Chapter XVIII (3)

Walking down Notre Dame Street one morning in the summer of ’92 I met Sir William Van Horne, who enquired about the Maritime Provinces, where I was then doing missionary work for the C.P.R. I told him that it was a pleasant country to roam around in—especially in the summer time—but that until more energy was developed in public utilities, increased prosperity could not be expected. The Provinces needed a great developing agency like the C.P.R., instead of the Government-owned road, and until such a developing factor was secured the same old conditions would prevail. I also told him that while the practical politicians of both parties were strong advocates of Government control of the I.C.R. for the peculiar advantages and influences it afforded the political bosses, I didn’t believe the great mass of the people were of the same mind, but would gladly hail the advent of the C.P.R. He said, “Well, go down and buy it.” He didn’t give me any money, but I did try, and found that nearly three-fourths of the newspapers there favored a change. All went well, with the powerful aid of the Toronto _Globe_ and other Western newspapers, but in ’94 Sir John Thompson, then Premier of the Dominion, declared that if the control of the I.C.R. was transferred to the C.P.R. or any other private corporation, he would resign. That ended it, and the Maritime Provinces remained somnolent until other developing factors and more capital infused life into them, and years after gave them the prosperity that would have been theirs a quarter of a century sooner.

An Old-Time Roadmaster.

John Riordan was an old and efficient roadmaster of the C.P.R. western lines, and he ever had an eye to the company’s interests. One day, a navvy was taken ill with cramps, and there being no medical man within hailing distance, and no proper remedies, John seized a sizzling hot mince pie and clapped it on the suffering man’s stomach. He quickly recovered, and when John reported the matter, he was quizzingly asked what he had done with the pie, and he naively said: “Shure, sor, I put it back on the shelf.”

John was a thoroughly loyal employee, and when there was a strike on, he wired his brother, then on strike at Deloraine, in an effort to bring him back to the ranks.

“Tim Riordan,
C.P.R., Deloraine,

You are now roadmaster for the Deloraine division.

(Sgd.) John Riordan.”

Quickly came back the answer:

“John Riordan,
C.P.R., Winnipeg,

You are a d—— liar. I am not.

Timothy Riordan.”

When Coal Was Costly.

Superintendent Oborne had great economic ideas. He spent quite a time in ascertaining whether two short whistles from a locomotive were not cheaper than one long one. He noticed one day that a lot of coal was dropped off the tenders between Winnipeg and Brandon, and instructed his assistant, Ed. James, to have it gathered up. Of course, Ed. strictly followed instructions, and a week later was asked how it was progressing.

“Fine,” said Ed., “we’ve picked up two tons already, and are still picking.”

“Splendid,” encouragingly replied the boss. “And how much is it costing?”

“$65.00 a ton.” As coal was then laid down at Winnipeg at $4.50 a ton, the collection of black diamonds was instantly discontinued.

Gate-Keeper, I Hope, in Both Worlds.

Constable Richards, head-gateman in the castellated stone structure of the C.P.R. at Windsor Street Station, Montreal, was everybody’s friend. A large sized, well-built, active man, for many years he more than satisfactorily fulfilled his onerous duties, until at a ripe age he passed away mourned by all who knew him. He was an Englishman first and last, and on St. George’s Day, it was for years a great pleasure for me to pin a red rose on his manly breast. One time, I was away in Los Angeles, and didn’t remember that England’s patron saint’s day was on the morrow. But I did think of it in time, and wired to N. S. Dunlop, who was then in charge of the company’s floral department, to send Mr. Richards a rose with my best wishes. When I returned home a fortnight or so later, Constable Richards was on duty at the gate, and when he saw me, he grasped my hand, shook it heartily, and exclaimed: “I knew wherever you were, you wouldn’t forget my rose. It came all right, but how could you send it by wireless?” N. S. D. had put on my card, “By wireless from Los Angeles.”

