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.
Then came the boom of 1881-2 and sealskin coats and cloaks and diamond
pins and diamond brooches and diamond rings were greatly in evidence.
The city was all ablaze with the excitement of prospective riches.
Champagne replaced Scotch and soda, and game dinners were very common.
Auction sales were held daily and nightly, and in the auction rooms of
Jim Coolican, Walter Dufour and Joe Wolf people bought recklessly.
Property changed hands quickly at greatly enhanced values. Certainly a
land-office business was being done. The craze spread to the rural
districts and land surveyors and map artists worked overtime to fill
orders. Lots in Winnipeg were plotted for miles beyond the city limits.
Some non-existing “cities” were placed on the eastern market, and some
swamps were brazenly offered in Winnipeg. If there ever was a fool’s
paradise, it sure was located in Winnipeg. Men made fortunes—mostly on
paper—and life was one continuous joy-ride.
A lot of us boarded at the Queen’s Hotel, then run by Jim Ross, at whose
table a quiet coterie sat. Amongst the personnel of the party was La
Touche Tupper, as good a fellow as ever lived, but a little inclined to
vain boasting. He was a fairly good barometer of the daily land values.
Some days when he claimed to have made $10,000 or $15,000 everything was
lovely. The next day, when he could only credit himself with $3,000 or
$4,000 to the good, things were not as well, and when the profits
dropped, as some days they did, to a paltry $500 or $600, the country
was going to the dogs. We faithfully kept count of La Touche’s earnings,
and in the spring he had accumulated nearly a million in his mind. There
were others. And all went as merry as a marriage bell, with wealth and
wine on every hand, until one day, when lots in Edmonton were placed on
the market, the craze ran higher than ever before. It was a frightful
frenzy. Without any knowledge of the locality of the property, people
invested their money in lots at fabulous prices. Many overbought, some
tried to unload and the next morning there was a slump, and you couldn’t
give away property as a gift. The boom had busted. Where, the day
previous, the immense throng had gathered in such numbers that window
panes were smashed, in their eagerness to buy, only those who wanted to
sell were seen. It was the morning after the night before. And a mighty
sad one it was.
And Winnipeg came down to earth again.
For some time after the big boom busted, there was a decided sag in the
finances of many a Winnipegger. Of course, I kept in the procession, and
managed to worry along pretty well, as I had a very warm friend in the
late Chief Justice Howell, then a partner in the law firm of Archibald &
Howell. We kept flying kites with a good measure of success, for he had
a high financial standing, and we never had a misunderstanding but once.
It was all over a similarity of figures and a series of curious
coincidences. We had a note for $175 in the bank, and it was overdue. A
renewed note was promptly given—most of the promptness being due to the
urgent request of the bank manager. It so happened that Mr. Howell’s
current account had exactly $175 to his credit, and strange to say I was
overdrawn just a similar amount. The bank at once wiped out my
indebtedness with the note, and then took Mr. Howell’s $175 to pay it.
When my good friend gave a small cheque the next day, it was returned to
him with the ominous “N.S.F.” marked legibly upon it. My, but he was
wrathy, and in his anger came to me. We were both dumbfounded, but
finally it got through my wool how the thing was done, and we both
looked at each other like two lost babes in the wood. So we went out and
soundly cussed all financial institutions in existence, and were only
reconciled to our fate after a prolonged visit to Clougher’s.
Winnipeg the Wicked
In its early days, Winnipeg was reputed to be one of the two wickedest
places in Canada. The other was a small Ontario town—Paris, if I
remember aright. Winnipeggers didn’t object very much to having the
doubtful distinction attributed to it, but they kicked like steers when
linked with a small eastern village, where it would naturally be
supposed the only outward and visible sign of sin would be the innocent
little lambs gamboling on the green. If they were no worse than the
Canadian Parisians—well, it was confoundedly humiliating—and they were
somewhat ashamed of being put in the amateur class. Probably Paris might
have a few who were “a devil of a fellow in his own home town,” but
Winnipeg looked down in scorn on that mush-and-milk brand of real sporty
life. Of course the city was pretty rapid, with lots to drink and plenty
to gamble, and horse racing galore and similar sports were the rage.
With dances, operas, swagger champagne suppers, and late hours, it was
one continuous merry round. But gay life in Winnipeg was grossly
exaggerated, because it was a comparatively small place, running
speedily ahead of other places of even larger size in its daily round of
gaiety. Hideous crime itself, as it is seen in the cities of its size
to-day, was totally unknown. There was scarcely even a murder or a
shooting scrap and very few scandals. The demi-mondaines were numerous
and hilarious as were their patrons, but the police regulations were
usually strictly enforced, and, while the bars were kept open until all
hours of the night, the liquor was of a good quality, and there were
fewer drunken people staggering on the streets than could be seen in
other places which made greater pretensions of a monopoly of all the
virtues. The police court records prove this. So while it was called
wicked, it held no real genuine carnival of crime. It was simply a wide
open frontier outpost of civilization.
