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[Illustration: GEORGE H. HAM.
(From a recent photograph) ]
REMINISCENCES
OF A
RACONTEUR
_Between the ’40s and the ’20s_
BY
GEORGE H. HAM
_Author of “The New West” and “The Flitting of the Gods”_
TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED
Copyright, Canada, 1921
THE MUSSON BOOK CO., LIMITED
PUBLISHERS TORONTO
MUSSON
ALL CANADIAN PRODUCTION
To
RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD SHAUGHNESSY, K.C.V.O.,
of Montreal, Canada, and of Ashford, County
Limerick, Ireland,
This book is respectfully dedicated
in grateful remembrance of many
kindnesses in the vanishing past.
CONTENTS
I. Seventy Years Ago—My Early Days in Kingston and Whitby—Boyhood
Friends—Unspared Rods—Better Spellers Then than Now—A Cub
Reporter—Other Jobs I Didn’t Fill—Failure to Become a Merchant
Prince—Put Off a First Train
II. A Momentous Election—Meeting Archie McKellar—Go on the Turf—A
Sailor Bold—A Close Shave—Stories of Pets—An Exaggerated
Report—Following Horace Greeley’s Advice—And Grow Up with the
Country
III. Winnipeg a City of Live Wires—Three Outstanding Figures—Rivalry
Between Donald A. and Dr. Schultz— Early Political Leaders—When
Winnipeg was Putting on its First Pants—Pioneer Hotels—The
Trials of a Reporter—Not Exactly an Angelic City—The First Iron
Horse—Opening of the Pembina Branch—Profanity by Proxy—The
Republic of Manitoba—The Plot to Secede
IV. The Big Winnipeg Boom—Winnipeg the Wicked—A Few Celebrated
Cases—Some Prominent Old-Timers—The Inside Story of a Telegraph
Deal—When Trouble Arose and Other Incidents
V. The Boys are Marching—The Trent Affair—The Fenian Raid—The Riel
Rebellion—A Dangerous Mission—Lost on the Trail—The First and
Last Naval Engagement on the Saskatchewan—Rescue of the Maclean
Family—A Church Parade in the Wilderness—Indian Signals
VI. Governors-General I Have Met—Dufferins and the Icelanders—The
Marquis of Lorne and Wee Jock McGregor—Unpleasantness at Rat
Portage—Kindness of Princess Louise—Lord Landsdowne at the
Opening of the Galt Railway “My” Excellent Newspaper
Report—Talking to Aberdeen—Minto, the Great Horseman—Earl Grey
a Great Social Entertainer—The Grand Old Duke and Princess
Pat—The Duke of Devonshire
VII. The Hudson’s Bay Company—A Tribute to its Officers—Intrepid
Scotch Voyageurs—Daily Papers a Year Old—Royal Hospitality of
the Factors—Lord Strathcona’s Foundation for His Immense
Fortune—The First Cat in the Rockies—Indian Humor and Imagery
VIII. Around the Banqueting Board—My First Speech—At the Ottawa Press
Gallery Dinners—A Race With Hon. Frank Oliver—A Homelike Family
Gathering—A Scotch Banquet—Banquets in Winnipeg—Bouquets and
Brickbats—The Mayor of New York and the Queen of Belgium
IX. In the Land of Mystery—Planchette and Ouija—Necromancers and
Hypnotists and Fortune Tellers—Adventures in the Occult—A
Spirit Medium—Mental Telepathy—Fortune Telling by Tea Cups and
Cards—Living in a Haunted House
X. Mark Twain, the Great Humorist—A Delightful Speaker—A Chicago
Cub Reporter’s Experience—The Celebrated Cronin Case—W. T.
