Jim and Bob were “boss cattle men,” each of whom, though still young, had made scores of trips between the barns and the principal ports of Great Britain.
A short run down the spur brought us to the main line of the Canadian Pacific; our cars were joined to a train that was making up, and we made our way to the caboose that had been rammed on behind. Though the companies permit it, train men look with no kindly eye on the intrusion of traveling “cow-punchers” into their home and castle. As we emerged into the glare of the tail-lights, carrying our bundles and poles, a surly growl gave us greeting:
“Huh! ’Nother bloody bunch o’ cattle stiffs!”
A steady run of thirty-six hours, enlivened by changes of caboose at unseemly hours, crews of increasing surliness, and a tramp along the cars at every halt to “punch ’em up” brought us to Montreal. The feeders at the railroad pens took charge of the shipment and we repaired to the “Stockyards Hotel,” a hostelry pervaded from bar-room to garret by the odor of cattle. Thus far our destination had been uncertain, but, not long after our arrival, information leaked out that we were to sail for Glasgow on the Sardinian two days later.
On that second evening, I reported at a wharf peopled by a half-hundred men whose only basis of fellowship, apparently, was pennilessness and riotous desire to secure passage to the British Isles. Twelve hundred cattle, collected from several Canadian feeding centers, were to be shipped and, besides the bosses, twenty cattle men were needed. A few, like myself, had come overland with the stock trains; but the throng was made up chiefly of those who had paid a Montreal agency $2.50 for the privilege of shipping.
Over these we were given precedence. “Farnsworth’s gang” was summoned first and under the lead of our boss we filed into the shipping-office, to be greeted by a blustering officer seated before the ship’s log:
“What’s yer name?”
“H. Franck.”
“Ever been over before?”
“Yes, sir, on the Manchester Importer.”