remain here and smile welcome to him when I hate
the sight of his physiognomy and detest the sound of his name. No, he
has gone by. He does not intend to call. Thank heaven. Five minutes of
his society would be equal to ten years in purgatory. New sights, new
scenes, new voices, new faces; all these are recreation to a mentally
weary constitution."
"I would consider it a crime to leave this beauty spot," said his wife,
"and it is a sin against heaven to decry it."
"Then I am a sinner and a criminal," said the hereditary crank, "because
I hate it and am going to leave. I will take fifty dollars and go, and
if I do not return with fifty thousand I will eat myself. I have said
all there is to say. Those dull, uninteresting faces give me the
nighthorse. I am going to-morrow. Of course you remain, because it is
more expensive to travel double than single," he snorted, "and I have
not the plunks."
He embarked into the big world a few days later with his wife's warm
kiss burning his lips--faithful even in his unfaithfulness. She was
cheerful for some time, thinking that he would return, but the magnetism
which attracted him to the woman whom he had picked from among the
swarming millions was of very inferior voltage.
He wandered about Canada and the United States for about two years. He
had many ups and downs. On the average he made enough to induce his soul
to remain in his body in anticipation of something better. To do him
justice he remitted all odd coin to his wife in Bruce county, and he
wrote saying he was perfectly happy in his new life. He awoke one
morning and found himself in the "Best" Hotel, Ashcroft, British
Columbia, Dominion of Canada, and the first thing he saw was the
sand-hill. He thought Ashcroft was the most desolate looking spot he had
ever seen. It looked like a town that had been located in a hurry and
had been planted by mistake on the wrong site.
He fell in with a Bruce county fellow there who was running a general
store, and they became very friendly. He secured employment from this
friend, who proved to be a philanthropist.
"I have a proposition to make to you," the friend said one day.
"What is it?" asked the iconoclast.
"Buy me out," said the philanthropist. "I have all the money I can
carry. When the rainy day comes I will be well in out of the drip, and
my tombstone will be 'next best' in the cemetery."
"But I have no bank balance," said the aspirant eagerly. "I have no
debentures of any kind; I have not even pin money."
"Bonds are unnecessary," said the friend. "Besides, when I sell you this
stock and building you will have an asset in the property. I will sell
outright, take a mortgage for the balance, which you will disburse at
the rate of five hundred dollars per year. You can do it and make money
at the same time. You will kill two birds with half a stone. Why, in
twenty years' time Rockefeller will be asking you to endorse his notes."
The sale was made and the hero jumped into a store on Railway Avenue
without a seed or cell, and in a short time the moss began to grow so
thick upon him that he had all the sharks in B.C. asking him for a
coating. And then he wrote for his wife, whom he missed for the first
time. The letter ran thus:
"Ultima Thule, B.C., March 1st. 1915.
"My Dear Wife:
"You will see by the heading of this letter that fortune has cast me off
at Ashcroft, and I must congratulate myself for initiating that rolling
stone 'stunt.' I have stumbled upon the richest mine in B.C. The gold
is sticking out of it in chunks. The auto that you will play when you
arrive will be a 'hum dinger' and no mistake. I am enclosing my cheque
for $500. Buy out Tim Eaton and bring your dear self here, for I am
lonely without you.
"Your hitherto demented husband."
She read it fifty times, placed it next her heart and pranced about like
a five-year-old. "Now, just where is Ashcroft?" she soliloquized. None
of the Bruce county aborigines seemed to know, so she consulted a world
map, and she found it growing like a parasite to the Canadian Pacific
Railway away in among the mountains of British Columbia.
But this was nothing. She would have risked a journey over the Atlantic
in an aeroplane if it were a means of uniting her with the man who was
the only masculine human in existence so far as she was concerned--the
man whom she had singled out and adopted from among the millions of his
kind. When they met the union was pathetic, but it was lovely. To make a
woman happy, who loves you like this, should be the consummation of a
man's domestic ambitions.
It was pointed out to him afterwards that, after all, the moss did not
begin to grow until he had settled down in Ashcroft. So he lost his
knighthood as an iconoclast.