Stead and Hinky Dink—When the Former Wrote “If Christ Came to
Chicago”
XI. The Canadian Women’s Press Club—How It Originated—With “Kit” of
the Toronto Mail at St. Louis and Elsewhere—The Lamented
“Francoise” Barry—Successful Triennial Gatherings—The Girls
Visit Different Paris of Canada—Threatened Invasion of the
Pacific Coast
XII. When Toronto Was Young—The Local Newspapers—The Markham
Gang—Some Chief Magistrates of the City—Ned Farrer, the Great
Journalist—Theatrical Recollections—Old-Time Bonifaces—And
Old-Time Friends.—Toronto’s Pride
XIII. Scarlet and Gold—The Rough Riders of the Plains—The Fourth
Semi-Military Force in the World—Its Wonderful Work in the
Park—Why the Scarlet Tunic Was Chosen—Some Curious Indian
Names—Primitive Western Justice
XIV. In the Hospital—Averting a Shock—A Substantial Breakfast—A
Gloomy Afternoon—Down in Washington—The Gridiron Dinners—A
Spanish-American War Panic—A Few Stories—Canadian Club
XV. Christmas and Its Cheer—Will Sell Anything for Gin But
Children’s Christmas Stockings—Santa Claus No Myth—Dreary
Christmas—Mr. Perkins’ Cutter—A Lively Christmas Gathering—Tiny
Tim’s Blessing
XVI. The Miracle Man of Montreal—Brother Andre Whose Great Work Has
Done Great Good—A Youth With a Strange Power—Authentic Accounts
of Some of the Miracles—All Faiths Benefited by Him
XVII. Political Life in Canada—Its Tragedies and Its Pleasantries—The
Great Outstanding Figures of the Past—The Social Side of
Parliament—Mixed Metaphors and People Who Were Not Good
Mixers—A Second Warwick—The Wrong Hat—And Other Incidents
XVIII. The Great Northern Giant—The Early Days of the C.P.R. and its
Big Promoters—Where the Aristocracy of Brains Ruled—A Huge
Undertaking and a Broad Policy—A Conspicuously Canadian
Enterprise—Something About the Men Who Ruled—My Fidus
Achates—Captains Courageous—The Active Men of To-Day—And
Interesting Facts About the C.P.R.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
George H. Ham (From a recent photograph)
Some Early Photographs of George H. Ham
The New and the Old C.P.R. Stations in Winnipeg
How Our Early Settlers Arrived in Winnipeg
Main Street, Winnipeg
Portage Avenue, Winnipeg
The Duke and Duchess of Connaught with Princess Patricia
The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire and Daughters the Ladies Cavendish
Lord Minto at His Lodge, Kootenay
Some Early Trading Posts of the Hudson’s Bay Company
At the San Francisco Fair
Waterfront, Toronto, Eighty Years Ago
Fish-Market, Toronto, Eighty Years Ago
Toronto To-Day
Rough Riders of the Plains
Winter Uniforms of R.N.W.M.P.
An Indian Policeman
Indian Camp
Brother Andre
The Oratory of St. Joseph
Lord Strathcona
Lord Mount Stephen
Sir William Van Horne
Baron Shaughnessy, K.C.V.O.
B. W. Beatty, K.C.
I. G. Ogden
D. McNichol
R.B. Angus
A Map Showing Position of Passenger and Freight Trains on the Canadian
Pacific Main Lines at 6 P.M. November 1, 1920
Souvenir of the Driving of the Last Spike on the C.P.R.
First C.P.R. Locomotive
The First Locomotive in Toronto
CHAPTER I
Seventy Years Ago—My Early Days in Kingston and
Whitby—Boyhood Friends—Unspared Rods—Better
Spellers Then than Now—A Cub
Reporter—Other Jobs I Didn’t Fill—Failure
to Become a Merchant
Prince—Put Off a First Train
It has been said by facetious friends that I have several birthplaces.
However that may be, Trenton, Ontario, is the first place where I saw
light, on August 23rd, 1847, and on the spot where I was born has been
erected a touching memorial in the shape of a fine hotel, which was an
intimation, if we believe in fate or predestination, that my life should
be largely spent in such places of public resort. After events confirmed
this idea. Hotels have been largely my abiding place, from London,
England, to San Francisco, and from the city of Mexico and Merida in
Yucatan as far north as Edmonton.
