"Greg and Jim"

The Work of Greg Clark and Jimmie Frise

We’re All Taxidermists

“If you want a real problem,” he said, “you take my milk accounts for a week.”

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, February 15, 1941.

“Say, listen,” said Jimmie Frise anxiously over the telephone, “could you run over here for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” I responded. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s this income tax return,” grumbled Jimmie. “I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“Well, you’re past the end of January, my boy,” I informed him heartily. “So why worry? Might as well be hung for a goat as a sheep1. You’re going to be fined any way, so why let it spoil a fine winter’s night like this? Let’s take a walk over to the slides and see the kids tobogganing.”

“Listen,” said Jim earnestly. “Come on over, will you? I won’t be happy now until I get this thing off my mind. Gee, I wish I had never looked at the thing.”

“We all have to look at it sooner or later,” I said comfortingly.

“Haven’t you done yours yet?” inquired Jim.

“No,” I admitted. “I was all set to attend to it right after the New Year. But by that time everybody was talking about the taxes in such gloomy terms that I decided to put off the bad news for a few days.”

“You’re in for a shock,” came Jim’s voice over the telephone dully.

“But by the middle of January,” I explained, “the talk had grown so bad I simply couldn’t bring myself to the task. I mean – with all the war news and everything, I just couldn’t bring myself to it.”

“Oh, boy,” said Jim hollowly. “You’re going to get a swell bump.”

“Then along about the last week in January,” I continued apologetically, “I started planning to do it first thing in the morning. But when I got to the office the sun was shining and everything was so bright and brisk I would put it off until the afternoon.”

“Oh, me,” sighed Jim. “That’s exactly what I did.”

“And when the afternoon came,” I concluded, “I was too tired to face it.”

“Yes, but where do you stand now?” demanded Jimmie.

“Well, sir,” I informed him, “just about the last day of January, when I had given up all hope of escape, didn’t I learn that if you didn’t want to pay your taxes in instalments you had until April 30 just as usual.”

“But good grief,” cried Jim, “that’s the lump sum. That’ll kill you.”

“So long as I don’t know about it,” I explained, “I won’t suffer. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

“A fine philosophy,” snorted Jim. “My dear sir, do you realize that if you were paying it in instalments those instalments are each almost as big as the whole amount of taxes you paid last year?”

“Oh, nonsense,” I laughed.

“I’m telling you,” shouted Jim. “I’ve been sitting here ever since supper working at mine. And the way I work it out, every instalment is pretty near as big as the whole amount I paid last year.”

Up to Item 53 N

“You’ve got yourself mixed up, somewhere, Jimmie,” I warned him. “No government would do that to us.”

“Oho, won’t they!” cried Jim. “Just wait till you take a look at this form. Net income. Taxable income, Dominion. Net taxable income, Dominion. General tax payable, Dominion. National Defence Tax, see item 32.”

“Item 32?” said I.

“Thirty-two,” cried Jim. “It goes up to item 53 N.”

“Fifty-three N, eh?” I said, a little disturbed.

“Listen,” said Jim, rattling a paper. “Quote: 53 A. Insert item 17 E increased if necessary because of item 37 (2).”

“M’hm,” I said.

“Come on over,” begged Jim. “You’d better.”

“Yeh. I’d better,” I said numbly.

Trapped by the Income Tax, after all these rosy weeks of stalling it off. As I walked around the corner and down the block to Jim’s, I reflected that I am not a meany or a skinflint. I don’t pinch my money. I don’t go around trying to buy things wholesale through my friends. I don’t hope to save a lot of money to leave my children so they’ll be ruined. I don’t do any of the things I suspect my friends of doing. Yet, somehow, I feel I have not a healthy attitude towards the Income Tax. Why do I try, even in my sleep, even in my widest-awake hours, to evade the thought of it? I am all for the war. I was an old soldier in the last one. I’ve been over three times to see this one. Surely I am a patriot. Yet…

Jimmie was waiting in the vestibule to let me in.

When he led me into the living-room I saw the family had been banished and the table was littered with large sheets of paper, including at least five sets of income tax forms.

“There was a pile of them,” explained Jim, “so I took plenty. I had a hunch I would need them.”

“Well, well,” I said comfortingly, rubbing my hands; “don’t let it frighten you, Jim. These forms have been worked out for the benefit of the whole population of Canada, the majority of whom are simple, common folk like ourselves. It stands to reason, therefore, that they are as simple as they can possibly be made.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” laughed Jim, mirthlessly, as we sat down.

“It has a formidable look,” I continued, picking up one of the forms and inspecting it. “But let us go on the assumption, let us start with the perfectly logical assumption, that even a child could work this out.”

“Heh, heh, heh,” hacked Jim bitterly.

“Now,” I said, “I see you have entered your name correctly. In block letters, Surname first. Yes. And then the Christian names, with James underlined. Quite correct.”

“Don’t waste time,” cut in Jim. “I’ve filled in all those places. Dependent children and all. Now come to the first real item. Item 17 A. Total income, see item 29.”

So we turned to item 29, page 2.

For the Smart Guys

“Item 29,” I pointed. “TOTAL INCOME. Well, that’s simple. That simply means, 17 A, Total Income, means TOTAL INCOME. See? In item 29 they put it in capitals, so you would understand it was TOTAL. That’s just to help you, see?”

“I see,” said Jim wearily, running his hand through his hair.

“So you put down your TOTAL income first,” I explained briskly, “and come to item 17 B. Deductions, see item 45.”

“Oh, sure,” sneered Jim.

“Okay,” I said reassuringly. “Here’s item 45. Sum of the Above Deductions.”

“What above deductions?” inquired Jim sweetly. “Above what?”

“Well, let’s look,” I heartened him. “Here’s one that should cheer you up. Interest Paid On Borrowed Money.”

“Read it,” commanded Jim hollowly.

“Exclusive,” I read, “of carrying charges in items No. 24 and No. 25…”

“No, no,” pleaded Jim. “Don’t turn to them yet. You have so far turned only three times already to try and get the very first question answered. Don’t you get dizzy, too, for Pete’s sake, or we are sunk. Try to keep your balance. Try to keep your sanity. Just read a little note in black type there, under where you were reading…”

“Here it is,” I read. “Note: Do not include interest on mortgages on residence of taxpayer or on moneys borrowed for personal and living expenses.”

