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.