Of Cultus Johnny
Once upon a time at Spence's Bridge, County of Yale, Province of British
Columbia, on the Indian reserve, there lived two Indians named Cultus
(bad) Johnny and Hias (big) Peter. They were friends until Peter got
married, and then the trouble began, because they both wanted the same
klootchman. They had been fishing for some time for the same fish, in
the same pool in the Thompson river, and had each been favored with very
encouraging nibbles. One day, however, Peter felt the tugging at his
bait somewhat stronger than usual and with one jerk he pulled out his
fish. Peter had stolen a march on his rival. The priest married them
when Johnny was at the coast, fishing at New Westminster for the
canneries. When the intelligence reached him he sat down in the bottom
of the boat and for a few moments imagined himself at Spence's Bridge
giving Hias Peter a Jack Johnson trouncing. To Cultus Johnny the strange
preference of this woman for his rival seemed like unmitigated
discrimination. Why, there was no comparison between the two when it
came to worldly icties. Peter had nothing: he had no illiha, no icties
of any kind; he was broke morning, noon and night. Johnny had a sixty
dollar saddle, a five dollar bridle, a two and a half quirt and the best
cayuse in Spence's Bridge, and worth seventy-five dollars. Peter had
nothing but the wage he earned working on the C.P.R. section, which had
been just enough to supply him with his daily muck-a-muck (food) before
marriage. How he calculated to feed two with the one basket of o-lil-ies
(berries) which had been only large enough for one, did not seem to
worry the community, as such things were taking place every day and were
a common occurrence, and the klootchman always seemed to survive the
ordeal. And it must not be forgotten that Johnny had a seven and a half
Stetson hat while all Peter could afford was a two bit cap.
It will always remain a mystery why one Indian should be more
voluptuous, or gather more icties about him than another, when none of
them have any visible assets from which to derive an income. Unless it
be that the more voluptuous Indian works every day of his weary, aimless
life, spends nothing, and hoards the residual balance like a miser,
lives on the old man before marriage, and on his klootchman after, we
are unable to arrive at a solution. No one knew by what means Johnny had
acquired all his wealth. Perhaps he had bought all his luxuries on
jaw-bone from one store while he paid cash for his muck-a-muck in
another. There is one thing certain, the honest Indian is always the
poorest, and in these days of the high cost of beans and bacon and rice,
he has to be poorer to be more honest. Now it came to pass that one day
Johnny balanced his saddle, horse, quirt and Stetson hat with Peter's
nothing and argued that all the weight was in his own favor. The keeka
(girl) had made a mistake. And to a man who measured everything by
worldly icties this was sound argument, for the only big thing about
Peter was his avoirdupois--barring his heart, of course. In the heat of
his argument Johnny determined to deprive Peter of his sacred property.
And among the Indians this is not nearly so hazardous or hopeless or
criminal an undertaking as it may seem through an Anglo-Saxon
microscope. Although a wife is considerable of an asset to a white man,
she is not so to an Indian; and it may be to his advantage that he is
more or less philosophical about it. The cultus Indian was at Lillooet
when this skookum tumtum (good thought) occurred to him. He was cutting
fire-wood with some of the Statlemulth (Lillooet Indians) in an effort
to heal the wound in his left chest which had been left gaping since his
recent defeat in battle. He went back to Spence's Bridge as fast as his
seventy-five dollar cayuse, his sixty dollar saddle, his five dollar
bridle and his two and a half quirt could carry him, and presented
himself to his kith and kin. The old man gave him a warm hand-shake.
They killed some fatted chickens and had the biggest time that the
rancherie had ever known. Peter and his schmamch (wife) were there and
old acquaintances were renewed. Johnny's strong suit with his ancient
flame was his personal icties; and when Peter was otherwise engaged he
asked the girl to elope with him to Kamloops or Lillooet. The next day
was Sunday and Peter was going out with others on a cayuse hunt which
had been planned some time before. He invited Johnny because it would
not be safe to leave him in possession of the fort, and in charge of
such a valuable, though fickle, asset; for a great number of the Indian
women are fickle.
But Cultus Johnny declined the invitation. He was tired, and wanted to
rest. Besides, he had a bridle to finish which he was plaiting from the
leather cut from the legs of an old pair of cow-boy boots which he had
found; it would be worth ten dollars when finished. In spite of his good
intentions Johnny spent the whole day in idleness at the home of Mrs.