My father was a country doctor, but, tiring of being called up at all
hours of the night to attend a distant kid with the stomach-ache, or a
gum-boil, wearied and disgusted with driving over rough roads in all
sorts of weather to visit non-paying patients, he gave up the practice
of medicine, studied law, passed the necessary examinations, and in 1849
moved to Kingston and was associated with Mr. (afterwards Sir) John A.
Macdonald. Two years later he was appointed a sort of Pooh-bah at
Whitby, Ontario, when the county of Ontario was separated from the
county of York, as part and parcel of the then Home District. When
questioned about my early life, it was usual for inquisitive friends to
ask: “How long were you in Kingston?” And my truthful answer—“Just two
years”—invariably evoked a smile and the satirical remark that that was
about the usual sentence.
My first recollections in babyhood were of my arm being vaccinated
before I was three years old, and to mollify any recalcitrancy—I didn’t
know what that word meant then—a generous portion of fruit cake thickly
covered with icing was diplomatically given me. I immediately shoved out
my other arm for another dose of vaccine with the cake accompaniment,
but it didn’t work. Another recollection is my going out with my sister
Alice to see a military parade. We took along the family’s little kitten
carefully wrapped in my sister’s new pelisse. At the corner of Princess
and Bagot streets, the martial music of the band frightened pussy and
with a leap she disappeared under an adjoining building, pelisse and
all. That’s seventy-odd years ago, but every time I visit Kingston, even
to this day, I watch around Bagot street to see if the cat’s come back.
Which she hasn’t; nor has the pelisse. Curious to relate, the C.P.R.
office now occupies the site of my boyhood home.
When I Was at School
Whitby was first called Windsor, and I have a map drawn in 1841, on
which that name appears. It was changed shortly after. School days at
Whitby, at the primitive district Henry Street school, were just about
the same as those of any other school boy; and the pleasurable monotony
was only broken by such events as the school-house catching fire, or the
teacher being ill, which granted us a few real honest-to-goodness
holidays. Some of us deeply regretted that the darned old place hadn’t
burned down altogether, as the holidays would then have been prolonged
indefinitely. Snowballing matches between the Grammar and District
schools kept the boys busy, during favorable winter weather, and it was
only when the snow disappeared that one school did not invade the
precincts of the other, sometimes with disastrous effects. These affairs
were not Sunday school picnics, and no quarter was ever asked or given.
One of the Grammar army got plugged in the ear in a severe combat by a
snowball in which was enclosed a good-sized stone, and when he was
keeled over, there was no first aid to the wounded, but a savage
reprisal. Cricket was also a favorite game, but it was not aggressive
enough. Football and shinny—especially on the ice, where the Town and
the Bay met every Saturday for a whole day’s conflict—afforded more and
better opportunities for personal encounters and were more popular
games. The goals were a mile apart, and I never knew of a game being
scored by either side. Golf, croquet and similar sports were unknown,
but would have been scorned as too insipid. But we played One-old-cat
and Two-old-cat—predecessors of baseball. Prisoner’s base gave fine
opportunities for running and wrestling, and had many devotees. Don’t
think that the boys were any rougher than the boys in any other school,
but in the glorious old days rough and tumble was usually preferred to
more sedate and lady-like games.
Some of My Boyhood Friends
There were some pretty bright boys who graduated from those schools and
made a name for themselves in the world. John Dryden became Minister of
Agriculture for Ontario; Johnny Bengough, who was always handy with his
pencil, evolved into a great cartoonist and published _Grip_ in Toronto;
Hamar Greenwood, who had a great gift of the gab, went to England, was
knighted, and appointed Chief Secretary of State for Ireland; Jack
Wetherall went to New York and achieved position and wealth as an
advertising manager for Lydia Pinkham, whose female pills are peerless
and unparalleled (so he says); Dick Blow became mayor of the town; Jim
Bob Mason—his name wasn’t Jim Bob, but that’s what we called him—went
to the States where his son, Walt Mason, I am informed, is making a
fortune writing popular prose poems. D. F. Burke (we called him Dan)
went to Port Arthur, and when he died a few years ago left two widows
and a big estate, thus distancing most all his old comrades in worldly
good fortune. Dan got a charter for the Port Arthur & Hay Lake Railway,
and used to be chaffed over its construction equipment, which
jealous-minded people like ex-Mayor George Graham of Fort William and
myself said consisted of a mule and a bale of hay, and that when the
mule had eaten all the hay, both the charter and the mule expired.