“Well,” said Jim tragically.

“That is kind of mean,” I confessed.

“What other kind of money would I pay interest on?” demanded Jim. “The only kind of interest I could deduct, they won’t allow.”

“That item is for business men,” I explained.

“You bet it is for business men,” charged Jim loudly. “The whole blame thing is for business men. But if it is for business men, why do they keep poor simple people like us chasing back and forth all over that crazy form, as if we were all chartered accountants? I bet 80 per cent. of the people who have to pay income tax are not business people and don’t know one end of an item 28 C from the other.”

“Well, hold on,” I pleaded. “Wait till we see, here.”

It was, at this moment, about 9.25 p.m. I need not delay you with an itemized account of our evening. I took my coat off at 10.30 p.m. We sent over to the drug store for cold ginger ale at 11. The family came in and said hello to us from the hall about 11.30 p.m. and went straight to bed.

We figured and added and subtracted. We worked on Jim’s returns for about three hours and then turned to mine, just to see if it would work out a little simpler. We changed both our incomes into round numbers to see if that would help any. At 1 a.m. Jimmie went and hunted until he found his son’s Public School Arithmetic and we took a recess to explore away back into the almost forgotten realms of fractions and how to divide 7 ¾ by 461 8-9.

“Look, Jimmie,” I cried. “Lowest Common Denominator. Do you remember?”

“Aw,” said Jim, “let’s get back to the job.” He went to the closet and got out the card table. We shifted everything off the living-room table – forms, scribbling paper, books and all – and started afresh. It was 2.20 a.m.

“What,” demanded Jim grimly, “is the reason for all this hanky-panky on these income tax forms? Do you know the answer?”

“Well,” I submitted, “I suppose it is because it just grew, year after year, with additions and changes.”

“Like an old dead tree,” said Jim bitterly, “with fungus growing on it, and other fungi growing on the fungus. No. I’ll tell you the reason. If this income tax was simple the smart guys couldn’t pull any smart stuff. This income tax form is designed for the benefit of the smart guys of this world.”

“Oh, Jimmie,” I protested, “you’re tired. It’s getting on towards morning.”

“No, sir,” stated Jim emphatically. “This world is designed for the benefit and advantage of the smart guys. Nothing shows that to be true more dramatically than these income tax forms. I am willing to bet you one instalment of my taxes that an ordinary accountant could reduce this whole thing to the simplest arithmetic. So that it would be just and equal for all. Amount of tax. Amount of deductions. Then a plain percentage of it all. That is what they get anyway. So why don’t they simplify it?”

“This income tax form is the result of slow growth,” I explained.

“Don’t ever believe it,” retorted Jimmie. “It is complicated only so as to allow loopholes for the wise guys. Mark my words.”

“Don’t be cynical, Jim,” I pleaded. “We’re both tired. If it could be made simpler, why wouldn’t they make it so?”

“Do the wise guys want anything simple?” cried Jim. “Aren’t the ten commandments enough? No. The lawyers have built up a Tower of Babel2 so they can act as guides and collect the fees. It’s the same with taxes. Somebody must be profiting by all this bunk.”

“Jim, you don’t understand that democracy is a slow growth,” I protested, “like a strong tree, ring by ring.”

We were checked by the sound of heavy footsteps out in the hall.

“Hello,” said a strange, deep voice.

“Who’s that!” cried Jim, leaping up.

“It’s the milkman,” said the voice, coming up the hall. Your side door was open and I was just wondering if everything was all right.”

“Come in,” said Jim, “and thanks very much. No, we’re just working on our income tax.”

“Oh, them,” laughed the milkman, appearing at the living-room door. “I’ve seen quite a lot of people doing them during my rounds this past couple of weeks.”

“It’s an awful job,” sighed Jim, ruffling all the piles of papers.

“Oh, it’s not so bad when you get on to it,” comforted the milkman.

“Do you know anything about it?” I inquired stiffly.

“Yes, indeed,” said the milkman. “I’ve helped a dozen or more folks with them. It’s really a question of knowing what to…”

“Come in, come in,” cried Jim softly, taking the milkman’s arm. He set down his wire basket of milk.

“If you want a real problem,” he said, as he sat down, “you take my milk accounts for a week.”

He took the form Jim had been working on and ran an expert finger down the sheet. He spotted errors immediately.

“Now,” he said cheerfully, “let’s take a fresh form.”

Filling out the spaces rapidly, he mumbled and buzzed and muttered.

“How do you know which Items to skip?” I demanded, laying down the Arithmetic in which I had been revelling in the Prime Factor.

“Just by experience,” explained the milkman. “You learn by experience which…”

“Yes,” I said sternly, “but why do simple people like us have to wander bewildered by the hour in all that maze of detail which applies only to business men, rich men, bond and stock holders, partners, receivers of royalties, annuities, premiums on exchange…?”

“I guess they leave it in,” said the milkman, “to make us happy. To make us realize how confused and complicated are the lives of business men. It does us good, I imagine, to get a glimpse of what it means to be well off.”

“Hm,” said I.

“Hm,” said Jim.

And in about four minutes he did Jim’s. And in three minutes he did mine.

And he got a figure far less than either Jimmie or I had got.

We don’t know if they are right or not.

But we’ve sent ’em in.


Editor’s Notes:

  1. This phrase means This means that one might just as well be punished for a big misdeed as a small one. This expression alludes to the old punishment for stealing sheep, which was hanging no matter what the age or size of the animal. ↩︎
  2. The Tower of Babel is a parable in the Book of Genesis meant to explain the existence of different languages and cultures. ↩︎

The Gentle Art of Flim Flam

A-“Could you give me a ten-dollar bill for ten ones?”
B-“Oh, never mind that $20! I’ve got the right change.”
C-An elderly man who had a remarkable lockable purse.
D-The stranger protested that the ring was his.

By Gregory Clark, February 11, 1922.

The flim-flammer is the hardest kind of crook to catch, for he neither breaks in nor leaves traces. His victim usually sees him but a moment. He operates like the hawk – out of the blue and back again.