* * * * *

My old friend honestly believed that the C.P.R. was the only railway in the world and Lord Shaughnessy the greatest man. One time in rearranging increases of salaries, he had been overlooked on account of having passed the age limit, and it was only when Lord Shaughnessy returned home and greeted him at the gate that he had an opportunity of airing his grievance. He told the Baron the case, and the next day was rejoiced to find that he had received a substantial increase and the back pay, which he never knew came from the Chief’s own pocket.

* * * * *

If Constable Richards is assistant to St. Peter as guardian of the gate, I will take my chances on getting in without any difficulty whatever, and will hear his cheery voice resounding through whatever is up there: “Hey, you fellows, make way for the Colonel.”

Don’t Own the Alphabet.

You may realize from what has been written about Canada’s big corporation, that the C.P.R. is—But listen to this: It appears the company issued notices to some hotels, restaurants and storekeepers, protesting against the unauthorized use of its initials, “C.P.R.” One such notice was mailed to Timothy O’Brien, who was the proud proprietor of the “C.P.R. Barber Shop” in a prairie village. Tim’s reply is entitled to a niche in the temple of fame, and is here reproduced without comment:

“Dear Sir:—I got your notis. I don’t want no law soot with yure
big company, or I don’t want to paint a wife and family to
sport. I no yure company owns most everything—ralerodes,
steemers, most of the best land and the time, but I don’t know
as you own the hole alphabet. The letters on my shop don’t stand
for yure ralerode but for sumthin better. I left a muther in
Ireland, she is dead and gawn, but her memories are dear to me.
Her maiden name was Christina Patricia Reardon, and what I want
to no is what you are going to do about it. I suppose you won’t
argue that the balance of my sine what refers to cut rates has
got anythink to do with yure ralerodes. There aint been no cut
rates round these parts that I nos of.

(Sgd.) Timothy O’Brien...”

The officials of the big railroad are reported to have acknowledged themselves answered.

Flour for Lady Macdonald.

When John Niblock was superintendent of the C.P.R. at Medicine Hat, Sir John and Lady Macdonald passed through to the Coast on the second transcontinental train from the east. John was out on the line, and missed the Chief—but disappointed as he was, he was not altogether phazed. He wired to Medicine Hat for the agent to send a bouquet of flowers to the Earnscliffe, the car Sir John always used. The telegraph operator was a green hand, and couldn’t send very well, so when the wire reached Calgary, it read:

“Send boq flour to Lady Macdonald with my compliments.
(Sgd.) John Niblock.”

The operator couldn’t make out what a “boq”—the contraction for bouquet—meant, and so substituted “bag.” When the agent lumbered down to the Earnscliffe, the steward absolutely refused the flour as he was already stocked up. So Lady Macdonald lost both the bouquet and the bag of flour.

Good-bye, My Reader, Good-bye.

And now the curtain is rolling down, for seventy-three years make a very long act. Recalling three score and ten of them—thirty-three of which have been spent in the service of the company—remembering the all-important events that have happened during that period, and the radically changed conditions of life and living, remindful of the numerous retirements and demises of fellow-workers in the world-wide vineyard of the C.P.R., one cannot but realize that the corridors of the company’s offices will not long be trodden by the older ones of this generation, and that many of us will soon perhaps not even be a memory. With free one-way transportation to the Great Beyond, and a full consciousness of all our good deeds and misdeeds, of the things we should have done and have not done, and of the things we should not have done but did, with no pretensions to having been too good, nor apprehensions of having been too bad, and with a solemn belief that if we were unable always to be right, we sought to be as nearly right as we could, we shall fearlessly face the great overshadowing problem: “Where do we go from here?” The answer will come from the unknown world.

T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.

Inconsistency in accents has been retained.

Illustrations have been relocated due to using a non-page layout.

Some photographs have been enhanced to be more legible.

When nested quoting was encountered, nested double quotes were change to single quotes.

Space between paragraphs varied greatly. The thought-breaks which have been inserted attempt to agree with the larger paragraph spacing, but it is quite possible that this was simply the methodology used by the typesetter, and that there should be no thought-breaks.

The map of freight trains has been split into three images. The original was a fold-out which cannot be rendered appropriately in this media.

End of Project Gutenberg's Reminiscences of a Raconteur, by George H. Ham