Peter; and, as it is no insult among the Indians for a buck to propose
an elopement with his neighbor's wife, because it is a very common
business transaction among them, Johnny again suggested the escapade.
The woman only laughed and seemed to enjoy the flirtation. But she would
neither consent nor refuse. Hias Peter did not return that evening, and
the next day Johnny was at the works with greater cannonading, and with
more skookum tumtum than ever, and this time he was braver. He was just
on the point of putting his arm around the keeka's waist when the door
opened and Peter darkened the opening. They looked at one another for a
few moments like two panthers about to spring at each other's throats.
Hias Peter had a hias gun, and he raised it to his shoulder and glanced
in a very savage and threatening way along the barrel toward Cultus
Johnny's heart. Johnny dropped to the floor and begged for mercy. Now it
requires some courage to shoot a fellow-being down in cold blood,
although the punishment may be well deserved, so Peter lowered his
rifle.
"Klatawa!" (Go!) he commanded. "Hiak!" (Quick!) he shouted. Johnny
crawled on his hands and knees towards the door, and as he was creeping
over the threshold Peter gave him one awful kick that sent him rolling
on the ground outside. And turning to the woman: "Fooled!" he roared. "I
will shoot you down like a coyote next time," he said. As the Indian is
a man of few words, he drew himself up to his hias (large) size in front
of her. But the woman pleaded that she was not to blame. Johnny had
persisted in his attentions to her, and she could not drive him off. "If
you want to get rid of him, shoot him," said Peter.
Now, among the Indians, when you covet your neighbor's wife, or have
been too familiar with her, and you are caught with the goods, you do
not fly into a far country for fear of your life. You still hang around,
and the worst you can get is perhaps a pounding from the jealous
neighbor; and the sweet environment is worth the risk.
Johnny's skookum tumtum was somewhat out of commission for a while. When
he met Mrs. Peter on the street after that they grinned at each other a
few times without speaking; and by and by, when they thought Peter was
out of sight, they would stop and talk for a while. He asked her again
to fly to Kamloops with him, and she seemed to be swinging on the
balance. Johnny dwelt upon his worldly assets--his saddle, his bridle,
and all his skookum icties. Peter soon realized that his wife was eating
at his table and living in another man's tumtum, but he kept on chewing
his beans and bacon and dried soquas (salmon) in silence, and, but for
the intervention of Providence, Peter might have followed in the
footsteps of Paul Spintlum.
One day Cultus Johnny and his sister went across the river to fish. They
cast their nets directly across from the rancherie, beneath an
angry-looking, hungry, threatening, overhanging gravel bed. He and his
father and his father's fathers had fished there time out of memory. The
old men of the village were squatted here and there weaving nets for the
fishing season. Squaws were bringing in bundles of tree branches on
their backs for firewood; others were scraping the flesh from raw
deer-skins, stretched on frames which leaned against buildings. Some
young fellows, among whom was Hias Peter, were rolling up driftwood from
the river. Children were capering about, laughing and shouting. Dogs
were barking, cats mewing, roosters crowing. There was nothing but joy,
and peace, and harmony. It was just such a scene as may be witnessed on
a bright sunny day at any Indian village in the dry-belt at any time.
Suddenly there was a rush and a roar and a plunge of waters. The whole
mountain across from the rancherie had fallen into the river with one
mad roar like thunder, and the water was thrown up upon the village and
its helpless inmates. In a moment the peaceful scene was one of death
and torture. Men, women and children were struggling helplessly in the
water and trying in vain to reach the higher benches. At the next moment
the water receded and carried many back struggling into the channel of
the river. Hias Peter found himself, with others, struggling among logs,
timbers and debris of every description. Just before the water receded
he saw his wife and heard her yell for help. He seized her skirt and
dragged her to safety, clinging to a friendly sage brush. For a moment
Peter thought that, so far as he was personally concerned, she was
scarcely worth saving; but it is very unnatural to allow a fellow being
to drown before your eyes and make no attempt to save him. And perhaps
our worst enemy could rely on us for protection under similar
circumstances. But where was Cultus Johnny and his sister all this time?