A humble little man in his shirt sleeves and bare head came into a Yonge street drug store. In his hand he carried an envelope stamped and addressed, but not sealed.

To the clerk he said:

“Could you give me a ten-dollar bill for ten ones? I want to mall the money in this letter, but the ones are too bulky.”

“Sure,” said the clerk.

The small man removed a bunch of one dollar bills from the letter and handed them to the clerk. The clerk handed him a ten spot.

Then the clerk counted the bills and found only nine.

“Hold on,” he said. “You’re one short here,”

“Oh,” exclaimed the stranger, taking the ones and counting them. “That’s funny. Too bad.”

And he stuffed the one dollar bills back in the envelope in full view of the clerk. Then he said:

“Here, hold this till I run back and get another dollar.”

And handing the clerk the letter, but keeping the clerk’s ten in his hand, the little man in the bare head and shirt sleeves, left the store – never to return.

But it was not just one dollar he got away with. For when the clerk, after ten minutes had elapsed, examined the letter, he found nothing in it but paper. The flim-flammer had switched envelopes. In some neighboring hotel or shop, he had left his hat and coat. This man worked his game on six stores in three Yonge street blocks in twenty minutes.

Another form of flim-flam recently worked successfully on several stores on Roncesvalles and Queen street is the $20 bill stunt. The crook picks a store where there is a girl in charge. He buys some small ten cent article and hands a $20 bill. After he has got his change, he says:

“Oh. never mind that $20! I’ve got the right change. Just give me back my $20”

The girl hands him the $20, he pays down the ten cents, and before the girl grasps the fact that there is $19.90 coming back to her, the crook is out the door and gone.

It is astonishing how this swindle works. There is a confusion in most people’s minds in money-changing that provides the cover for this particular flim-flam.

Foreigners are particular victims of flim-flammers of their own race. An Italian, who was carrying $3,000 trust funds on him, made the acquaintance of an elderly man who had a remarkable lockable purse. The elder man offered to buy his young friend a similar purse for the safe keeping of his $3.000. He did so. And in St. James Park he presented the purse and locked the $3,000 in it for him.

“Now,” said the elder man, “this is my key. I’ve left yours at the hotel. Meet me at the hotel for lunch, and I’ll give you your key.”

The young Italian, his new purse containing the $3,000 safe in his pocket, was on hand for lunch. But his friend failed to turn up. Growing suspicious, he tore open the locked purse and found some clipped newspapers. The crook had switched purses.

Strangely enough, this young Italian, returning heart-broken to Italy, met his crooked friend on board ship and had him arrested in England. But the Canadian government would not go to the trouble of extraditing him.

One of the oddest swindles, not much removed from the flim-flam yet based on a system by which respected citizens of Toronto have made themselves wealthy, was recently pulled off in New York, with a few Toronto people involved.

Two respectable and well-known financial men went up to Petrolea1, Ont., and bought a tract of land.

Then they went to men with money in New York and put up a novel scheme.

“Give us your money,” they said, “to invest in this oil property. We will dig only one well, and if we don’t strike oil within one year we will give every cent of your money back to you. To safe guard you, we will bank our money in care of a well-known trust company.”

This unusual plan at once attracted money, and the two operators sold in all three million dollars of stock.

This three million they deposited with the trust company.

They then spent ten thousand dollars on sinking a well near Petrolea. And at the end of the year, no oil was struck. So the two financiers returned to New York, drew their three million out of the trust company, and returned every cent to their investors, with the remark that it was a gamble and nothing lost.

But the trust company paid 4 per cent. on that $3,000,000 deposit. which amounted in one year to $120,000!

This the two financiers took for themselves, no mention having been made in the promise to the investors of interest!

A tale is going around about a well-dressed man buying a $500 diamond at a big Toronto Jewelry store, for which he offered his check. The Jewelers asked for references, and the stranger gave the name of the manager of the big hotel at which he was staying. Calling him up, the jewelers were informed that the man was undoubtedly good for the $500.

The stranger then crossed Yonge street to a small jeweler and offered the diamond for $100. This jeweler, sensing something crooked, slipped out his back door on pretence of testing the stone and went across to the big jewelers. When they heard of the offer, they immediately called the police. When the detectives arrested the stranger he protested that the ring was his, and he could do what he pleased with it. But he was taken to headquarters.

Then by telegram the jewelers made enquiry of the stranger’s bank in an American city, and found to their dismay that there was plenty of money to cover the check.

They went up to withdraw their charge and apologize, and the stranger said:

“Gentlemen, this episode will just cost you $1,000.”

The story goes that they paid it.

But the unfortunate part of it is that there appears to be no truth in the story.


Editor’s Note:

  1. Petrolia is a town in Ontario. A little searching around seems to indicate that it was once called Petrolea but the railway companies misspelled it as Petrolia later, and that stuck.. ↩︎

And Don’t Spare the Horses!

February 10, 1945

‘Operation Muskox’

It is astonishing how hard it is to crack an egg into a frying pan with mitts on.

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, February 9, 1946.

“They must be a tough bunch,” commented Jimmie Frise, looking up from the newspaper.

“Who?” I inquired.

“These kids on Operation Muskox1,” said Jim. “They’re going to drive snowmobiles loaded with fighting equipment from away up at Fort Churchill, on Hudson Bay, straight across the sub-Arctics, to Edmonton. Three thousand miles. In winter.”

“It’s time,” I informed him, “that we Canadians lost our awe of winter. What’s so wonderful about these soldiers going on a hike across northern Canada? Our mining men have been doing it for 30, 40 years.”

“Well,” said Jim, shivering, “I wouldn’t care to be with them.”

“Look,” I submitted. “We Canadians have a very great responsibility. We are one of the small handful of nations bordering on the Arctic. There’s Russia, Finland, Norway, Sweden -and us. Now, all those other nations of the Arctic are very Arctic-conscious. But we Canadians all stand with our faces to the south. We yearn over the border southward. The Swedes and Norwegians and Finns developed ages ago an Arctic culture. They have found mines, and built towns and cities, far into the Arctic. Now Russia is doing the same. But we still huddle along the U.S. border; and most young Canadians dream of Hollywood.”