Early in its infancy, it was invaded by a band of crooks from the south,
who started in on the bad man act, but Chief Justice Wood soon put them
where the dogs couldn’t bite them with long sentences in jail or Stoney
Mountain penitentiary. Those who didn’t come up before the Judge made a
mad dash for liberty across the line. There were a couple of executions,
but only one Winnipeg murder, and the Gribben murder, where a whiskey
peddler along the line of railway construction shot a cabin boy of one
of the river boats to death. Taking it all in all, life in Winnipeg was
as safe as it is in Westmount to-day—but a dashed sight more exciting.
Down at Fisher’s Landing in Minnesota, immigrants who there transferred
from train to boat were unmercifully fleeced by Farmer Brown, who,
driving a sorry looking yoke of oxen and wearing a bucolic make-up,
victimized the immigrants with sad, sad tales of sorrow and misfortune,
and when their sympathies were aroused through his unfailing flow of
tears, he would trim them to a standstill at three card monte, at which
he was an adept. There were other sharpers, of course, as there always
are where there is a movement of people, but they did nothing actually
sensational.
Interviewing a Murderer
Louis Thomas, an Indian, was found guilty of murdering a white man down
near Morris, and was sentenced to death. A few days previous to the
execution, a friend of mine who was a guard at the jail, which was then
located at the bend on Main Street, near the city hall, tipped me off
that the Indian wanted to see me. Although it was against the
regulations, I managed to smuggle myself into his cell, and he told me
the story of the crime. He had just got to the point of saying that two
French-Canadians had taken the victim by the legs and thrown him into a
well, when the sheriff appeared and ordered me out of the place and
demanded my notes. Of course, I had to go, and backed out as
dignified-like as I could, protesting that I was willing to give up my
notes, until I reached the street door. Once outside the jail, I made a
mad rush for the _Free Press_ office, wrote up my report of the day’s
exciting event, and that evening there was so much indignation expressed
around town that next morning the Government appointed Hon. D. M. Walker
to investigate the affair, and I was allowed to be present. The Indian
had given me a couple of pages of foolscap on which he said was
scribbled a confession in the Iroquois language, but it could easily be
seen that it was merely scribbling and nothing more. When Mr. Walker
confronted the prisoner he retracted every blessed word he had told me,
and when next I saw him on the scaffold, he looked at me in a most
careless, half-amused way, and, waving his hand towards me, cheerily
said with the greatest nonchalance: “Bon jour, boy, bon jour.” Five
minutes later, he dropped into eternity.
Schofield’s Escapade
Another exciting incident was the Schofield affair. Schofield was a
trusted employee of the McMillan Bros.—D. H. and W. W.—who ran a flour
mill near the river bank. One morning the office was found to be all
topsy-turvy. Chairs were upset and other furniture scattered around
promiscuously, and a large dent in a wooden desk evidenced that a club
had been used. Drops of blood left a trail in the snow to the river and
on the ice. The next day and next night ice cutting machines worked
overtime making holes in the ice, and grappling irons were unavailingly
lowered to rescue the body. People were aghast at the awful crime and
Schofield’s pretty wife was the object of everybody’s sympathy. The
following day, Schofield’s remains were found—down in Minneapolis,
although the waters of the Red River flowed the other way. An American
customs officer at St. Vincent, on the boundary, reported a man
answering Schofield’s description who had passed through on the St. Paul
train the night of the awful tragedy, and that he was dressed like an
ordinary working man but had forgotten to discard his white starched
shirt, whose cuffs with gold sleeve links had attracted his attention as
being a queer sort of a combination for a laboring man. Schofield’s
rooms were searched and in them was found a collection of dyes, false
moustaches, wigs, etc., with which he had disguised himself. As his
accounts were all right, it was puzzling to know why he had put up such
a job, until it was discovered that it was to secure a fairly good
insurance which he had on his life.
An Express Robbery
Then there was Jim Van Rensaellaer’s case. Jim was a big, fat,
good-natured agent of the American Express Company at Winnipeg and of
the Winnipeg-Moorhead stage company for years, and was liked by
everybody. One day, it was discovered that from the vault in the express
office had been taken a package of money—said to be $10,000 but really
$15,000 (to save extra express charges) which a bank was sending to
Winnipeg. There was absolutely no clue to the robbery. For years Van was
shadowed by local and imported detectives and every device resorted to
in order to catch him. His friends stood staunchly by him, but the money
was gone, and who could have taken it if not Van? Coming on the train
from Devil’s Lake, Dakota, to Grand Forks one day, I met Jack Noble, a
detective, whom I had known for years. He told me the express company
never let up in running down express robbers, and that he expected to
catch Van before long—and this was a couple of years after the theft.