The whole world lay on top of them, and that is all we know. They were
never seen again.
Mrs. Peter looked across the river and sighed.
Mr. Peter looked across the river and gave a grunt in his own language.
A million tons of earth were holding down Cultus Johnny.
Of the Booby Man
Once upon a time in Ashcroft there lived a "gink" who was very much
wrapped up in himself. At a local social function he took the prize one
day for being the most unpopular man in the community; and this caused
him to sit up nights, and study himself as others saw him flitting
across his unattractive and uneventful stage. The winning of this prize
spoke to him with greater accent than could the exploding of a
sixteen-inch German gun, and it sent a quiver through his entire
avoirdupois. It was not only an appalling revelation to him to know that
he was unpopular, but it was a disgrace to his pedigree right back to
the days of Samuel De Champlain, so he began to paw the bunch grass and
seek revenge. First he dug among the archives of history for a solution.
There must be some reason for this disgraceful blur on his life pages.
Why was he the most unpopular man on these sand downs? Why was he an
outcast? Why was he the Job of Ashcroft society? Now, just why was he
unpopular? Had he boils, like Job? Was he an undesirable citizen? Was he
a German, or an Austrian, or a Turk? Was he inflicted with some
loathsome disease? Was he a plague? Had some false reputation preceded
him into the community? Had he a cantankerous disposition? Was he
repulsive in appearance? Was he mean, stingy? Was he stupid, ignorant,
uneducated, brainless? No, personally he could not plead guilty of
acquaintance with any of the above disqualifications. Among the archives
of his past Ashcroft history he found some tell-tale manuscripts, the
contents of which had never appealed to him until after the booby prize
episode. In plain English, he found written facts which were as bold as
the violation of Belgian neutrality. Incidents which had seemed very
commonplace and unworthy of notice before, now loomed up on those pages
and presented themselves to him as giants of the utmost importance. For
instance, in looking up the records connected with the forming of the
Ashcroft Rinks he found that he had not been consulted in the matter.
His name was missing from that interesting page of Ashcroft history.
However, when the time arrived for the forming of a company to finance
the erection of the building, great interest was taken in his bank
account, and the promoters knocked very early one morning at his door
seeking endorsement to purchase shares in the joint stock company which
was about to be born. At the meeting for the election of directors to
take charge of the affairs of the company he was again surrounded by the
same zero atmosphere. He was not even nominated as a prospective member.
His name had never been suggested. He was never consulted when anything
serious was the point of debate. It had not occurred to him to become
incensed at this frigid zone attitude on the part of his associates. He
had not been expecting any handout, so he was not disappointed. He had
been too much absorbed in his own personal affairs, too much wrapped up
in himself, and could detect no grounds for offence. At the annual
election of officers for the Curlers, although a member for ten years,
it had never occurred to any in the association to suggest his name as a
probable pillar for the upholding of the business portion of the club.
Again his presence was not suspected, and he may as well have been in
Iceland. Although present incarnate, he was to all intent and purpose
only in the invisible spirit.
When the hospital idea was being introduced the social thermometer in
the vicinity was again standing at the zero point; and he remembered
that he had never had the honor of being invited by the society to any
of the annual pioneer banquets. He had received the alien "hand-out"
upon all occasions, and had the same status in the community as a
Chinaman. Of course, being hitherto so much wrapped up in personality,
he took no notice of his social mercury, which always stood at its
minimum. And then, as the management of the various institutions had
been placed in hands which were, undoubtedly, more able and willing to
cope with the difficulties than he, and as everybody seemed satisfied,
there was no occasion for him raising his voice in protest throughout
the dumb wilderness. Being personally very much occupied with his own
stamp mill, and the percentage of the pay-rock, he was just as pleased
that no local burden should be placed across the apex of his spinal
pillar. But now he had arrived at a point where the road divided. New
scenes must be introduced into his play--new machinery installed.
Through the microscope he saw that present conditions could not be
allowed to prevail. He was losing much valuable mineral over the dump.