“And most old Canadians,” laughed Jimmie, “dream of Florida.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Instead of loving winter, we hate it. Instead of facing north, we huddle south. Suggest to a young man that he pack his bag and vanish into the north and he shudders. What we need is a new Horace Greeley2 to say to the Canadians, ‘Go north, young man, go north!’ That way, fortune lies.”

“Maybe this Muskox expedition, if it gets enough publicity,” suggested Jim, “will inspire a lot of young men to go really north. I mean, into the real Arctic.”

“The Arctic,” I assured him, “has had any amount of publicity. Did you ever hear of Sir John Franklin3? One hundred and twenty-five years ago, when he was just a junior officer of the British navy, Lieut. John Franklin was sent on a sort of Operation Muskox by the British admiralty. He was to go overland, from somewhere in Hudson Bay, to explore the Polar sea and find out if there was a northwest passage to the Pacific.”

“Somebody,” muttered Jim, “is always looking after us. This new Operation Muskox is intended to try out military equipment in case we ever need to fight anybody on our northern frontier. Franklin was sent by the British government to find out how quickly the Royal Navy could get from the north Atlantic to the Pacific.”

“Maybe,” I pointed out, “some British merchants had friends at the admiralty. Merchants are always looking for a reduction in freight rates.”

“What happened to Franklin?” inquired Jim.

“Lieut. Franklin, with two midshipmen named Hood and Back,” I recounted, “and a naturalist by the name of Dr. Richardson, arrived at Fort York, on Hudson Bay-that’s a little south of Churchill – in 1819, and spent four years exploring. In canoes they worked in to Lake Winnipeg, then up to Lake Athabasca, then up to Great Slave lake and around it. Then down the Coppermine river to the Polar sea.”

“In 1819?” cried Jimmie.

“Eight hundred miles north and west of Churchill, where our Muskox expedition is now,” I assured him, “Franklin and his expedition…”

“Just the four of them?” protested Jim.

“No,” I admitted. “They had a character by the name of John Hepburn, an ordinary seaman, to whom Franklin more than once credits the saving of the lives of the entire expedition. They also had French-Canadian canoemen and Indian guides and hunters to supply them with game.”

“Holy smoke,” sighed Jim. “No airplanes to drop supplies to them!”

1,200 Miles on Snow-shoes

“In 1821,” I informed him, “one of the midshipmen, Back, with three Indians, spent five months travelling back over the trail for provisions, on snow-shoes, from November to March, a distance of 1,200 miles. And all he had for shelter was one blanket and one deer skin.”

“Holy…” cried Jim. “A midshipman!”

“All of Back’s snow-shoe journey.” I pointed out, “was far north of where Operation Muskox is going!”

“So it’s nothing new?” supposed Jim.

“New!” I scoffed. “Listen: About every hundred miles farther into the Arctic Franklin’s expedition from the British navy went, they would come to a large log house. And in that house, 125 years ago, they would meet a gentleman by the name of McVicar or McGillivray or McDougall or McDonald…”

“Aha,” cut in Jim, “the fur traders!”

“Who had been up there,” I finished, “all their lives, and had succeeded somebody by the name of McAndrews or Fraser or Logan, who had been living, quite cheerfully, all their lives, for a hundred years back. Jim, Scotland occupied the Arctic 200 years ago.”

“Then,” protested Jim, “why isn’t the Arctic populated now?”

“We ran out of Scotchmen,” I explained.

Jim got up and looked out the window. And shivered.

“It’s hard to believe,” he murmured.

“Skiing,” I stated, “is doing something to arouse in young Canadians a little love of winter. It’s only in cities and towns that winter looks horrible. And that’s not on account of winter. That’s because of cities and towns. We build our cities and towns for summer. In Norway, and our other Arctic neighbors, they build lovely chalets that look perfect in a winter setting. The average Canadian house, in winter, looks like a cat left out in the rain.”

“And our dress, in Canada,” contributed Jimmie. “Our Canadian styles, for coats, suits, boots and shoes, are set by a gang of gents from the suit and cloak trade in annual convention meeting in St. Louis, Missouri, or Miami, Florida. Canadians should develop a style of clothing that is Canadian. It should be based on Scottish, Norwegian and Russian fashions. We should wear heavy tweeds and homespuns. Our winter boots should be stout half-Wellingtons and thick brogues, instead of these silly St. Louis, Missouri, low shoes, with goloshes…”

“That was what I was saying,” I reminded. “We yearn over the southern border!”

“There’s nothing we can do about it” concluded Jim, still shivering at what he saw out the window – the grimy, sleety, slushy, sooty prospect of Toronto in mid-winter.

“Oho, yes there is,” I retorted.

Jim turned and looked at me sarcastically.

“We,” I enunciated, “suppose ourselves to be sportsmen. In spring, summer and autumn, we fish and hunt. We love to disport ourselves in the open air – so long as it isn’t cool.”

“Fair weather sports?” suggested Jim.

“I’m afraid that’s what we are, Jim,” I stated sadly.

“Who would want to be out rabbit hunting,” he demanded, “on a day like this?”

“I bet, out in the country, it’s a swell day,” I asserted. “What makes the day look dismal are those sloppy, grimy buildings, covered with soot and dirty snow. Out in the country even with this gray sky, I’ll bet there is a zest and tang to the air. I’ll bet the landscape, the spruce and cedars, the skyline, with the tracery of elm trees, the woodlots dark and bluish in the distance…”

“It Would Be Romantic”

“You may have something there,” said Jim with animation. “We speak of a man being ‘bushed’ from living too long in the wilderness. I wonder if we city people aren’t ‘citied’ the same way?”

“It could be,” I agreed. “Maybe that’s why Canadians as a whole dislike winter. They’re ‘citied’.”

“Personally,” stated Jim loudly, “I don’t see any reason why two guys like us – who enjoy every minute of the outdoors from May to November – couldn’t get just as big a kick out of the woods in winter.”

“There’s no fishing or shooting at this season,” I reminded.