In a friendly spirit I told Van all this when I reached home, but Van
seemed perfectly unconcerned, and said he was as much interested in
solving the mystery as the company was. Some years later when in London,
England, I spent an evening with H. G. McMicken, who at the time of this
robbery occupied part of the express office as a railway and steamship
ticket office. He was a sort of amateur detective and could open a safe
in first-class Raffles style, and he had given a good deal of attention
and thought to this affair. The only solution he could offer—and it was
probably the correct one—was that on the eventful day a number of
workmen were employed in whitewashing the office. The vault door had
been left ajar, and one of the men, seizing the opportunity, had
snatched the package and secreted it in his whitewash pail, where it
would immediately be covered with the lime solution. He could then
easily leave for lunch with his booty in the pail, which he doubtless
did. This theory was afterwards corroborated by a contractor who told a
friend of mine that the culprit had confessed the crime to him—a long
time after it had been committed. And the express company was out only
$10,000 besides its expenses for detectives, and the bank lost $5,000.
But the latter’s reputation suffered more than Van’s.
The Case of Lord Gordon-Gordon
A remarkable case was that of Lord Gordon-Gordon, a presumed nobleman,
who in the early ’70’s cut a wide swath in Minnesota, where he was
royally entertained by leading people. He intimated that he was acting
for his sister, who desired to invest heavily in western lands. He was
“pie” for the Minnesotans, who were willing to unload on her ladyship
all the land she coveted. A fine looking gentlemanly fellow, he quickly
made hosts of friends. It was not long before it was discovered that his
lordship had previously got into difficulties in New York with Jay
Gould, the well-known railway magnate, and was out on bail. He promptly
immigrated to Manitoba, and to secure his return to the United States an
attempt was made to kidnap him. He was forcibly seized at the residence
of Hon. James McKay, whose guest he was, and hurried towards the
boundary line, but the authorities interfered and brought back Lord
Gordon-Gordon and his kidnappers to Winnipeg, where the offenders and
their accomplices, who were prominent business men and politicians of
Minnesota, were lodged in jail. Amongst them was Loren Fletcher, of St.
Paul, who wired his friends a pithy telegram which has been often
quoted: “I am in a hell of a fix.” Lord Gordon-Gordon, who had the
sympathy of the people, went to a friend’s house in Headingly, and when
advised that he would have to be extradited, asked for time to pack a
few clothes, went into an adjoining room, from which was heard the sharp
report of a revolver, and when his friends rushed in he was dead. Who
and what he was has never been revealed, but some years later
_Chambers’s Journal_ had a long and interesting article about him, in
which it was made to appear that he was the illegitimate offspring of a
Cornish family, whose ancestry had accumulated great wealth through
smuggling. His remarkable career is now about forgotten, but he set the
pace in New York and through Minnesota and created more excitement in
Winnipeg than any other event of the early days, excepting perhaps the
Riel Rebellion.
The Farr Case
Early in the morning of Saturday, April 13, 1895, the wife and children
of William Farr, a C.P.R. locomotive engineer, operating a yard engine
at Winnipeg, were awakened by the smell of smoke and fire, and their
cries aroused Mr. T. C. Jones, living in the adjoining house, which was
a double frame structure on the south-east corner of Ross and Isabel
Streets. The aid of neighbors speedily extinguished the flames. On
arrival of Chief Billy Code, of the fire brigade, the smell of coal oil
aroused his suspicions and he sent for the police. On investigation, it
was found that coal oil had been sprinkled on the steps, both front and
rear, of the stairways leading upstairs, and also around the windows and
doors leading outside. The conduct of Farr while on his engine and
following the period of the midnight meal by asking if his mates had not
heard a fire alarm, and the conditions at his house, were sufficient to
cause his arrest by the police. Only circumstantial evidence was in
possession of the police and they could not discover a motive for the
dastardly deed by Farr. It was on information which James Hooper, city
editor of the _Daily Nor’-Wester_, of which I was then managing editor,
furnished Chief Code and Chief of Police McRae, that they traced his
connection with a young woman, whom he had promised to marry. He had
attended church and theatres with her and had made her many costly
presents of clothing and furs.
Farr escaped from the police station during the early hours of Monday
morning, April 15, by wrenching one of the iron bars out and then
spreading the others sufficiently to permit him getting his body
through, and opening the window, made his escape. He got away and was
not recaptured for a considerable period. It is supposed he was
concealed in the cab of a westbound locomotive. On his recapture he was
tried and convicted, and sentenced to five years in the penitentiary. On
his release, after serving his term, he took up residence on the Pacific
Coast. The young woman subsequently married a farmer and lived for a
number of years in the vicinity of Glenella.
