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.
Ever been a patient in a hospital? No? Well, I’ve been in them six
times—and not always a patient. Sometimes I was an impatient. For a
person really ill or injured the hospital is the proper place. My first
experience in one was at the Montreal Western Hospital in 1905. I had
just arrived from the Pacific Coast by way of St. Paul and Toronto,
suffering most intense pain, but utterly oblivious of the cause of the
trouble. At Glenwood Lake in Dakota we—I was with a party of United
States newspaper men from Washington, D.C.—stopped for a sail on that
beautiful water. The craft was a gasoline motor and the boat round and
about the engine was saturated with gasoline. The combined captain,
pilot and crew was an inveterate cigarette fiend, and the way he lit his
“coffin nails” and unconcernedly threw the still-burning matches on the
deck was a holy fright. I said to Jerry Jermayne, of the Seattle
_Times_, who sat beside me, as I pointed to the overcast sky, “I wonder,
Jerry, what’s beyond those clouds?” “Why do you ask?” he inquired.
Racked with pain my rejoinder came, “Well, if that fellow keeps on
throwing those lighted matches on this tinder wood, we’ll be going up
there—if we don’t go the other way!”
* * * * *
But nothing happened, and after a couple of days and nights of agonizing
pain, we reached Toronto, where good-by and God-speed were wished to our
American friends. Next morning I was home and still unaware of what
painfully ailed me. I sent for Dr. England, who hurriedly called in
consultation Dr. Jim Bell, as good an authority on the human anatomy as
ever lived. Naturally, I watched their faces as they returned from the
consultation after having examined me, and I saw from their drawn facial
expression that trouble loomed ahead. They told me I had appendicitis
and that an operation to remove the appendix was absolutely and
immediately necessary. My father had died of appendicitis—only it
wasn’t known by that name then, but as inflammation of the bowels—and
my eldest son, Van, succumbed to an operation, and I said to myself,
“Three times and out.” But out loud I mentioned to the doctors: “Well,
if you have to take out my appendix, go on and do your worst, but for
goodness sake, leave me my preface and table of contents.”
* * * * *
Shortly after, the operation, which was a serious one, was performed. I
will never forget the awful darkness that overshadowed me as the opiate
took effect. My last thought was: “This is eternity.” When I recovered
from the effects of the opiate, I found myself in a darkened room and
wondered where I was and what it was all about. The kindly-featured
nurse quickly discovered that my consciousness had returned, and came to
my bedside, and then I remembered everything. “But why this dark room.
It was early morning when they operated on me, but now it can’t be
night.”
“No, it isn’t,” she seriously responded, “but we were afraid of the
shock you might get.”
“Why, what shock?”
“Well, there was a big fire just across the street and we were afraid if
you awoke, and saw the flames, you might think that the operation hadn’t
been successful.”
That shows you what it is to have a reputation.
A Really “Substantial” Breakfast.
Two years later I was in the hospital again for an operation for hernia,
and an incision was made in the same place as the previous one. The
morning of the operation, I arose early and hobbled down stairs for a
bath, to do which I had to pass the bedroom door of the matron—the
sister of a high-titled Canadian now in London. You know, or perhaps you
don’t know, that just previous to an operation, the patient is given no
more food than would keep a sparrow from starving. But, like a son of
Belial, I rapped thunderingly at the matron’s door, and she hopped out
of bed and rushed to answer the apparently important summons. When she
saw me she anxiously wanted to know what was the matter.
“The matter—well, I want to tell you that you keep a mighty punk
boarding-house. My breakfast—”
“What,” she exclaimed in holy horror, “did they give you a breakfast
this morning?”
“Of course they did.”
“And what did they give you?”
“Oh,” I said nonchalantly, “I had a shave, and bath, a glass of water,
and a copy of this morning’s _Gazette_.”
When next the matron saw me I was languidly smoking a cigarette and
dangling my legs on the operating table. And the look she gave me was as
sharp as the doctor’s knife. In a week’s time, I was taken home in an
ambulance and several cart drivers, out of morbid curiosity, jumped off
their vehicles and on to mine, but when the third one impudently glared
at me, I yelled out “smallpox” and, they all instantly skedaddled. One
fellow, thank goodness, bruised his epidermis.
An Afternoon of Gloom.
The next time the hospital wards housed me was out in Vancouver, where I
had acquired a pretty badly smashed knee while witnessing a lacrosse
match at New Westminster where that club played the Shamrocks of
Montreal. Thanksgiving Day came round about a week after, and it was a
dour, gloomy day, and my game leg ached worse than ever. After a very
light lunch, Denah O’Connor, my pretty Irish nurse, quietly informed me
that I was to have no evening meal. I thought that dreary afternoon
would never come to an end, and conjured up all sorts of things. Would
they cut off my leg above the knee, or below the thigh, and would not it
be better and save a lot of bother if they knifed me around the neck.