George Dickson was one of the prize pupils and afterwards became
principal of Upper Canada College, and Billy Ballard won equal
distinction in educational work at Hamilton. George Bruce was a model
pupil, entered the ministry, and afterwards when I heard him preach in a
Presbyterian church, I felt like giving him three cheers. Danforth Roche
was a stolid scholar in the school, but when he struck out for himself,
he had the biggest departmental store north of Toronto, at Newmarket,
and was one of the most enterprising and extensive advertisers in the
Province. Joe White is town clerk at Whitby, and a mighty good one. Abe
Logan went to the Western States and accumulated a fortune. Frank
Warren, who recently passed away, stayed at home, entered the medical
profession, and became mayor of the town. Frank Freeman, who belonged to
the Freeman Family Band, consisting of father, two sisters and
himself—real artists—is still a musician, and I came across him
leading the orchestra at Tom Taggart’s big hotel at French Lick Springs,
Indiana, a couple of years ago. Fred Lynde went to Madoc in Hastings
County, and was successful in the mercantile business. George D. Perry
is manager of the Great Northwestern Telegraph Co., and his brother
Peter a successful educationalist in Fergus, Ontario. George Ray went to
Manitoba and became reeve of a municipality. Bob Perry became a C.P.R.
representative at Bracebridge, Ontario, and his brother Jack is a
well-to-do resident of Vancouver. Jimmy Lawlor is in the Government
service at Ottawa, and Tommy Bengough is one of the best official
stenographers in the employment of the same city. The Laing boys became
lost to sight. Andrew Jeffrey, Harry Watson and Bill McPherson followed
the crowd that went to Toronto, and the sister of the latter name
married well, Jessie McPherson becoming the wife of Dr. Burgess,
superintendent of the hospital for the insane at Verdun, just outside of
Montreal. Jimmy Wallace went to Chicago and entering the audit
department of one of the big railway companies forged to the front, and
Billy Wolfenden, who unknown to his parents used to steal away at night
to learn telegraphy and railway work at the Grand Trunk offices, went
west suddenly and finally became General Passenger Agent for the Père
Marquette road. When the U. S. Administration took over all the
railroads a few years ago, he was appointed to a similar position for
his region. John A. McGillivray became a member of Parliament and chief
secretary for the Order of Foresters. “Adam at Laing’s” was the only
name that Adam Borrowman was known by for years, Laing’s being the
largest general store in the town. Now he is more than comfortably fixed
near Chicago. The Laurie boys went to Manitoba, started business and
farming at Morris and prospered. John H. Gerrie went West, and is now
managing editor of the San Francisco _Bulletin_. Harry McAllan went to
Toronto, and then to Montreal, where he is in business.
Later on, Georgie Campbell and her sister, Flo, became brilliant and
very popular stars on the American stage as May and Flo Irwin. Many is
the time I dandled May on my knee. The last time I saw her, she had
become “fair, fat and forty,” and I fear my old rheumatic limbs would
now prevent me from repeating the pleasing operation. There are many
others that I cannot recall, scattered all over the inhabited globe.
Some have gone to the Great Beyond, and of those living the bright eyes
by this time have grown dim and the various shades of hair have turned
gray, but in my heart of hearts, I believe that if we could only turn
back the universe and regain us our youth, there would be general
rejoicing amongst us could we gather together.
Getting to Work.