“No, but there are winter birds and animals, to see,” declared Jim, “and tracks in the snow. A true lover of the outdoors can surely get as big a kick out of trailing a fox or a partridge in the snow… saaay, how about it?”

“We could go,” I concurred, standing up, “in honor of the boys on Operation Muskox. To show our appreciation of what that little band of Canadians is doing for Canadians as a whole, some of us old-timers ought to spend a few winter week-ends, camping on their old familiar fishing or hunting grounds.”

“Listen,” cried Jimmie enthusiastically, turning his back on the window., “how about going up and camping on Manitou Creek somewhere! Maybe at the Blue Hill where I lost that big buck two seasons ago. Man, it would be wonderful to see that country in mid-winter! It would be romantic.”

“We can drive to Fraserville,” I contributed, delighted. “And snow-shoe in to Manitou creek. It isn’t four miles.”

“We’ll camp beside Blue Hill,” exulted Jimmie, “on the sheltered side, whichever way the wind is blowing.”

“We’ll take my little silk tent,” I listed.

“And my red tarpaulin, which we’ll set up with sticks for a windbreak,” contributed Jim.

“I’ll wear snow-shoes,” I set forth.

“And I’ll wear skis,” determined Jim.

“And our sleeping bags,” I added.

“We’ll get a sled,” enthused Jim, “on which we can stow all our…”

“Nothing doing!” I interrupted firmly. “You can’t haul a sled on skis!”

“Why, you’d never feel it,” protested Jim. “A small sled, and you on snow-shoes…”

“We’ll each,” I insisted, “carry our share in pack-sacks. Our bedrolls, spare clothes, food. I’ll carry the little silk tent. You carry the tarpaulin.”

“We ought to haul a sled,” muttered Jim.

“It’s only for Saturday and Sunday,” I pointed out.

So Friday night, after the most delightful three previous, nights of planning, packing, drawing up lists, replanning, unpacking, repacking and relisting, we loaded Jim’s closed car and headed for Fraserville, where we had arranged with Joe Hurtubise, over the long-distance telephone, to spend the night at Joe’s combination general store and hotel.

The minute we got outside the city limits, we knew we were doing the right thing. Not half a mile past the last street car terminal, the whole face of nature altered. The grimy city was left behind and our headlights bored into a wonderland of white. And every mile grew more snowy and more chaste and beautiful. Not 10 miles out of town a big jack-rabbit bounded across the highway in our headlights.

“Ah, boy!” gloated Jimmie at the steering wheel.

Through silent, serene wintry country we entered small villages that looked beautiful in the white night. We proceeded slowly through a couple of larger towns, seeing once more, though not quite as repulsive, the slushy, murky ruin that a town makes of winter.

Then came the rising country where winter in its rarest beauty really comes – the beginning of the highlands of Ontario. The highway was cleanly plowed and swept, and our car soared through the gleaming night like a bird. Shadows of woods, deep shade of cedar and spruce, became more frequent. Inside the car, we could feel the new, keener freshness of the air.

Joe Hurtubise was waiting up for us and put our laden car in his shed. We had a light snack of cold pork, pumpkin pie and boiled tea, then went to bed with instructions to Joe to wake us well before 6 a.m. so we could set out on our Operation Muskox with the actual dawn.

It was a beautiful dawn. Not a soul in Fraserville was awake when we stepped out of Joe’s door into the pearly frost of a perfect morn. The cold pinched the corners of our nostrils.

Jim got into his ski harness, I harnessed on my snow-shoes and Joe helped us both get into our pack-sacks.

“Well, so long,” called Joe, who always seemed to perish with the cold,” so long boys, I still think you is nuts.”

And we set off down the road for the side road that leads to Manitou creek – an old familiar road in November.

A Strange Country

It was incredibly unfamiliar in February. It was like an undiscovered country. Jim went ahead, sliding long-legged on his skis. I came behind, wide-legging it on my snow- shoes. Up hills, down dales, past swampy bends full of silent and deathly cedars we have never noticed in November, we made good time. We halted frequently to gaze on the landscape, so strange, though we knew every yard of it in summer and autumn. Unknown valleys appeared, only a few hundred yards off the beaten path. Strange hummocks and little rocky cliffs stood forth which even in autumn, when the leaves are down; we did not know existed. We halted for chickadees. We saw a bevy of redpolls, not much bigger than chickadees, but of a rosy and innocent chubbiness, like cherubs. Several Canada jays – the gray, bullheaded silent jays – floated ghostly into sight of us to mutter mysteriously at our intrusion. We saw all kinds of tracks – squirrel, mice and what must have been a porcupine because it left a wide furrow in the snow.

“To think,” said Jim, “what we have been missing all these years.”

“You notice,” I said, “that it is getting kind of hazy. I think we ought to get in to Blue Hill and get our camp made…”

A little wind began to disturb the bare and rigid branches of the trees overhead. A few snowflakes hustled past, like vagrants. It grew grayer. Jim, leading, paused only once after a long steady march. And this time, it was to beat his arms around his chest.

“Colder, eh?” he called.

“You ought to use snow-shoes,” I informed him. “They keep you warmer than skis.”

Jim skied on. Up hill, down dale, round curves, through swamp and ever darkening woods, we bore on; and about mid-morning, coming out on a plateau, we saw Blue Hill not half a mile ahead. We studied the wind, now steadily rising, and decided the southwest side of Blue Hill would be the place to pitch our tent.

Blue Hill is one of the wildest and most rugged features of the country where we hunt deer. It is surrounded by a tangled forest of living trees and the charred remains of ancient bush fires.

But upholstered with snow, it was the simplest thing in the world to work around the southern side and find an ideal camping spot. Manitou creek, still gurgling, guaranteed us our water supply not 50 feet away. Old Blue Hill, granite and grim, broke the rising northeaster that was showering small, anxious snowflakes in intermittent gusts on us.

We downed our pack-sacks. With my snow-shoes, we dug down and found a good level spot for our tent. We strung up the tent. We cut balsam boughs for the floor of the tent, thick, deep, fragrant. We set up the tarpaulin. We unpacked our gear. I rigged a shelf of boughs in a deep snowbank for our larder. Jim got a fire going.

“I’m perished,” he said.

“I’ll be cook,” I offered.