Well I remember the day she came half frightened into the _Nor-’Wester_
office to endeavor to have her name in connection with the affair kept
out of the paper. To me behind closed doors she tearfully related her
version of her companionship with Farr, whom she said she had frequently
seen in church with his family, but which, she alleged, he told her was
his dead brother’s widow and children, whom he was supporting. Between
her hysterics and weeping, I said consoling words and showed her the
futility of suppressing her name, and finally convinced her that her
story would, if printed, be better for her. When she left she was,
although undoubtedly ill, comparatively in bettered condition, and, as
it was raining, I sent her home in a cab, with strict injunctions to
take a hot drink and go straight to bed, and to see no one, which she
did. That evening the _Nor’-Wester_ had a two column story with
startling headings, and the other papers hadn’t a line.
Some Prominent Old-Timers
Among the many outstanding figures of those days was W. F. Luxton,
founder of the _Free Press_. There were three other newspapers published
in the village of Winnipeg when Kenney & Luxton issued the _Manitoba
Free Press_, a weekly, in 1872. The _Free Press_ embodied and expressed
Mr. Luxton’s views on public questions and also his ideas as to what
newspaper service to the public should be. The paper grew from weekly to
daily in due course and secured a hold upon the respect and confidence
of the people of Manitoba which, under many changes of management and
policy, it keeps in a large measure to this day.
* * * * *
Among the clergy of the day, the Rev. George Young, pastor of the Grace
Church, may well be mentioned. He had arrived at Fort Garry as
Missionary of the Methodist Church, shortly before the transfer to
Canada. He was outspoken on behalf of Canadian connection. When Riel
assumed control, Mr. Young, because of his office, was not arrested, but
he was kept under threat and surveillance. He administered the sacrament
to Thomas Scott before his execution by Riel’s partisans. He was not a
pulpit orator, but he was always leading in the right direction. Whether
preaching to immigrant congregations or Indian bands, administering the
last rites to the condemned Scott or helping to organize and cheer on
the handful of volunteers hastily gathered to resist the Fenian raid of
1870 at Pembina (his own son, George, in the ranks), or again preaching
for honesty and good government to peaceful Grace Church congregations,
Rev. Mr. Young was a strong force for right and for Canada at the moment
when the future course of events was being set.
During the troublous times both before and after the transfer of 1869,
St. John’s Mission Cathedral of the Church of England with its boys’
college in connection held a quiet course and did its allotted work. The
fact that the Rev. Dr. Machray of St. John’s during the ’70’s was
afterwards elected Metropolitan of Canada is sufficient evidence that in
that field also was large ability successfully applied. Rev. Mr. Clarke
was the pastor of Holy Trinity Church, succeeded by Rev. Mr. Fortin, who
did yeoman service, and Rev. Sam P. Matheson, of St. John’s, became
Primate of all Canada, an honor which he deservedly gained. Dean
Grisdale, Rev. Mr. Pinkham, afterwards Bishop of Alberta, and Bishop
Maclean, universally known as Saskatchewan Jack, were prominent in
church work. Canon McKay was an early missionary of the Anglican Church.
Rev. Mr. Ewing was the first Congregational minister, and Rev. J. B.
Silcox and Rev. Hugh Pedley followed, and I think Rev. Mr. Macdonald was
the first Baptist—all earnest workers. Rev. John Semmens, who recently
died, was long a missionary amongst the Crees. Rev. Mr. Black, Rev. Dr.
Robertson, Rev. Prof. Hart, Rev. Dr. Duval, Rev. C. B. Pitblado, Rev.
Alex. Grant and Rev. John McNeil were pioneer Presbyterians of great
distinction, and across the river His Grace Archbishop Tache with
Fathers Cherrier and Cloutier aided in the great Christianizing work,
and were beloved by both Protestant and Catholic; while on the plains
the lamented Father Lacombe and others of the black robe carried the
Cross and taught the Word with beneficial results.
Speaking of present day industries, the Brown & Rutherford planing mill
and sash factory was an institution in 1873, and the Vulcan Iron works
were established by Mr. John McKechnie of Dundas, Ont., shortly after.
Following these there were the lumber firms of Macauley & Jarvis, Dick
Banning, D. E. Sprague, Smith & Melville, and the business firms of A.