He was angry. The sensitiveness of his nature had received a shock; he
had been shown up as the most unpopular man in Ashcroft. It was time for
him to have the mercury brought near to the fire. The next time prizes
were being handed around his arm would be the longest, and his voice the
loudest; and they would not be booby prizes neither. He had known men of
a few weeks standing only, rise to the very apex of popularity, while
he, with his ten years initiation, had not yet developed brains enough,
in the estimation of the Ashcroft people, that would justify them in
placing in his charge the management of the most trivial social affair.
What had he done that this measure should be constantly graduated out to
him? Well, things would be different. He would "can" personality and
take up the "big mitt" of public things. But how was this revolution in
the private disposition of a man to be accomplished? He had discovered
the result, but not the cause; so he began rooting among the sage brush
of the sand downs for the foundation stone of his social submergence.
"I have it!" he shouted one day. "If one wishes to make a puncture in
the affairs of this world one must assert himself; one must smite the
table top with one's fist every morning before breakfast. One must
assume such an atmosphere that the whole community will be cognizant of
one's presence, to-day, to-morrow, and all the time. One must assert
one's personality. I have been asleep, stagnant, dormant, an Egyptian
mummy. I have allowed others to take the cream while I have been
passively contented with the whey. I have allowed others to elbow me to
one side like a log languishing in the eddy of a river. Henceforth I
will be in the centre of the stream. I will rush down with the torrent
and be "It" in the Ashcroft "smart set" illumination.
"There will be no public works in future that does not bear my
signature. In a word, I will assert myself, lock, stock and barrel."
So he hit out upon a new highway with the determination to be popular.
He neglected his own stamp-mill that the work might be carried out to a
successful issue. He engaged others to take charge of the tail race and
dump, with which he would not trust his brother on previous occasions.
In fact, he left the steam of the mill at high pressure to look after
itself that he might have an unhampered course in the asserting of
himself. He invaded immediately all the dances, carnivals, dinners and
parties. He was both Liberal and Conservative in politics. He was the
"guy" with the "big mitt" and the vociferous vocabulary at all the local
functions. He even joined the church. He tumbled into popularity as
quickly as the Kaiser tumbled into the European war; and he elbowed his
way into the run-way for all offices. Previously bright stars were
dimmed by the brilliancy of his superior luminosity. He became a
parasite at the local stores and clubs, and was a wart on the grocer's
counter. He became a whirlwind of popularity. He was as much in the
advance as he had before been in the rear, and, if there was any German
trench to take, he was always first to jump into it. He had the big
voice in every local eruption. Every time he batted he made a home run.
He even made initiative suggestions for schemes which were more or less
amalgamated with reason and insanity. It is said that he was first at
the dances, and first in the hearts of the ladies. It is certain he was
the first to invent the sewerage system idea; and the patents were
applied for before the final endorsements had been secured.
"I will make the man swallow his words who awarded me that booby prize,"
he thundered; and he was going the right way about it. He imposed his
individuality with emphasis. He was taken by the hand and dragged along
cheerfully. He found himself coveted and envied now, where, before, he
had almost been denied citizenship. He was now a qualified voter, where,
before, he had been disfranchised. He found himself in the front ranks
of all social movements, for he had asserted himself with an accent. It
was a case of applied personality with him, and it was developing just
as he had anticipated. Of course it was a superficial personality; it
had no intrinsic value, but it answered the purpose. He received many
important appointments. He was created secretary to the School Board,
secretary to the Ashcroft Rinks, secretary to the Hospital, secretary
to the Ashcroft Hockey boys, secretary to the Ladies' Knitting Guild,
secretary to the Ladies' Auxiliary. In fact, he was unanimously chosen
an official in all the local public works which had no salary attached
to them. But then, he was gaining in popularity, and what did it matter
if his office was filled to overflowing with exotic paraphernalia, he
was reaching that apex to which he had aspired, and the emolument was a
mere bagatelle. The booby prize, after all, had been the foundation of
his success.
So things went on and he became the most talked of man in the town. When
any difficulty arose he was the first to be consulted. The town found it
necessary to come to him for information on every local scheme that had
its birth in the local cerebrum, for no one else was capable of handling
any emergency and carrying it through to a successful conclusion.
Just about this time the sewerage epidemic took possession of the town,
and became an insane contagion. Meetings were held at various places to
discuss the matter, and at last the government agent allowed the court
house to be used gratis for that purpose. Of course our hero and two
other victims were appointed commissioners to investigate. His salary
was the same as he received from his various secretaryships.