And while the sky dropped lower and the northeast wind began to wail in the trees and shove at our tent, I proceeded with lunch.

It is astonishing how hard it is to crack an egg into a frying pan with mitts on.

Jim went into the tent, and came out immediately to stand near the fire and beat his arms around his chest.

“What’ll we do after lunch?” he quivered.

“We could mooch around, looking for wild animal tracks.” I suggested, delicately breaking another egg with my mitts on.

“It’s going to snow and drift,” said Jim, “and the tracks will be all covered up.”

“We can go for a hike, and look at some of the runways we know.” I suggested, shaking the frying pan with my mitts on.

“We don’t want to get lost, with a blizzard coming on,” warned Jim.

“We won’t get lost,” I asserted. “We know this country like a book.”

Jim stopped thumping his arms and gazed around at the landscape.

“I don’t recognize it at all,” he said hollowly. “I never saw this country before in my life…”

“Now, now, now!” I cautioned, poking the bacon with my long-handled camp fork.

“Have you been in the tent yet?” asked Jim, resuming his beating. “It’s like a damp ice-box.”

“We can open the flaps,” I explained, “and let the heat of the fire reflect in…”

Jim tied the flaps back, but the gathering wind ballooned the little tent grotesquely. It pulled loose a couple of the tie ropes from the ground.

“We’ll have to repitch the tent, with its back to the wind,” said Jimmie.

We ate our eggs and bacon, with mitts on. The sky dropped right down to earth. The wind moaned and wailed. Snow came so suddenly that we could not even see Blue Hill, a hundred yards behind us…

Just as dark fell, four hours later, Joe Hurtubise looked out his parlor window and saw us coming out of the blizzard.

He had the door open for us to stumble in.

“I knowed,” he said heartily, as he helped us off with the packs, “I knowed you wasn’t THAT nuts!”


Editor’s Notes: One of the readers of this site has the original artwork for this story. You can see it below with the note that it was received on December 20 for issue on February 9th.

  1. Operation Musk Ox was an 81 day operation by the Canadian Military at the time of this article. The goal was to determine how defendable Canada was. More can be found online here as well as video here. ↩︎
  2. Horace Greely was an American newspaper publisher famous for the quote “Go west young man!” ↩︎
  3. John Franklin is a well known explorer whose ships were recently discovered in 2014 and 2016 and are now designated as the Wrecks of HMS Erebus and HMS Terror National Historic Site. ↩︎

Easy Come Easy Go!

“We wanted to find out if we could borrow some money,” I began. “We want two thousand dollars each.”
We turned to our typewriters and worked furiously for a few minutes.
“We ought to be able to get some capital,” I said. “I know lots of bankers.”

By Gregory Clark, February 4, 1928.

Charles turned from the telephone, where he had been carrying on a guarded and excited conversation, and his face was flushed with excitement.

“By George!” he exclaimed.

“What’s up?”

“You know that stock? Kaflooey Gold?”

“Yes?”

“I told you about Eddie getting in on it?”

“Yes!”

“Well it’s up forty points!”

“Yes!”

“Do you see what that means?” Charles was flaming with excitement. “Eddie got it at seven cents a share. He bought seven hundred dollars’ worth. He has just cleaned up four thousand dollars!”

We stared at each other in silence.

“What luck!” I murmured.

“Luck nothing!” cried Charles. “It is courage. Daring. Enterprise. The readiness to seize opportunity when it arises.”

I thought of Eddie, a rather down-at-heel acquaintance of ours. It was hard to visualize Eddie with four thousand dollars1. I could not see him in my mind’s eye at all:

“But here’s the point,” said Charles. “Eddie is pyramiding. He is buying another big block of Kaflooey Gold Mine at 47. He expects to make fifty thousand dollars in a month!”

Again we both stared in stunned silence.

“Where is he getting the money to buy the new lot?” I croaked.

“He is using his present stock to borrow the money on.”

“Lucky devil,” we both said together.

“I wish we had some capital,” said Charles. “At this time.”

“We ought to be able to get it,” I said.

“How?”

“From the banks. I know lots of bankers.”

“Do you own your house?” asked Charles in the practical, business-man tone. “Do you own a single bond? Have you any assets whatever that a bank would look at?”

“Oh, banks don’t always want assets.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Charles, “that you don’t possess a single bond in this age of bond owning, when every stenographer from the Atlantic to the Pacific owns a bond?”

“Well, I said apologetically, “I bought bonds when I was in France, but I had to sell them to buy furniture when I got back home.”

“Furniture!” said Charles coldly.

“But banks don’t want bonds,” I said. “There is orfe thing that bank presidents and bank general managers have always impressed on me. And that is that they would rather have character than security. We have no security, out we’ve got plenty of character between us. I mean what you lack, I’ve got.”

Calling on a Banker

Charles adopted the shrewd, executive expression.

“How well do you know a banker?”

“I go fishing with three or four of them.”

“But I mean bankers who would lend you money.”

“I know one.”

“If we went to see him, what would you say?”

“I would tell him that we had some inside dope on a gold mine and we wanted a couple of thousand dollars apiece.”

“What security could you offer?”

“Character.”

“Whose character?”

“We would give him our notes, and I would endorse your note and you would endorse mine. What more could he want?”

Charles gave me a pitying look and returned to his own desk.

During the morning. he was called to the phone four times, and all he said, in these conversations at the phone, was – “Well!”  “You don’t say!”  “Isn’t that remarkable!”

After the fourth call, he came over to me and said:

“Up ten points more!”

“Look here,” I exclaimed, “we’ve got to do something!”

“Well!”

“If Eddie can get away with this, what fools we are.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m going to see a banker. Will you come?”

“Yes,” said Charles.

So I phoned a bank manager in one of the biggest downtown banks and he said he would see us.

He was sitting easily in his large office when we came in.

“We wanted to find out if we could borrow some money,” I began. “We want two thousand dollars each.”

“What do you want it for?” asked the manager.

“We have a tip on a gold mine, and we want to buy two thousand dollars’ worth of stock in it, each.”

“You have bonds or some other security?”

“No, we have not. We have no security. But Charles is willing to endorse my note and I will gladly endorse his.”