Five-thirty came—six o’clock—six-thirty—seven and no visible signs of
even tea and toast. I was sure then what was coming and when I heard a
bustling outside I said to myself, “There come my executioners, and
they’re bringing the undertakers with them just to save time.” * * * *
These asterisks, kind reader, represent my unprintable thoughts. And
then the door opened and in came two Japanese boys with a huge hamper
sent to me by the people of the Vancouver hotel. The hamper contained
everything from soup to nuts, and there was enough to feed a dozen
people. The nurses and some other patients were called in, the
banqueting board was spread, the aching pains thoughtfully diminished,
and we had a whale of a time. I was out of the hospital three days
later.
Down in Pictou, Nova Scotia, I was laid up with a very serious attack of
rheumatism, and my attending physician was Dr. McMillan, a brother of
Duncan McMillan, then M.P. for Meddlesex, Ontario, whom I knew very
well. After the third daily visit, the doctor came two or three times a
day, and I anxiously asked him one day if I was so seriously ill that
such frequent visits were necessary. “Not at all, old man, not at all.
But I like to hear you talk of the doings at Ottawa and of my brother
Duncan. You’ll be out in a couple of days.”
Thus doubt and uncertainty and anxiety were quickly dispelled.
To be “Queen of the May”
Out in the Winnipeg hospital, where I had an attack of pneumonia for a
change, another patient was enjoying the weird pleasures that only
delirium tremens can furnish the devotees of Bacchus. He would insist on
visiting me, and quickly ascertaining that the arm of a big chair was
loose, always grabbed it, and the way he slashed it around was a
caution. I had plenty of exercise dodging that chair-arm without leaving
my bed. Of course, he wouldn’t have hit me for the world, but people
with the D. T.’s have a largely distorted vision, and I didn’t know
exactly at what juncture he would mistake my pillow for a whale or
myself for a fiery dragon. He compromised when the matron came in, and
led him out by the ear, notwithstanding his incessant pleading that he
owned the hospital, and that I was to be Queen of the May. So you see,
even illness has its compensating advantages.
Of course other accidents happened to me and there was no hospital to
give treatment. A broken foot in a football game, a broken finger at
cricket, and a couple of broken ribs in a bath-tub were amongst them.
The latter occurred on a fine Sunday morning when I was getting ready to
go to the train to meet Miss Agnes Laut, the well-known Canadian writer,
who was then living in New York. A piece of soap—now I know why so many
hate soap—and kerflump I went against the side of the porcelain tub. It
pained a good deal, but I didn’t know the full meaning of my mishap
until evening when the doctor came and telling me I had two broken ribs,
proceeded to put that part of my body in plaster. Just then I remembered
an appointment made with Brent Macnab for next day, and sent a note that
I had been laid up with a couple of broken ribs and informing him that:
“While it’s not as bad a smash as that of the Ville Marie bank, I was in
plaster and never felt so stuck up in my life.” Which made Brent
snicker.
Down in Washington
Washington, the capital of the great United States, is one of the finest
cities in the Union. It is well laid out, has fine residential and
business sections, and the Capitol itself occupies a commanding
position. The city is the great political centre of the Republic and a
swell social centre as well. It is a pleasant place to visit, especially
if one has lots of friends like I have—the boys of the press gallery
and some who are just ordinary, and a few who are not ordinary
statesmen. Before the Civil war, it was an almost entirely southern
city—but of course it is not now.
Under the big dome of the Capitol is a rotunda on whose walls are
pictured historic scenes. One is of Pocahontas, where one of the figures
has six fingers on the one hand, and in another work of art two girls
are painted, and I’ll be hanged if one of them hasn’t got three
arms—one hanging by her side and another around her companion’s waist
and—the third around that young lady’s neck. Suppose the artist didn’t
like the lay of the second arm and after painting the third forgot to
remove the other. The artist’s error has never been corrected.
The dinners of the Gridiron Club at Washington were swell affairs, and
the press men had as their guests some of the biggest men in the land.
One time I was present. It was during the scandal when prominent people
for obvious reasons were accused of paying big money to have their
portraits published in the New York _Town Topics_. Elihu Root, perhaps
the brainiest man in the United States political life of the time, but
whose cast of countenance was the reverse of jovial, began a speech this
way: “At the last Cabinet council (President Roosevelt quickly looked at
him in surprise at his publicly mentioning the doings of a cabinet in
private session) when you, Mr. President, and we considered (the
President very uneasily twisted and turned in his chair) that is, we
were considering the advisability (Mr. President looked daggers at him
for daring to publicly repeat what was always considered confidential,
but Mr. Root went unconcernedly on) the advisability of getting—of
getting our pictures in _Town Topics_—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in the wild hilarious shouts that
filled the room.