The law was proposed to be my profession—after graduating from Toronto
University—but as there were very few who were learned in legal lore
and had achieved high distinction and greatly accumulated wealth in the
immediate vicinity, I baulked, and went into newspaper-work in the old
_Chronicle_ office at Whitby.
One reason for this was my previous experience. When I was a mere kid
and visiting grandfather’s old home at South Fredericksburg, opposite
the upper gap of the Bay of Quinte, that venerable ancestor of mine
confided in me that he wished to make his will without the knowledge of
the rest of the family and suggested that I should draw up the document.
In school-boy hand the will was drawn up, and while it suited
grandfather all right enough, I wasn’t so cocksure it was in the right
form and phraseology. So I commandeered a horse the next day and stole
off to Napanee, eighteen miles away, and called upon Mr. Wilkinson,
afterwards Judge Wilkinson, whom I had met at my father’s house in
Whitby. He pronounced the will to be perfectly legal, and, having all of
$2.00 in my pocket, I rather ostentatiously asked him his fee.
“Nothing, he smilingly replied. “Nothing at all—we never charge the
profession anything—never.”
And thus I was able to get an elaborate twenty-five cent dinner at the
hotel. So when the question of my future came up, I thought if it was so
blamed easy to be a lawyer, I wanted something harder.
The Rod Was Never Spared
There were stricter teachers in the late fifties and early sixties than
there are to-day and the “ruler” was more frequently and generously
applied. I got my full share. One day I was unmercifully punished, and
for a wonder, I didn’t deserve it. In my wrathful indignation, I told
the teacher, a Mr. Dundas, a fine, scholarly Scotchman of the best old
type, that I was only a boy, but that when I grew up I was going to kill
him. That threat didn’t go with him, and he again vigorously applied the
ruler to different parts of my aching anatomy. I dared not go home and
tell of this, or I would have run the chance of another whipping—for
there were no curled darlings then who could successfully work upon the
mistaken sympathies of indulgent but foolish parents. When I had grown
up and returned on a visit to Whitby, I met my good old stern teacher
and reminded him of my threat. He had not forgotten it. But I told him I
wished he would, for he had not thrashed me half as much as I deserved,
generally speaking. I put my arms around him, and the tears that flowed
down his furrowed cheeks told me I was forgiven. We had veal pot-pie for
dinner that night.
I didn’t succeed as well in another episode, when a pupil at the Grammar
School, the principal of which was the lamented Mr. William McCabe,
afterwards manager of the North American Life Assurance Company in
Toronto. We used to call it “playing hookey” in those days when a pupil
absented himself from school to loaf around the swimming hole at Lynde’s
creek and ecstatically swim and fish the whole day. A note from one’s
parents was always a good excuse and my beloved mother, in the kindness
of her heart, never failed to provide me with one. But Mr. McCabe got a
little leery of these numerous maternal excuses, and insisted I should
get a note from my father, which placed me in an uncomfortable fix. It
was either expulsion or a paternal note. I explained to father as
plausibly as I could and got the note—which was, it struck me,
altogether too freely given. Fortunately I could read it by placing it
against the light, and it briefly but unmistakably read:
“William McCabe, Esq.—
Please lick the bearer, (sgd.) John V. Ham.”
I had rather an uncomfortable quarter of an hour wending my way to
school, when a short distance from that place of learning, I saw a
brother scholar, Paddy Hyland, coming up another street. Before he
caught up to me, I was limping like a lame duck. Poor Paddy, in the
goodness of his great Irish heart, sympathetically asked me what was my
trouble, and without a qualm of conscience, I tersely but mendaciously
told him:
“Sprained my ankle.”
“Poor old fellow,” said Paddy, and he carefully and gently helped me
along to school. “Can I do anything for you?” he asked in great distress
at my supposed misfortune.
“You can, Paddy. Just take this note to Mr. McCabe.”
On reaching school I sank into my seat at the rear of the room. Paddy
promptly presented the note, and I eagerly awaited the outcome of the
interview. Mr. McCabe had a keen sense of humor, and I saw a smile come
over his face as he read the note. Then he called to me:
“Here, you, come up here.”