The bank manager looked curiously at me. I thought I saw Charles wink at him.

“Let me see: what gold mine is this?” asked the manager.

“The Kaflooey Gold Mine.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No, it’s not listed. It’s a new one, and it la going up at a tremendous rate. Likely to be listed any old time.”

“Suppose this stock does not go up. Suppose it goes down. How would you pay back the two thousand dollars?”

I looked at Charles. He said:

“I suppose we would have to work.”

I thought this was a good time to put in the remark about character.

“It is an old saying amongst bankers,” I said, “that they would rather have character than security.”

That Character Question

“That is true,” said the manager. “You say that if this stock went down instead of up, you would work for the money and pay it back. Save it, in other words.”

“Yes.”

“And you have not saved anything up to the present?”

“Well, we have no surplus just now.”

“I was merely trying to get at an estimate of your character,” said the manager, mildly.

“Then you would not be satisfied with our notes, each endorsed by the other?”

“If it were my own money, I might,” said the manager. “But bank money is not our own money. It is everybody’s money, entrusted to us to conserve and invest. It is rich men’s money and poor men’s money. It is money earned and saved by hard work and foresight, by labor and genius. We have no right to play with it. To risk it. You may risk your own money. Not other people’s.”

“Then you would not take a chance on two young men’s ability?”

“To guess the mining market?”

He had us.

“Now,” said the manager, “if you were two young men in some manufacturing business and had proven yourselves efficient and displayed promise, and you came to me with a proposition, backed with the orders and support of the trade, we would listen with interest to your demand for a loan. In that case, we would be interested more in your character and less in your security.”

It was nice of him to listen to us and to show us so genially to the door.

“It was a wild goose chase,” said Charles, as we walked back to the office. “I knew beforehand that he would say exactly what he did say.”

“A fellow has got to distinguish,” I said, “between what a banker says in his office and what he says in his annual report.”

“Or in after-dinner speeches,” said Charles.

“Or in his autobiography.”

“Easy come, easy go,” said Charles. “If we could have got that money as easily as that, probably Kaflooey Mines would have dropped as soon as we placed our orders.”

“Personally,” I said, “I’m just as glad we didn’t get the money. I have enough to worry about as it is without taking on a bank loan.”

“In fact,” said Charles, “the only reason I went with you was my absolute certainty that we wouldn’t get it. Because it is against my principles to gamble in mining stocks.”

“They certainly are a risky thing. A man shouldn’t touch them except with surplus money he was going to play with anyway. Eddie had nothing to lose. He was always broke. He will probably lose this in a couple of days.”

“Let’s get him to pay back the fives and tens he owes us before he loses it,” said Charles.

At the office, on our return, there was a message to call Eddie.

“You don’t say!” said Charles, at the phone. “Well, well! Isn’t that astonishing!”

He walked slowly over to my desk.

“Eddie bought all he could get at 58 and sold it all just now at 70. He has made $14,0002.”

“$14,000,” repeated Charles.

“Impossible.”

“That’s what he says. And he says he is through with stock gambling forever.”

“No!”

“And he is going to take a trip to Europe on his $14,000.”

“Europe! Oh, man! He’ll see the Strand again, and maybe go for a bicycle ride along the Arras-Bethune road, and see Cambligneul.”

“And Houdain,” said Charles sadly.

“And St. Pol and maybe Poperinghe.”

“I wonder,” asked Charles, “if there isn’t some way a couple of young fellows could make a few thousand dollars?”

“Well, there’s the stock market.”

The phone rang and it was for Charles.

His conversation was inaudible.

“That was Eddie,” he said. “He just phoned to tell me that Kaflooey Gold had suddenly dropped to 40 and was still descending.”

We turned to our typewriters and worked furiously for a few minutes. Then the phone rang again, for Charles.

“Eddie,” said Charles, after a short conversation. “He says Kaflooey is down to 10.”

“A brief and glorious flight.”

“Yes,” said Charles. “It went up like a skyrocket with enough force to shoot one man clean to Europe!”


Editor’s Notes: This is a good representation of the stock market craze before the start of the Great Depression.

  1. $4000 in 1928 would be $70,350 in 2024. ↩︎
  2. $14,000 in 1928 would be $246,000 in 2024. ↩︎

Back to “Civies”

February 1, 1919

On the Mend

“Surprise,” I said, “Madame, here is a surprise for your husband. This tie rack…”

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, February 3, 1934.

“Can you run over for a minute?” asked Jimmie Frise on the telephone.

“I’ve just settled down,” I said, “for the night, with a good fishing book.”

“Well, I’ve got a poor chap here, I wanted you to see him,” said Jimmie. “It’s a pathetic case.”

“A friend?’ I asked.

“No, he just came to the door,” said Jimmie, in a guarded voice. “He is selling necktie racks. A very nice article. But he lacks salesmanship. He hasn’t got the punch. And he broke down on my porch. Run over for a minute, will you?”

“I’m no good in cases like that, Jimmie,” I demurred. “I always break down, too.”

“Come on,” begged Jim, “we’ll go into a committee on him.”

So I threw on my coat and walked over to Jimmie’s.

Jim had him in his little study at the side of the house. He was a man in his thirties, not badly dressed, but with that drawn look of despair and defeat on his face that is familiar to any of us that answer our front doors. Beside him on the floor was a paper bundle containing about a dozen objects made of wood with numerous pegs sticking out of them. They were painted pink, or blue or white.

“This gentleman,” said Jimmie, when I walked in, “makes these tie racks himself.”

I examined one critically.

“It’s a very attractive article,” I said with a professional air.

“But,” said Jimmie, “this gentleman can’t sell them. He simply can’t sell them. He has gone from door to door all through this well-to-do neighborhood and he hasn’t sold one!”

“I guess I’m not cut out for a salesman,” muttered the tie rack man huskily.

“Wasn’t anybody interested?” I inquired sitting down sympathetically.

“Most of them just opened the door, and before I could say a word, when they saw me hold out the tie rack, they shut the door,” said the man. His mouth was working, and tears stood in his eyes.

“It isn’t,” said Jim, hastily, “as if these were some commonplace junk. These are an original conception. Made by hand. Designed to fill a long-felt want in almost every home.”