G. B. Bannatyne, W. H. Lyons, Kew & Stobart, afterwards Stobart & Eden,
Andrew and Robert Strang, Alex. McIntyre, Blair & Larmour, Alexander &
Bryce, Higgins, Young & Jackson, George Andrews, J. R. Cameron, Noel
Chevrier, Kenny Murchison, J. H. Brock, who inaugurated the Great
Western Life Assurance Co., the Blue Store, Snyder & Anderson, Scott &
Carson, Thomas Ryan, McLennagan & Mallock, J. F. Caldwell, D. McArthur,
banker, F. H. Brydges, Geo. R. Crowe, Willie Whitehead, Charlie
Enderton, Capt. Donaldson, Bishop & Shelton, Mulholland & Taylor, Fred
Ossenbrugge, Fred Brydges, Richard Waugh, and his sons J. C., and
Richard D., who became mayor of the city, and is now settling affairs in
Europe, Capt. Wm. Robinson, who did effective service in the South
African campaign, the Stovels, George Clements, Robert Wyatt, Thos. W.
Taylor, Charlie Radiger, who started the first distillery in Winnipeg,
and offered five-year-old on the opening day, Trott & Melville, James
Stewart, Conklin & Fortune, Hugh and James Sutherland, William Dodd,
Alloway & Champion, bankers, Jos. Penrose, John Haffner, Alfred Pearson,
W. D. Russell, Dan Campbell, Parsons & Richardson, Geo. Murray, E. L.
and Fred Drewry, G. F. & J. Galt, George Wishart, J. W. Winnett, Alex.
Calder, W. D. Blackford, Joe Wolf, W. Dufour, Jim Coolican, Doc W. J.
Hinman, Stewart Mulvey, E. Brokovski, William Bryden, Geo. Muttlebury,
Geo. F. Carruthers, William Wellband, A. H. Bertrand, Benson & Taylor,
Scott & Leslie, Gold Seal Jones, Laney Hibbard and his big dog, E.
Boyce, who was a partner of Jimmy Steen, and made a fortune publishing a
weekly paper in Chicago, and goodness knows how many more, but few of
them are now in existence.
Tom Verner and Tom Persse were amongst the singers—saw Tom in the
movies recently—and Louis de Plainville, known as Louis Nathal on the
stage, was a fine artist. Harry Prince, Charlie Armstrong, Jack McGinn,
Bob Halloway, Frank I. Clarke, Graham Boston, Jim Phillips, Goodwin
Ford, Charlie Sharpe and many others, were amongst the good fellows of
those days.
There were also some real characters in town, notably Ginger Snooks,
Dick Burden, and Dublin Dan. Ed. McKeown was a pugilist of more than
local repute but he soon retired from the ring.
Amongst the press boys were, besides those already mentioned, Jack
Cameron, afterwards with the Hamilton _Spectator_, Charlie Tuttle, Ned
Farrer, Amos Rowe, T. H. Preston, now of Brantford, Billy Dennis
(Senator before his untimely passing away), Donald Beaton and his two
sons, Fred. C. Wade, Charlie Keeling, Billy Moss, Frank McGuire, later
of the San Francisco and New York press, Jimmy Poole, now of Chicago,
Col. Scoble, Charlie Handscombe, Walter Payne, W. E. MacLellan, now in
Halifax, R. L. Richardson, John Moncrieff, Jim Hooper, Billy Perkins,
Thos. E. Morden, Wm. Coldwell, who with William Buckingham, started the
first paper in the city, George Brooks of _Siftings_, Bill Nagle, who
started the _Sun_, The Khan, still alive at his Ontario country house,
enlivening the press of Canada with his canticles, A. J. Magurn, Alex
McQueen, Acton Burrows, Molyneux St. John, Jim Fahey, who died in
Toronto, John Conklin, Robert Houston, W. S. Thompson, Ernie Blow, now
publicity agent of the C. N. R. in the West, Walter Nursey and John
Lewis, now press agent of the Liberal party. Papers were born and papers
were buried, and resurrections were frequent.
And the city hall and court house officials—well, amongst them were A.
M. Brown, the veteran city clerk, who was succeeded by his son Charlie,
who is still on the job; J. W. Harris, the assessor, and his successor,
E. Ward Smith, of Yukon fame, D. S. Curry, comptroller, Tax Collector
George Hadskis, T. H. Parr and H. H. Ruttan, city engineers, Dave
Marshall of the market, W. G. Scott, the treasurer, and Harry Kirk, the
janitor.
At the court house were W. E. Macara, Geoff. Walker, P. A. Macdonald, L.
Betourney, county court clerk, Ed. Marston and next door, Pat Lawlor,
the jailor, was a faithful official.
And Darby Taylor, too, dear old Darby, and Dr. Kerr gave us another
item. Coming in from Stoney Mountain one night, they were overtaken by a
blinding blizzard. There was nothing to do but unhitch the horse, wrap
themselves up in a buffalo robe as best they could, and as uncomfortably
as possible, and await the early dawn, which isn’t very early during the
winter months in northern latitudes. Then they discovered that they were
only a few yards away from a farmhouse whose occupants would gladly have
furnished them shelter.