I hobbled up. He tried to look sternly at me and said:
“It’s all right this time, but don’t you try it on me again.”
My sprained ankle miraculously improved immediately.
Any old-timer will tell that the scholars of half-a-century ago could,
generally speaking, spell words in the English language better than
those of to-day. It is my experience anyway, after trying out a hundred
or more applicants for positions as stenographers when the result was
that over fifty per cent. couldn’t spell any better than the once-famous
Josh Billings, the American humorist. The reason why? The old-fashioned
“spelling down” that occupied a large portion of Friday afternoon
exercises has been abolished. That reminds me that in other schools—one
at Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, some years ago, one exercise was for the
teacher to call a letter of the alphabet, and the pupils pointed to
would respond by naming a city whose initial letter was the one
mentioned; thus “A” would be Almonte or Albany; “B” Battleford or
Buffalo or Bowmanville; “C” Calgary; and so it went down the list until
“F” was called, and a young hopeful who afterwards became an M.P.,
shouted “Filadelphia”. That closed the afternoon’s exercises.
As we grew up, we youngsters loafed around the street corners or
gathered at some store or other convenient meeting place in the evening
as boys in other towns did. Later on I spent my nights in the library of
the Mechanics’ Institute when, with good old Hugh Fraser and J. E.
Farewell, now county attorney, and a full-fledged colonel, we discussed
all sorts of social problems and political matters until the cocks began
to crow. Then we trudged home in the early dawn, each one perfectly
content that he had mastered the others in the discussion, or at any
rate had settled many disturbing questions finally and for good, though
I am afraid many of them are alive still. My nightly association with
these two old friends, both some years my senior and with a few other
friends, was of great advantage to me in after life. For one thing, it
taught me to be tolerant of other persons’ opinions, that there are
always two sides to a question, and that there is nobody alive who can
be cocksure of everything like the chap who was absolutely positive that
there was only one word in the English language commencing with “su”
that was pronounced “shu” and that was “sugar”, but wasn’t so
confoundedly certain when quietly asked if he was “sure” of his
assertion.
A Cub Reporter
My first assignment on the _Chronicle_ happened this way: While working
on the case I had taught myself a hybrid sort of shorthand, which any
competent stenographer nowadays would look upon as a Chinese puzzle. Mr.
W. H. Higgins, a clever and experienced newspaper man of more than local
reputation, composed the sole editorial and reportorial staff, and one
day there were two gatherings—a special meeting of the County Council
at Whitby and a Conservative convention at Brooklin, six miles
north—and only one Mr. Higgins. My opportunity came. In despair at not
getting a more suitable representative, he unwillingly sent me to
Brooklin. Well, say, when I turned in my report early Monday morning,
the boss was astounded. No wonder, I wrote and rewrote that blessed
report during all Saturday night, and the greater part of Sunday and it
wasn’t till near dawn on Monday that it was finished. And after all it
only filled three columns. Any experienced reporter would have written
it within three or four hours. I was paid $5.00 for the report, and it
wasn’t so much the money I cared for as the encouraging words Mr.
Higgins gave me. Thereafter I reported the town council, and brought in
news items—frequently written and rewritten and then written again—and
some not only written but absolutely rotten—and my salary was increased
to eight dollars a week, but I kept on the case at the same time.
Other Adventures in Employment
Failing in health—although apparently robust and strong—inducements of
future wealth lured me to Walkerton, way up in Bruce County, where an
old friend of the family, Mr. Ed. Kilmer, kept a general store. I was to
be a partner, after a little experience behind the counter. That
partnership never materialized. I used to practise on tying up parcels
of tea and coffee and sugar, and, somehow or other, I would invariably
put my thumb clumsily through the paper, and have to start all over
again. I could sell axes and bar iron all right enough, but everyone
wasn’t buying those articles. One day a lady had me take down the
greater part of the dress goods on the shelves and always wanted
something else than what was in stock. My patience was exhausted, so I
went to Mr. Kilmer, and suggested he should attend to the lady,
mentioning incidentally that I honestly believed baled hay was really
what she needed—and forthwith resigned. As a complete failure as a
clerk in a general store, I always prided myself that I was a huge
success. But I left town the next day, and never became a merchant
prince.