William H. Taft, afterwards President Taft, and a man of great humor,
spoke at another gathering. He was then a member of the Roosevelt
cabinet—and he claimed that his “rotundity of person was looming larger
in the public eye than the President’s teeth.” and Teddy _did_ have
prominent molars.
I heard Mr. Harriman, the widely known railway magnate, try to make a
speech, and, after a minute or so, get entirely lost, stick his hands in
his pockets, and aimlessly wander around, vainly endeavoring to say
something or other, which he couldn’t remember. He was a man of brains,
but not of gab. Then Pierpont Morgan, able as he was, couldn’t make an
after-dinner speech, for while he was long on money, he was short on
language. But everybody was vociferously applauded all the same.
Case of “Much Wants More”
During the Spanish-American war there was great excitement in Boston and
all along the coast of the New England states. A cruiser which had
patrolled the coast was suddenly ordered elsewhere and the New
Englanders, fearing a hostile visit from the enemy, deluged Washington
with telegrams and letters and delegations demanding protection at once.
I happened to be in Washington at the time, and was accompanying Eddie
Hood, of the Associated Press, in his daily round of the Government
offices. We dropped into the office of Mr. John Hay, Secretary of State,
and there met his assistant, Mr. John Bassett Moore, who afterwards
succeeded Mr. Hay. He looks like an Englishman, but isn’t one. After a
short stay we were about to leave when Mr. Moore asked us to wait a
minute, and disappeared into an adjoining room. On returning, a minute
or so later, he asked me if I would like to meet Mr. Hay, and
immediately ushered me into his presence. Mr. Hay had a keen piercing
eye, and he looked at me searchingly. Then he said, “Mr. Ham, you are
from Canada. Would you do me a favor?” Of course I would if I could.
“Well,” he went on, “the people of Boston and New England are deluging
me with all sorts of messages and delegations and demanding that a
cruiser that patrolled their coast line, which we had to send elsewhere,
should be replaced at once. That is impossible, but I want to assure
them that they will be protected from any Spanish fleet. Could you get
me a daily message from Halifax reporting the approach of any Spanish
men-of-war?”
* * * * *
I told him I would try, and he gave me the address to which the messages
were to be sent. I looked it up and it was the residence of Mr. Wilkie,
the head of the U. S. secret service—although his was not the name
given. I went to Halifax, and saw Charlie Philps, the local C.P.R.
representative, who arranged with the look-out men at the signal station
to keep him informed. Every morning a wire was sent: “All’s well.” On
the first of every month, a man came into my office and handed me an
envelope in which was $100 in brand new U. S. currency which had never
before been used. There was no name, but I had a number, which
identified me at Washington. This money was forwarded to Halifax to be
divided between the four signal men. All went smoothly until all danger
of an attack was past, when I was notified that there was no further
necessity for the messages. When I conveyed this intelligence to the
look-out men, instead of thanks for putting what is called “velvet” in
their pockets, I received a letter abusing me like a pickpocket for not
continuing the service. Oh, well—perhaps I may get a war medal or some
other decoration from Washington some of these days, but I am not
banking on it.
* * * * *
At the old Willard Hotel, Jimmy Anderson, the colored porter, put one
over me. My room was chilly, and Jimmy came daily and lighted a fire. He
told me a sad, sad tale about his wife and children having in the far
past been stolen by the Georgia men (men from Georgia) and his life had
been one of long sorrow and lonesomeness ever since. The tears trickled
down his wrinkled cheeks and he appealed to me so pitifully that I gave
him a couple of dollars and temporarily soothed his saddened heart. In
about a year I was again at the old Willard, and roomed on the same
floor. Meeting the motherly housekeeper one morning, I asked her as to
the whereabouts of Jimmy. She enquired if I wanted to see him, to which
I replied in the affirmative. The tale Jimmy told me of his kidnapped
family had scarcely been commenced, when she laughingly interrupted by
saying, “And he told you that terrible story of his wife and children
being stolen? Why, the old rascal is over at Atlantic City now with his
wife and eleven youngsters, all fat and hearty.” Whereat we both laughed
and my deep interest in Jimmy and his woes took a decided slump.