It was proposed to mortgage the town for forty years to the provincial
government for its endorsement to local bonds, and the commissioners
were empowered to have the alleys and necessary places surveyed with a
view to ascertaining the magnitude of the undertaking, and the amount of
the collateral which it would be necessary to raise in England, upon the
endorsed bonds, to push the work through to a successful conclusion. The
victims set to work with full knowledge of the stupendous responsibility
which had been slung, yoke-like, across their shoulders. Surveyors were
engaged, and an expert calculator was summoned to give an estimate of
the cost of such an undertaking. The estimate was placed at $75,000.00.
This enlightenment gave the community a volcanic eruption; an epidemic
of "cold feet" took possession of them, and they retired to warm these
extremities at their respective air-tight heaters. In the meantime the
commissioners had guaranteed payment to the experts whom they had
engaged, and their personal notes were urgently requested. The expenses
which they had incurred amounted to about five hundred dollars. When the
vouchers were hawked about town for endorsements they received the "high
ball," and the victims found it necessary to "make good" from their
personal rainy day deposits. The unpopular man took a sly glance back at
the ancient happy hunting-grounds antedating his booby prize days.
It was just about this time that an agent of the Independent Trust
Company drifted into town "incidentally," and became acquainted with the
boys. He made it known in a sort of casual way that he was disposing of
shares in the said company, which were valued at more than they were
worth--that is, were worth more than their valuation. To keep up the
"bluff" the unpopular man bought a thousand "plunks" worth of shares.
"Now," said the shark, "since you have shown so much confidence in my
company by purchasing shares, you can prove your patriotism more fully
by placing a substantial deposit with the Independent Trust. This will
help maintain the company on solid footing, and ensure you higher
dividends on your stock. I will give you my personal guarantee that your
money will be safer, and more productive than it would be in the Bank."
The "boob" seized the bait like a trout in the Bonaparte, and made a
deposit of five thousand dollars. Shortly afterwards the company went
into liquidation, and his six thousand dollars sailed away with the
worthless liquid into the sea of oblivion.
About this same time, when his popularity was at its zenith, and was
rivalling that of Dr. Cook, the fake discoverer of the North Pole,
another shark came down with the rain selling the most marvellous
money-making scheme ever offered to the public of British Columbia. This
was X.Y.Z. Fire Insurance shares, which he was disposing of at a great
sacrifice.
"Let me sell you some shares in the only 'real thing' that has been
offered to the public since the flood," he tempted.
The victim was so much under the shark's influence that he was
hypnotized.
"Certainly," he said. "Write me down for five hundred 'doughbaby's'
worth."
"You mean a thousand," said the shark.
"No," said the "gink," timidly, "I have only five hundred in my sock;
that will be as much as my pack will carry."
"Exactly; that is just right. You see, you are buying a thousand dollars
worth of goods with only five hundred dollars worth of cash. The shares
are fifty dollars each, with a cash payment of twenty-five dollars, and
the balance subject to call. This balance will never be called for,
because on no occasion has an insurance company been known to call in
its balance of subscribed stock; and the X.Y.Z. is not going to
establish a precedent in this respect. You will have twenty shares for
five hundred dollars. In other words, you will draw interest on one
thousand dollars, and only have five hundred invested. Was ever a
business so philanthropic in its foundation?"
Our hero grabbed the bait like a pure-bred sucker, and handed out his
last asset.
A few weeks later the company was in the hands of receivers with all its
assets vaporized. The popular man found himself on the "rocks." Being
popular for a short time had proved a very expensive expedition for him.
The retreat rivalled that of the Kaiser's retreat from Paris. It was so
sudden that the town heard the thud and felt the jar. The unpopular man
realized that it is wiser to remain in one's natural element even if it
is necessary to sacrifice many of the first prizes. Perhaps it is
better to go after the prizes for which we are qualified, than to aspire
to elevations which we are unable to hold intelligently.
The unpopular man backed himself up into his burrow, and for a time the
silence around town was embarrassing.
