When I came into the Service, one got in on a Minister’s “say so.”
That was all that was necessary. If your Minister intended you to get
in, you got in quickly, without heart-breaking waiting or examinations
that did not examine. A Minister’s “say so” was secured if you could
get close enough to him to enable you to point your gun at his head
and whisper in his ear in a threatening, stagey voice that the gun was
loaded with a great charge of influence, family connections, friends,
contractors, manufacturers, etc. It really mattered very little
whether the gun was actually loaded or not, for all politicians are
most notoriously nervous, and take for granted that every gun they see
is loaded. It is a safe way. Politicians forget easily, so sometimes
the gun had to be produced several times to bring about fulfilment of
the promise; but with a gun, or something that looked like a gun, a
determined air, and nerve, you could do a great deal.
During these manœuvres I had not mentioned the matter of a Civil
Service position to Muriel or my family. When it was as good as
settled, I told my father. He said “What?” so loudly that the windows
rattled. He said other things not necessary to mention. My mother’s
father had been a Civil servant, and my decision to follow the same
life seemed to my father a horrible case of reversion. Muriel was not
enthusiastic about the prospective change; but she was resigned to her
fate. “I suppose it is the best thing,” she said and shrugged her
shoulders. She had no great confidence in my judgment, but she had
great faith in my luck.
Not many weeks elapsed between my interview with Minister One and my
instalment in the service of the Queen. This, of course, was due to
Rex, who was keeper of the Minister’s memory. One day Rex sent for me,
and I was presented to Mr. Gobble, the Deputy Minister of Ways and
Means, and received the very pleasing information that I was to report
for duty at Ottawa immediately. Details were discussed. I was a little
disappointed to learn that the promise of my Minister, of a position
of fifteen hundred dollars per annum, had to be modified. As I was
over thirty-five, I could not enter on the permanent staff or Civil
Service List, but had to enter as an extra clerk, at the regular rate
in such cases, namely, three dollars per day. I was assured, however,
by Minister One, his Deputy and Rex, that very soon after I was placed
they would see to it that I was raised to the promised sum. I believed
every word they said.
Fifteen hundred a year, coming in regularly and systematically, whether
business was good or bad, looked bigger than a house to me at the time,
and was magnified many times in my eyes before I really got it. I had
often lived on more money, but more often had lived on less, and I saw
myself writing for magazines and papers, teaching music, living in
peace and comfort, and bringing up my children. It was a very modest
ambition.
On Monday, the fourteenth day of January, in the year Thirty-Seven,
I arrived in Ottawa. When I walked into the Government building the
policeman on the door touched his hat to my English clothes, which
were still good. I presented myself at the green baize door of Mr.
Gobble’s office, and was presently shown in by a messenger, who had
first taken in my card. Mr. Gobble had already forgotten me, so shook
hands heartily as if he were pleased to see me again and invited me to
sit down. “Well, Mr. Wesblock, what now?” he said, waiting for the cue
which would show him who the deuce I was.
“I am Three-Dollar-a-Day-Wesblock,” I said; “told to report here
to-day, and here I am.”
Light broke upon Mr. Gobble and he laughed loudly at a point I did not
see, but I joined his laugh.
“You will go into the office of Mercenary Dispensations,” said Gobble.
“You will like the Chief Dispenser, Mr. Kingdom. I will present you to
him now, if you will come with me.” He rose and I followed him to Mr.
Kingdom’s office. It was a small place which had not been thoroughly
cleaned for a long time. Everything in the room was old-fashioned and
dingy. A litter of papers was strewn in every direction; papers were
piled on a little counter that stood before the door, on the chairs in
bundles, on the floor in a corner, and in huge heterogeneous stacks
upon an ancient desk. Before this object sat a sad-eyed, prematurely
decayed and old-fashioned man, who rose as we entered. “Mr. Kingdom,”
said the Deputy, “this is Mr. Wesblock, your newly appointed clerk.”
“Ah!” sighed Mr. Kingdom, and he busied himself clearing a chair for me
to sit upon. “Sit down, Mr. Wesblock,” and he smiled upon me sadly.
“I will leave Mr. Wesblock with you,” said the Deputy to Mr. Kingdom,
and to me, “Good-morning, Mr. Wesblock,” and he left the room.
