Floored James Oborne.
On another occasion, we were out in James Oborne’s private car through the Muskoka country. James, as you know, besides being general superintendent of the C.P.R. was a total abstainer, and as pernickety as they make them on the liquor question. As James and I were sitting together one morning in the rear end of the car, Weelum’s name came up incidentally, and I remarked quite off-hand-like:
“Weelum is a grand man, a nature’s nobleman, but—but—”
“But, what?” demanded James.
“Oh, I don’t like to tell, but, between you and me, Weelum crooks his elbow too much.”
James was astounded; it wasn’t possible, and he wanted to know if he drank very heavily.
“Like a fish,” I mendaciously retorted.
Just then Weelum entered, and James Oborne immediately informed him of what I had told him.
“Oborne,” said Weelum, “did he say that? And I suppose he told you he never touched a drop himself. Oh, but he’s an awful liar. Did you notice how frequently he goes into his bedroom?” And James bowed affirmatively. “Well, the old villain has a bottle of Scotch in there. That’s why. Do you know that the last time he was in my place, he drank up every drop of liquor there was in the house?”
James reproachfully looked at me and silently awaited some sort of an explanation.
“It’s true, James, alas, it’s only too true,” I unblushingly remarked. “But he hasn’t told you the whole story. You know what a charming woman Mrs. Stitt is. Now, I leave it to you, James, I leave it to you, what would you do if a lovely woman like Mrs. Stitt came up and put her arms around your neck and with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks would say to you: ‘For goodness’ sake, George, drink up all the whiskey there is in this house, or William will have the D.T.’s?”
Mr. Oborne was completely obfuscated, and to the day of his death was undecided whether I was an inveterate liar or William a confirmed drunkard.
Don’t think I got the best of it every time. Weelum generally evened up on me. One day at a little gathering, somebody or other remarked that everybody knew me and that I knew everybody.
“Nothing of the sort,” says Weelum. “Not a word of truth in it. He’s an awful faker. Why I went to see some prominent people who were about to make a trip to the coast, and I told them that George would be on the train, but they didn’t know him at all. I called in the colored porter, and explained that this party was going out, but that George Ham would be on the train, and to see him about them. The porter said: ‘George Ham—who is he? Never heard of him.’ ”
And Weelum led in the laughter in which everybody joined.