Of Hard Times Hance
Once upon a time on the foothills in the environs of Clinton, Lillooet
District, Province of British Columbia, there lived a "mossback" who was
as happy as the 22nd day of June is long in each year. At initiative
conclusions he would be classified with the freak species of humanity,
but beneath his raw exterior there lurked rich mines which the moss kept
a secret from the inquisitive, avaricious world.
He owned and operated an extensive ranch from which he encouraged enough
vegetation to feed himself, his pigs, his horses, his cattle, his
chickens, and his dog; and this, apparently, was all they derived from
the great, green earth. But the asset side of our "mossback's" yearly
balance sheet always made the liability side ashamed of itself. The
asset increased annually, and the hidden treasure grew to alarming
proportions. This growth was carefully salted away at the appropriate
salting-down season, when the pork barrels were brought out of the dark
cellars, dusted, scrubbed, and refilled with the carcasses of those
animals which had been his companions for the greater part of a year. He
was a standing joke with the "hands" on the ranch, for he was the most
dilapidated of the whole gang, although the owner, and was reputed to be
wealthy.
But he was a man with a purpose in life, and that was more than a great
many could say. He was chronically eccentric. When he first located on
the homestead which had since become so valuable an asset, he had
determined to live with one purpose in view, and that was to expand
financially with the toil of his hands and the sweat of his brow, and
then, when he had acquired sufficient sinking fund, to emerge suddenly
into the limelight of society and shine like a newly polished gem. So he
wandered up and down the trail which his own feet and the feet of his
cayuse had worn through the woods, up the creek, along the face of the
mountains, and away down to the limy waters of the Fraser on the other
side of the perpetual snows.
There was a fascination for him on this old trail; it had become as part
of his life, of his very soul. Sometimes he would be rounding up cattle.
Sometimes he would be hunting mowich (deer), or driving off the coyotes.
All his plans and schemes were built on trail foundation. He could not
think unless he was tramping the trail through the woods, and down the
valleys. Here is where all his castles were constructed; and, from the
trail observatory, he saw his new life spring into being, when the time
would be ripe.
In time the coin grew so bulky that it became a burden to him. It had
grown very cumbersome. He might at any time resurrect himself into that
new world of his, but there was no occasion for haste; he was very happy
and contented; besides, it would mean leaving the old trail and things.
He had his balance banked in a strong box which he buried in a hole
under his bed, and the fear grew upon him that some mercenary might
discover its lurking-place and relieve him of the burden of
responsibility. This was the only skeleton which lurked in the man's
closet. It was the only cloud in his sky; the rest of the zenith was
sunshine and gladness. To the neighbors and itineraries he had been
preaching hard times for twenty years, although the whole earth
suspected the contrary. He became known throughout the width and breadth
of Yale, Lillooet and Cariboo as "Hard Times Hance." Although
diplomatically reserved and unsociable, he was more popular and famed
than he suspected. Peculiarity is a valuable advertisement.
His outward appearance and mode of life certainly justified the above
appendix to his personality, and it was so blazoned that it could be
seen and heard all over British Columbia. He had but one competitor, and
that was "Dirty Harry," who at one time frequented the streets of
Ashcroft. No other name could have distinguished him so completely from
the other members of the human family.
His overalls, which were once blue, had become pale with age, and had
adopted a dishrag-white color; and one of the original legs had been
patched out of existence. His Stetson hat, which had left the factory a
deep brown, now approached the color of his terrestrial real estate. His
"jumper" had lost its blue and white "jail bird" stripe effect, and was
now a cross between a faded Brussels carpet and a grain sack. To save
buying boots he wore his last winter's overshoes away into the summer,
while his feet would blister in discomfort. Braces were a luxury which
he could not endure, so he supported his superfluously laundried
overalls with a strand of baling-rope which had already served its time
as a halter guy. His feet had never known the luxury of a factory or
home-knitted stocking since he had graduated from the home crib, but
were put off with gunny sacking which had already seen active service as
nose bags for the cayuses.
"If one wishes to acquire wealth in this world," he would say, "one must
make a great many personal sacrifices." So he lived on and waxed wealthy
at the expense even of the simplest of domestic comforts.
