No girl or woman likes to be understood as entirely good or entirely bad, which is quite natural; for none are altogether one way or the other, but, like all humanity, are of every shade and every colour, both good and bad.
My mistake about girls happened to be a safe mistake to make, thereby I never got a girl into trouble, and no girl ever got me into trouble. This, of course, does not include the case of my wife and me, who, God knows, have given each other no end of trouble. But in that experience was one involving good, useful, necessary trouble, whereby we really learned things, as you shall hear later.
I have noticed that when two young people get each other into trouble, they are seldom to blame. The blame attaches to the parents who kept them blind, and allowed them to get the all-important knowledge of sex by chance. The enlightment of the young on this vital subject is still a matter little understood.
During my public school days I organised a drum and fife band. My mother thought it was beautiful. As she was Scotch, and liked the bagpipes, this is perhaps not remarkable. The neighbours hardly had as much admiration for my genius, although many of them had subscribed to the fund which armed my men with their instruments of torture. The boy who played the bass drum was the proudest chap in ten blocks, and could swing the sticks splendidly. The rehearsals of this band took place in our basement dining-room, and the din we made was no ordinary noise.
With my musicians I started a dramatic venture. I wished to be an actor. Another subscription list was passed amongst neighbours and friends who were always very kind and forgiving to me. I must have had a way with me that appealed to the grown-ups. I was tall and thin with a big head and big hands. My eyes were small and deep set, my face pale but for a red spot on either cheek. Possibly I appealed to people because I looked as if I did not have long to live. Two faithful aiders and abettors in my scheme for a boys’ theatre were Jews—Joey and Philly. They accompanied me and my subscription list, and their fathers were my first backers. I have always liked Jews; they are such a gentle people. “Little Blockhead” at the Canon’s school was a Jewess; at least, her father was a Jew.
Boards, nails, and other things having been bought, we erected a stage in a large unused coach-house. Sundry plays were examined, and a very amusing sketch called “Bumps” was finally chosen and put into rehearsal. Very wisely, or because of the impossibility of getting girls, we chose a playlet with an entirely male cast.
The great wooden doors of the coach-house were splendidly posted with the legend:
Wesblock’s Theatre.
This sign was a real work of art. In the coach-house we found a barrel of bright-coloured labels for beer that never was made, because the company which intended to make beer, for some business reason, never got much further than labels. We laboriously pasted these labels on the coach-house doors, to form the large letters, which informed the few who passed down the lane that “Wesblock’s Theatre” was within.
My theatrical company embraced the “high brows” of the neighbourhood. Of course we were laughed at, and scoffed at, and sometimes one of us was walloped by some envious and strong boy, but many of the lacrosse playing crowd would have given their eyes to be of us.