The Inside Story of a Deal
It was in January, 1882, that Mr. Robert S. White, then, as now, chief
editor of the Montreal _Gazette_, whose casual acquaintance I had
previously made in the East, arrived one morning at Winnipeg, on an
interesting mission. He was accompanied by General J. S. Williams of New
York; or, as Mr. White took pains to tell me, he was merely General
Williams’ cicerone for the trip. Their object was to purchase the
charter of the Great Northwest Telegraph Company. It came about in this
way: the Union Mutual Telegraph Company had been organized in New York a
few months previously by Messrs. Evans, Moore and other financial
magnates as a competitor of the Western Union. A considerable mileage of
wire had been strung and was in operation. It was important for the
Union Mutual to obtain connection with Montreal, Toronto and other
principal eastern points in Canada. Learning of the existence of the
Great Northwest Telegraph charter they decided to buy it if possible.
General Williams was deputed to proceed to Montreal to confer with Mr.
Charles R. Hosmer, now a leading figure in Canadian finance, railways,
banking and industry, who had then left the position of manager of the
Dominion Telegraph Company at Montreal to join the staff of the Union
Mutual. It was agreed that General Williams with Mr. White should
proceed to Winnipeg.
Time pressed. It had leaked out that the Western Union was hot after the
G.N.W. charter. The telegraph lines to Winnipeg being under control of
that company, the risk of a message to myself to obtain options on the
G.N.W. shares held in Winnipeg was deemed too great. So the
conspirators, Williams and White, proceeded by rail. Fortune did not
favor them, they arriving at Winnipeg about two days after Erastus
Wiman’s agent, acting for the Western Union, had secured the plum. And
it was a plum, the G.N.W. charter being of the blanket variety; good for
all kinds of telegraph construction and operation from Dan to Beersheba
within the Dominion of Canada, but it only ran zig-zag from Winnipeg to
nowhere in particular. My recollection is that the price paid by the
Western Union agent for the whole capital stock of the G.N.W. was about
$8,000. When Hon. John Norquay and his associates, who had parted with
their stock, learned what General Williams was prepared to pay, what
they said was quite unfit for publication. However, we solaced our
sorrows in the club and took it out of Mr. Wiman in the manner customary
to such incidents. It may be of interest to learn how nearly the Great
Northwest Telegraph charter escaped the Western Union, which soon after
that date became perpetual lessee of the property linked up under the
former name, and in which the old Montreal Telegraph Company was merged.
Real Trouble Arises
When Fort Rouge was taken into the city I began to figure in really
troublesome times. Fort Rouge was created a ward of the city, but given
no representation in the city council, which its people wouldn’t stand.
What they lacked in numbers they made up in noise and determination. A
meeting of a score or so residents, nearly all there were, was held, and
three aldermen were selected (not elected) to represent the ward in the
city council. They were Mr. Thomas Nixon, a well-known citizen, strong
with the church-going community, Mr. Stewart Mulvey, a prominent
Orangeman and brewer, and myself, without any particular pedigree. We
three attended the first council meeting held after our selection, and
got a mighty cool reception. Mayor McMicken, while sympathizing with us,
followed legal advice and would not recognize us any more than he could
help. In attempting to address the chair we were ordered to sit down
which we readily did, only to arise again, and receive the same
treatment. It was not until the other aldermen were threatened with
legal prosecution that we were at all acknowledged. The old municipality
of Fort Rouge had $1,700 in its coffers, but just before its termination
as a separate municipality, the funds were voted into Mr. Nixon’s hands,
as trustee, and we were going to fight the beasts of Ephesus with that
money. In fact we had engaged Fred McKenzie, a bright young lawyer, and
the city compromised—after an indignation meeting had been held at
which Charlie Wishart and other non-residents of Fort Rouge vigorously
denounced the council for its disgraceful conduct. We were given our
seats, and an act was passed by the Legislature to legalize all that had
been done. Then the proceedings deteriorated into what one sagacious
alderman termed a “beer garden.” There was a feud between Ald. George
Wilson and Ald. Mark Fortune (who was a victim of the Titanic disaster)
and these two had no particular love for one another. One night while
Ald. Wilson, Mulvey and myself were going to a council meeting, the
question of the legality of a certain by-law was discussed. Ald. Wilson
said it was _ultra vires_, and I told him, in discussing its legality in
council, to again say it was when I pulled his coat-tail. I sat between
the two warring aldermen. Wilson started out on the by-law, and Mark was
busy writing a proposed motion. At the psychological moment, I pulled
Wilson’s coat-tail, and he addressed the Mayor:
“But, Mr. Mayor, I fear it’s _ultra vires_.”
Turning to Ald. Fortune I whispered:
“Mark, did you hear what he called you?”