To indulge in outdoor life, the townships of Darlington and East and
West Whitby were traversed by me as sub-agent for a farmers’ insurance
company. There was not much difficulty in securing renewals of policies,
but it was uphill work to get new business. The general excuse for
refusal to insure was that Mr. Farmer had been insured before and had
never made anything out of it. My throat used to get dry as a tin horn
in trying to explain that the company couldn’t exactly guarantee a
“blaze”, but the insurance policy was to protect the insure in case of
fire. Perhaps, glibness of tongue was not one of my long suits, and the
work did not appeal to me. Consequently I sent in my resignation and
returned to more congenial work.
Put Off the First Train
In the fall of 1856, the town schools had a holiday, because on that day
the first railway passenger train was to arrive at Whitby. The pupils
were assembled up town at the High School, then called the Grammar
School. The Public School pupils led the procession, preceded by the
town band, and the Grammar School formed the rear of the column, under
command of Mr. William McCabe, who was then the only teacher in the
Grammar School. Arriving at the station, we were lined up alongside the
track. About 3 p.m. a train with three passenger cars arrived from
Toronto, filled with invited guests. The locomotive was decorated with
flags, and on the front and sides was a piece of bunting on which was
painted the words “Fortuna Sequitur.” We were ordered to make a note of
these words and produce a translation thereof on the following day. We
generally agreed that “Let or may fortune follow” was about the meaning
of these Latin words. The train moved on to Oshawa where John Beverley
Robinson and others delivered addresses.
On the return of the train from Oshawa, a number of school boys boarded
the car during the stoppage at Whitby, and then occurred the first and
only time I was ever put off a train. I was bound to make the trip to
Toronto as I had never experienced a ride on a railway train. The
conductor put my brother, four years my senior, and myself off the rear
end of the car. We ran to the front end, only to be again ejected. This
was a little discouraging, I will candidly admit, but we made another
bolt for the front entrance, and when the irate conductor threateningly
ordered us off, some of the compassionate passengers told him to give
the boys a show, which he grudgingly did; and to Toronto we went. In the
other cars, the invited guests protested against the invasion of the
Whitby youths, but they, too, notwithstanding the threats and warnings
of the conductor, stuck to the train. Neither my brother nor myself had
a cent, but that didn’t worry us at all, and when we arrived in Toronto,
it was after dusk. No one knew when the train would leave for Whitby,
and so we had to sit in that car, hungry as bears, until good old Hugh
Fraser of Whitby loomed up about ten o’clock with some crackers and
cheese, after which we didn’t care a continental what old time the train
would leave. Crackers and cheese are very invigorating. The other
fellows pooled all the money they had and Jack Wall (afterwards Dr. John
Wall of Oshawa), who had been attending college in Toronto, rustled some
more crackers and cheese, which seemed to be the sole and only article
of food on the menu that night. The clock struck 4 a.m. as we reached
home, completely tired out but happy as clams. I was the first boy at
school next morning and was the hero of the day. Rides on railways then
were big events of the mightiest importance. Don’t care so much for them
now. I remember that the G. T. R. car was No. 2, and a third of a
century later I again rode in the same old car, then on the Caraquet
Railway in New Brunswick. But as I had a pass the conductor did not dare
throw me off once—let alone twice.
A hot battle was waged between Gordon Brown, of the _Globe_, and a
member of the Grand Trunk engineering staff, as to the road and its
equipment and as to its time-table for the excursion train. No one was
hurt, although threats were made, and it is alleged that the Grand Trunk
engineer sent a challenge to the editor of the _Globe_, which he did not
accept or pay any attention to, except by publishing it in the _Globe_.