The improvements with which he had enhanced the value of his ranch were
much in keeping with his personal appearance, and they could be
recognized as brothers with the least difficulty. The fences, which had
refused to retain their youth against the passing years, had their aged
and feeble limbs supported with thongs and makeshifts of every
description; and where their pride had rebelled against such
ingratitude, they were smothered beneath the limbs of fallen trees,
which had been felled on the spot to serve as substitutes. His flumes
were knock-kneed and bow-legged, and in places they had no legs at all.
Their sides were warped and bulged with the alternate damp and drouth,
heat and cold. The lumber was bleached white, and porous with decay. It
was with difficulty they could be persuaded to remain at their
water-carrying capacity. The ditches were choked with willows and maples
to such an extent that they were abandoned only in spots where they
asserted themselves, and refused to convey the necessary irrigation
stream. Here they would burst their sides with indignation, and had to
be repaired. The barns, stables and chicken-houses had for years been
threatening to collapse unless supplied with some stimulant; so numerous
false-works had been erected, outside and in, to retain them within
their confines. The harness, which had originally been made of leather,
betrayed very little trace of this bovine enveloper, but was composed
chiefly of baling-rope and wire which had been picked up at random on
the ranch as the occasion demanded. The various sections of the wheels
of his wagons remained in intimate association with each other because
they were submerged in the creek every night; the moisture keeping the
wood swelled to its greatest diameter. One day's exposure to the drouth,
without the convenient assistance of the creek water, would have been
sufficient to cause the wheels to fall asunder. In this respect the
unsuspecting creek was an asset of incalculable value. The boxes of his
wagons could boast of nothing up to date, that was not possessed by the
wheels; and in many cases the tongues and whiffletrees and neck-yokes
had been substituted by raw maples or birch secured on the ranch. His
unwritten law was to buy nothing that would cost money, and to import
nothing that could be produced on the farm even if it was only a poor
makeshift substitute. No part was ever replaced until it had gone
hopelessly on strike, and necessity was his only motive power when it
came to repairs. The general conditions were suggestive of the obsolete.
In the midst of all this ruin and decay, however, there was sunshine,
and the heart of Hard Times Hance was warm and buoyant, cheerful and
hopeful, and even if he did live upon the husks which the swine did eat,
he derived from his life a great deal more pleasure than the world gave
him credit for. He had his future to live for. He had his life all
mapped out, and that was more than a great many could boast of. For
breakfast he had mush, for dinner he had beans and bacon, and for supper
he had bacon and beans and Y.S. tea. And he was just as happy eating
this fare with his knife as the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of
British Columbia could be with his cereal, consomme, lobster salad,
charlotte russe, blanc mange, café noir, or any other dainty and
delicate importation. Bananas, oranges and artichokes had no place on
his bill-of-fare. Besides, after he had eaten a meal he had no space for
such delicacies. And he could always wash his meal down with the famous
Y.S. tea stand-by; and, on top of this, a few long draws at his
kin-i-kin-nick (sort of Indian tobacco) pipe. And then there were no
restrictions upon his mode of feeding his face. He could eat with his
knife with impunity. There was no etiquette-mad society digging him in
the ribs, and jerking on the reins in protestation at every one of his
natural inclinations; and he could use his own knife to butter his
sourdough bread. For a man who expected to emerge into the sunshine of
society, he was giving himself very inadequate training. He was as near
the aboriginal as it was possible for a white man to approach. He was a
Siwash (male Indian) with one exception--his love of the coin. But then,
he had an object in this ambition; and a fault, if it is a means to a
worthy end, must be commended. He had this propensity developed to the
most pronounced degree. It was a disease with him, for which there was
no cure. In outward appearance he was a typical B.C. specimen of the
obsolete "coureur de bois" of eastern Canada during the seventeenth
century.
The interior of his "dug-out" was more like an Indian kik-willy (ancient
Indian house) than the dwelling of a modern Anglo-Saxon. The walls were
composed of the rough timbers, and the chinks were stuffed with rags and
old newspapers. A few smoke-begrimed pictures were hanging on the walls,
and a calendar of the year 1881 still glared forth in all its ancient
uselessness, leading one back into a past decade. If he broke the rules
of etiquette by eating with his knife, he also smashed those of modesty
by utilizing his air-tight heater as a cuspidor, for it was streaked
white with evaporated saliva.