“No, what is it?”
“Why he called you an _ultra vires_.”
“What’s that?” Mark asked.
“Well, I’d rather be called a dog’s child than that—it’s the meanest
thing anybody can be called.”
Mark arose indignantly and, interrupting Wilson’s remarks, shouted—
“Mr. Mayor—Mr. Mayor—”
Then, turning to me, he remarked sarcastically in a stage whisper that
everyone could hear:
“Oh, it’s only Wilson. Nobody cares a hang what he says.”
At another time, I walked into the finance committee meeting from one of
the license and police I had been attending and found Ald. Nixon—“Dad”
we familiarly called him—crouched up and shaking with laughter until
the tears rolled down his cheeks. A previous council had been loudly
denounced for its incapacity, and “Dad” handed me a slip of paper on
which he had written the opinion of a brother alderman:
“Under the old rigma things were in a state of cahose.”
The alderman meant to say that “under the old régime things were in a
state of chaos.” I shouldn’t translate his meaning for it spoils a joke
to have to explain it.
Always Have Proof
It is always advisable to have positive proof of your assertions, no
matter how respectable you may be. I learned this when on a trip on Lake
Manitoba in the 80’s. Our party, which consisted of Hon. C. P. Brown,
Minister of Public Works, in the Norquay government, Hon. Alex.
Sutherland, provincial secretary, F. H. Mathewson, manager of the
Merchants Bank, George B. Spencer, the venerable collector of customs at
Winnipeg—the two latter being prominent in Episcopal church
matters—George Dennison Taylor, who wore a plug hat, and myself. We had
gone to the White Mud river by train, then took Pratt’s big tug-boat to
the upper end of the lake, where we overtook His Lordship Archbishop
Machray and his party, who had been nearly a week longer than we had in
reaching Partridge Crop river by driving and canoeing. After the
customary greetings, His Lordship casually asked Mr. Brown when he had
left Winnipeg. “Yesterday,” promptly answered C. P. The Archbishop
looked incredulous, as from his own personal experience, that was
impossible. So he turned to Mr. Sutherland and to Mr. Mathewson and to
Mr. Spencer and individually made the same enquiry, which evoked the
same reply. His Grace could scarcely believe his ears, although he had
every confidence in their veracity, and especially of his co-workers and
fellow churchmen. So in despair he turned to me, and satirically asked,
“Well, then, Mr. Ham, when did _you_ leave Winnipeg?” “Oh, I came with
this party and”—producing it—“here’s a copy of yesterday’s _Free
Press_ I brought along for you.”
The good prelate was greatly relieved for my positive proof as to the
time we left the city had assured him that all men were not liars—as he
had really begun to believe the others were. I sat in a front pew the
next Sunday in St. John’s Cathedral, and His Lordship preached a
thoughtful sermon on the sin of bearing false witness against one’s
neighbors and the beneficial advantages of making your statements full
and clear.
It had nothing to do with the above incident, but George Dennison
Taylor, (who recently passed away in Montreal, deeply lamented), while
we were on the tug-boat, persisted in speaking of “Nee-a-gare-a.” We
couldn’t make out what on earth he was talking about, and he finally
told us it was about the great cataract. He was informed that in
civilized and Christian countries, it was pronounced “Niagara,” but he
persisted in calling it “Nee-a-gare-a,” until he was threatened with
being thrown into the lake if he didn’t give it the proper
pronunciation. When he again persisted in his aboriginal pronunciation
of the Falls, Aleck Sutherland and I—both husky chaps—grabbed George
and threw him overboard. Down he went into the depths—all but his shiny
plug, and when he came up we yelled at him, “Niagara or Nee-a-gare-a?”
and he answered “Nee-a-gare-a.” Down he went again, but when he came to
the surface, submissively announced that the proper pronunciation was
Niagara. He was then hauled aboard, and so was the plug, and when he
learned that the lake was about forty miles long and only seven miles
wide, and goodness knows how deep he cheerfully admitted that “Niagara”
was a more picturesque and poetical word than “Nee-a-gare-a.” And so it
is.
Winnipeg Doctors Play Practical Jokes
Dr. Patterson was a leading physician of Winnipeg, but he is my medical
adviser no longer. This is why. One Hallowe’en about 10 o’clock, when I
was handling flimsy on the _Free Press_—three different services were
enough to drive a man to distraction—I was going down to the business
office, when the Doctor, collarless and coat unbuttoned, rushed in and
excitedly said:
“Great guns, but I am glad to see you have recovered!”
“From what?” I naturally asked.
“Why,” he replied, “just got a ’phone that you had fallen in a fit.”
Grabbing my wrist, he encouragingly remarked as he felt my pulse: “Well,
it’s not so bad. A little stimulant will put you all right.” And he
dragged me across the road to Clougher’s.