Mr. Kingdom mildly and tentatively cross-examined me, and I gave a
short account of myself. His manner said nearly as plainly as words,
“God knows what I am going to do with you.”
I have excellent sight, and while we talked I noted a piece of paper
before Mr. Kingdom upon which was type-written a long column of
figures. Some one had evidently just added this column and the total
was written in blue pencil on a pad before me. These little things were
of no particular interest to me, but I idly noted them for want of
better occupation.
“Just add this column for me, Mr. Wesblock,” said Mr. Kingdom, and
he pushed towards me the paper I had noticed. Whether he thought I
looked as if I could not do simple addition, or not, I do not know.
Carefully noting the total I had already observed in blue pencil, which
was still nearly under my nose, I gave him an exhibition of lightning
addition, which seemed to enthuse him to mild satisfaction. We were
each satisfied with ourselves; he, that he had a clerk who could read,
write, and add; I, that I had a chief with whom any one could get along
without half trying, and I intended to try.
“I will now take you to Father Steve,” said Mr. Kingdom, “whom you will
assist.” We went into the adjoining room, which was very much like Mr.
Kingdom’s, with the exception that it was inhabited by two ancients
instead of one.
I was presented to Father Steve and Mr. Ernest, the two ancients.
Father Steve was a little old man with white whiskers. He wore
spectacles far down on his nose, and glared at me with two fiery eyes,
as if he were indignant at some affront I had put upon him. Ernest was
a younger man, handsome, intelligent looking, but seedy. I judged by
the expectant smile on Ernest’s face that Father Steve was in some
way amusing him at my expense. Mr. Kingdom left the room, and Father
Steve walked coolly over to me, where I stood in the middle of the room
near a high desk. He walked around me very much as one dog walks around
another before the fight begins. Then he posted himself before me, and
looking into my face most impertinently said, “What the devil are you
going to do here?” I saw now that the old buffer was a little bit of
all right, and that he was acting for his pal Ernest. “I am going to
assist you, Mr. Steve,” I said.
“Assist me?” he growled. “Oh hell! Assist me! Now look here, Blockhead,
I do not intend to be assisted, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be assisted.
I am only a young chap of seventy years of age. I’ve been here for
thirty years at three dollars a day, and I don’t need assistance.” I
believe the old chap would have worked himself into an actual rage in a
minute.
“Now look here, Pa,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder, much to
his surprise, “I am going to assist you or not, just as you say, but
first of all let us be friends, and I fancy we can have a bit of fun
together.”
“What did you call me, sir?” he asked, pretending indignation.
“I called you ‘Pa,’” I said.
“Damned familiarity,” he exclaimed.
Ernest was now laughing heartily and the old man joined him with me.
“What did you call me?” I asked in pretended anger.
“‘Blockhead,’” said the old man, “and good enough for you, damn you.”
And from that day till his death we were “Pa” and “Blockhead” to each
other, and many were the pranks we played on others. The merry old
soul died at seventy-six.
I enjoyed Pa very much, but my first glimpse of the Civil Service at
close quarters did not arouse any particular enthusiasm within me. I
looked upon a shabby world. I was rather a smart and well-kept looking
person, and I felt out of place among the dingy, old, shabby-looking
offices, which were badly ventilated and badly lighted, inhabited by
a dingy, slipshod looking lot of nondescript humanity, not the kind
of men I expected to be associated with at all. I found all sorts and
conditions of men of just the same average of decency, intelligence and
sobriety as are to be met with outside the service, no better and no
worse. I did not find the pampered, well-fed, well-groomed and cultured
lot of semi-idle gentlemen who are popularly supposed to exist on Civil
Service salaries.
I had arrived in the Kingdom of the Automaton. It was at the end of
the Political Era, when some pretence was being made to eliminate that
kind of Pull which enabled a Minister, or any one who was politically
strong, to dump any kind of humanity into the Civil Service, just
because it served his personal ends. We had a clerk in the Department
of Ways and Means who had been a waiter in an hotel, and was appointed
in reward for services rendered a Minister during his numerous sprees.
We had other persons just as objectionable, brought in for reasons just
as edifying.