Although the members of this Club carefully safeguard their Death Benefit Fund and derive profit from periodical addresses delivered to them by qualified speakers on topics of specific or general interest, they have realized that all work with trains or traffic affairs and no play, is an unwise plan of campaign. Until war time exigencies discouraged the practice, the Transportation Club indulged in an Annual June outing.
Some incidents—not posed for—photographed at Jackson’s Point Picnic.
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
“Let go the balloon and come to earth you crimson-thatched, wind-jamming bush ranger,” called Tommy Nelson, president of the Brantford Green Socks, from the convention hall vestibule to discursive Claudius O’Toole, manager of the Ottawas, and the centre of a group following on the flight of steps above.
“Heraus mit him!” vamoose with that lingo you ivory-crested Fenian, we’ll shoot your team in the air like puffed rice from a Quaker Oats gun,” was the manager’s quick rejoinder, as he lighted a fragrant panatela.
“You’ll think you are playing in a vat of molasses when our merry men begin to stampede your bronchos,” continued Mr. Nelson, winking at Duff Adams and Will Lahey to the accompaniment of covert snickers from the near by delegates dispersing after the session.
AT THE BALL GAME