As we were returning to the office and had reached the lane in the rear
of Clougher’s, we heard footsteps hastening down the sidewalk from Main
Street.
“Hold on,” he said, “let’s see what’s up.” The “up” was Dr. Good, and
Dr. Jones, and Dr. Cowan and Dr. Neilson and Dr. Benson and Dr.
Henderson and Dr. Codd and others, making a round dozen in all, and they
were all glad to see me alive. Each mother’s son had received a similar
’phone call to the one Dr. Patterson said he had got. The whole medical
fraternity boldly charged me with playing a Hallowe’en trick on them,
Dr. Patterson being the loudest in his denunciation. I tried to explain
my entire innocence to the whole group at Clougher’s, but it evidently
did not go with them. Dr. Good said he had just retired from general
practice and had become a specialist, but on account of our old
friendship he had left a patient in his office to answer the call. Dr.
Jones, who was in his slippers, stated that he was about to retire after
a hard day’s work, but couldn’t see me suffer. Dr. Neilson asserted that
he had to neglect another patient to answer this fool call, and what the
other doctors said was unfit for publication. They all looked upon me
with suspicion and if another call had been given them for me that
night, I would have died of old age before they would have come to my
aid.
It was a long time afterwards when old Alex McLaren, of the McLaren
House, and I met in front of Trott & Melville’s drug store on Main
Street, just a short distance from the _Free Press_ office. We always
stopped and had a chat when we met, and this time Mac burst out laughing
and said: “That was a good one we put over you last Hallowe’en, wasn’t
it?” Then he realized he had said too much and was as dumb as an oyster.
Finally, he admitted that he and Dr. Patterson were walking past that
drug store on that fateful evening, and the Doctor put up the job on me
and his confreres. He went in and arranged with the telephone exchange
to call up the other medical men, then taking off his collar and
disarranging his clothes as if he had rushed out to answer a hurry-up
call, piked for the _Free Press_ half a block away. And even to this day
the Doctor unblushingly asseverates that by his prompt action he
actually saved my life. I never received a bill for their services—but
they made me spend all my money at Clougher’s that night in rendering
continued aid to their injured feelings. And that’s the kind of man Dr.
Patterson is.
A Big Scandal
Col. W. N. Kennedy was mayor of Winnipeg when the city bought its first
piano. People maliciously said that the instrument was an old one
belonging to the mayor which he had palmed off on the city. Of course
there was not a word of truth in the report, but it would not down. At a
concert one evening, Miss Chambers, a niece of Col. Kennedy, now Mrs. W.
W. McMillan, a composer of high ability, was playing a number, when one
of the mayor’s detractors who sat beside me said in a stage whisper:
“There, doesn’t that prove that’s the mayor’s old piano? How would his
niece know where to put her fingers so well unless she had played upon
it before?”
That was proof positive to him of the existence of a big scandal.
Donald McEwan and the Waiter
A great many people throughout Canada will remember with kindly thoughts
Mr. Donald McEwan, who represented the well-known clothing house of
Shorey & Co., of Montreal, in the West. He used to make his headquarters
in Vancouver at the C.P.R. hotel, where he had a favorite waiter in
Mike—Mike, the ready witted Irishman. One day we were lunching
together, and it happened that one waiter bringing in a loaded tray for
one of the guests collided with another waiter returning to the kitchen
with a tray full of empty dishes. There was a grand crash and a big
smash. “Say, Mike, who got the worst of that?” laughingly asked Donald
of Michael. Quicker than a flash came back: “The C.P.R., sor.”
Another time my good friend was trying to get a hurried lunch in order
to catch a train. He gave Michael his full order, which included ox-tail
soup. The order was promptly filled, but Michael had forgotten the soup.
“Where’s the ox-tail?” demanded Mr. McEwan. “Shure,” retorted Mike,
“It’s where it ought to be—behind, sor.”
Mistaken Identity
Mistaken identity frequently leads to curious outcomes. For instance,
John Macbeth, a popular young lawyer, who was born in Kildonan, and his
brother Roddy, now a favorite Presbyterian preacher in Vancouver, didn’t
look alike as much as two peas, but there was the usual family
resemblance. At this particular time the Reverend Roddy was preaching in
Springfield, not far from Winnipeg. One day, as I was talking to John,
one of the Macleods of Kildonan, but then a farmer in Springfield,
joined us, and began to tell John how much he enjoyed his sermons.
“They’re grand, and I feel uplifted by them. Oh, boy, you’re the best
preacher I ever heard, and I don’t want any better one, me whatefer
boy.” “But,” replied John, “I’m not Roddy; I’m John.” “The hell you are.
Come on John, an’ let’s have a drink.” And naturally—.