* * * * *
One day Ned Farrer and I were wandering around Chevy Chase, just outside
the city, when we casually ran across a fine old type of a Southern
gentleman. Entering into conversation he told us we were on historic
ground; it was here a group of Confederate soldiers during the Civil War
gathered, coming by way of Georgetown, with the avowed purpose of making
a quick dash on the White House, kidnapping President Lincoln, and
hurriedly carrying him away. That night was a misty one, and the scouts
sent out mistook the haycocks, which were in plenty, for the tents of
the northern soldiers. Imagining that their venture could not be
successfully carried out, they quickly retreated, and sadly said our
new-found friend: “I don’t understand how we ever made such an awful
blunder.”
* * * * *
He had been one of the foiled Southern troops and a Colonel at that.
Some Anecdotes
A warm personal friend, who had been reading these reminiscences, very
kindly writes me his appreciation of them, and adds a few incidents
which he thinks I had forgotten. Here they are in all their glory and
exaggeration. He says:
“I ran across an American mining man, Col. Jack Ormsby, in Toronto, who
told me a typical ‘George Ham Story.’ It appears that the two colonels
were travelling together from New York to Washington. Never having met
up before, they introduced each other in Western fashion. And after
having said: ‘Well, what do you say if we have another one?’ which they
had, the American colonel loosened up and explained that he had just
come from Arizona to report to J. Pierpont Morgan on a mining
proposition, (this was in 1905) and the ‘Old Man’ was so pleased that
when his report was handed Mr. Morgan, and passed, Mr. Morgan presented
the Colonel (not George) with a cheque for $15,000, the larger portion
of which was given as a bonus.
“ ‘I showed Mr. Ham the cheque,’ said Colonel Jack, ‘and he asked me if
he might tear a small piece off the corner, and when I enquired what
for?’ he said: ‘Well, if that whole bit of paper is worth $15,000, a
small piece of it must surely be worth a few thousands—and I need the
money.’
“The American colonel who told me this story added: ‘Now that struck me
as a funny thing; but not any funnier than the mild and innocent
expression on Mr. Ham’s face when he made the droll remark’.”
And another one:
“Here is something which you have probably forgotten. Robert Lincoln
O’Brien, of the Boston _Herald_, is responsible for it. You were
‘meeting’ Theodore Roosevelt in the White House, the morning after the
Gridiron Club dinner, back in 1904, I think. ‘Teddy’ was then President,
and was in a very talkative mood, standing outside his office in the
ante-room addressing his remarks especially to you, stating that when he
got clear of his present ‘job,’ he intended to take a trip through
Canada.
“ ‘I hope you do,’ said G. H. H. cordially, ‘there’s only one man in the
world who would be better or more cordially received than you, Mr.
President—and that’s King Edward.’ Whereat President Roosevelt
smilingly showed his teeth, seeing as how he generally knew a good thing
when he heard it.”
And still another:
“Sam Blythe—he of _Saturday Evening Post_ fame—will vouch for this
one. Mr. Ham, under his chaperonage was being escorted through the
different congressional members’ rooms (States headquarters) in the
Capitol at Washington. There was ‘apple-jack’ in the Jersey room;
‘moonshine’ in the Tennessee tee-pee; peach brandy and honey in the
Delaware ‘hang-out,’ and ‘Bourbon’ in the Blue Grass state apartments.
“ ‘How many States are there in this blooming Union of yours anyway,
Sam?’ asked G. H. H. anxiously.
“Some one said, ‘Not more than fifty.’
“G. H. H. looked relieved: ‘Oh, is that all—lead me to it.’
“Afterwards there was a steamed clam luncheon at Shoemaker’s; and Samuel
said that George put them all to bed.”
Guess that’s all right—but even Ananias would exaggerate.
Canadian Club
Of course everybody who goes south does not linger in Washington. As a
matter of fact a great many Canadians flock to Florida during the winter
months—thousands of them—and St. Petersburg on the western coast is a
favorite resort. They are greatly in evidence everywhere, and last
January, on a very warm day, I strolled over to the City Park, which was
thronged with merry-makers. The band was playing popular airs, and many
Canadians were indulging in dominoes, checkers, euchre, and other
old-fashioned card games, and for the first time since boyhood days I
saw quite a number pitching quoits with horse-shoes. I took a hand in
the game, and nearly hit the man that beat the big drum, goodness knows
how many yards away.
It was a grand day. The Canadians are there during the winter in such
strong force that they have a club room for themselves, and on the door
was a card which read: “Canadian Club,” and beneath it,
“7:30”—signifying that a club meeting was to be held that evening at
that hour. Mike Heenan, the Michigan Central Railway detective of
Detroit, who is well-known throughout Western Ontario, and who was
visiting St. Petersburg, didn’t read it exactly in that light.
“Holy Smoke,” he said, “Canadian Club—7:30. Minny’s the bottle I’ve
bought for a dollar-tin, aye and for ninety cents.”
And then everybody smiled.