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—.