A Surprise Selling Line

“Yes, sir,” said the man, sniffing loudly, “I thought them up myself. And I made the first model myself. And I perfected it myself. And I produced them in quantity myself. Painted and all.”

“Well,” I said, “nowadays you have to have a selling idea as good as the idea in itself. It’s no longer true that the world will beat a pathway to the door of a man who makes a better mouse trap. Nowadays, the only pathway, beaten to any mouse trap manufacturer’s is to the one who advertises and has worked up a smart selling line. In fact, the only pathways at all are those beaten by tireless salesmen driven by a tireless sales manager. To-day, the best mouse traps in the world aren’t catching any mice if the inventor is simply sitting at home looking out across the lawn for a path to appear.”

“You mean,” said Jim, “that this gentleman ought to get some manufacturer to adopt his idea?”

“Not if this gentleman wants to make any money out of it,” I replied. “I was merely suggesting that we think up some smart idea for him. This is old territory he is working. Every door in this neighborhood has been opened ten times a day for the past three years by somebody with something to sell, useful or otherwise. He has got to have some way of keeping that door open for half a minute, for even fifteen seconds, until he sinks the harpoon of interest into his prospective customer.”

“That’s true,” admitted Jim. “Now what would you suggest?”

“For one thing,” I said, “I’d have a couple of nice snappy ties hanging in one of these racks when I hold it up as the door opens.”

“Great!’ exclaimed Jimmie.

The other poor chap sat up with interest.

“Then I would say something like this,” I said, getting up and holding one of the tie racks in my hand, as if I were at a door. “‘Surprise, madam, a surprise for your husband. This tie rack hanging handy to his dresser, with all his ties neatly and tidily displayed. Only fifty cents. It will keep his dresser tidy. It will tend to make him interested in his appearance. Only fifty cents. In three colors. To match your furnishings!’”

I sat down amidst applause.

The man was impressed and flushed.

“Gents,” he said, “I sure am grateful. I’m sure I can do it. You’ve put new life into me. But I don’t think I’ll try to-night. I’ll wait till to-morrow. I’m all in tonight.”

“No, no,” cried Jimmie. “Try it to-night. While the idea is fresh upon you. Why, you can get rid of this dozen to-night in half an hour.”

“I’d rather tackle it to-morrow when I’m fresh,” said he.

Making a Poor Start

“Think of going home to-night with six bucks in your pocket,” said Jimmie, earnestly. “I believe in striking when the iron is hot.”

“Gents, if you don’t mind,” said the poor fellow anxiously.

“Listen,” cried Jim. “I know how you feel, this salesman stuff is terrible at first when you aren’t used to it. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go with you for the first few calls and get you started.”

“Would you!” exclaimed the tie rack man joyfully. “Would you?”

“Sure,” I said.

“We certainly would,” said Jim. “We’re interested in human nature experiments like this.”

Jim dashed out for his coat and hat and the man picked up his bundle of tie racks.

We went out, taking Jim’s car.

“We’ll drive a little way,” said Jim, “just to get away from this immediate neighborhood where we’re known.”

We drove up a couple of blocks and parked in a comfortable neighborhood and began at the first house in the block.

“Now you be the salesman,” said Jimmie to me, “and we’ll come right with you, carrying the stock of merchandise.”

We rang the bell. I cleared my throat.

A lady came to the door.

“Surprise,” I said, bowing slightly and employing a regular salesman smile. “Madam, here is a surprise for your husband. This tie rack hanging handy to your husband’s dresser…”

The lady, who had been looking with astonishment from one to the other of us, slowly closed the door. She didn’t even say scat.

In silence we walked down the steps.

“There you are, gents!” said the tie rack man. “That’s it.”

“One swallow doesn’t make a summer,” said Jimmie. “The bad beginning means a good end.”

Nobody was home but the young folks at the next house, they were dancing to the radio and the seven or eight of them who answered the door didn’t have fifty cents.

The next house, only the maid was in.

The next one, only the man of the house was in, and he had the book he was reading in his hand, and you could see his mind was not on what we were saying.

“Surprise,” I cried, holding the tie rack up in front of him. “Sir, a surprise for yourself. This handsome tie rack hanging handy to your dresser with all your ties neatly and tidily arrayed . . .”

“What the heck!” he said suddenly. And as suddenly slammed the door.

We went back out to the pavement.

The tie rack man was getting impatient. You could tell by the way he kept silent and stared off down the dark street moodily.

“Think of a new line,” said Jim. “Try some other approach.”

Trying the Heart Appeal

“How about this?” I exclaimed. “All three of us stand in the doorway, each one of us holding out a tie rack, you the blue one, you the pink one, and me the white one. What you call mass appeal. And then I will say: “Madam, these are tie racks. They are a useful and ornamental object for every man’s room.’ “

“No good,” said Jimmie, “we would only frighten the woman.”

“I guess you gents had better let me get along,” said the tie rack man in a melancholy voice.

“No, sir, once we put our hand to the plow,” cried Jimmie.

“Look here,” I cut in, “why not employ the one appeal that has worked to-night? What got this man into your house and brought us out into a committee of the whole? Why, the heart appeal.”

“Tears,” cried Jimmie.

“The breakdown,” I said. “We will call at this next house and we will all three stand there, with tears in our eyes, and appeal to the lady to buy a tie rack, we haven’t sold one to-night!”

“And that would be true,” added the tie rack man.

“Don’t overdo it,” warned Jimmie.

We went up to the next house. We turned up our coat collars and stood in an abject huddle while we waited for the bell to be answered.

A bald-headed man in shirt sleeves came to the door.

“Mister,” I said, exhibiting the poor pink tie rack, “us three have been all over this neighborhood trying to dispose of these tie racks, we only ask fifty cents, they’re a lovely thing, handy as anything, and we made them ourselves (here I let a little quaver get into my voice) and painted them ourselves, our own idea, too, and we thought we could make an honest dollar or two out of them…”

The bald-headed man stood looking at us silently. The tie rack man was the picture of woe. Jim had his chin ducked down in his collar, his hat over his eyes, a look of desperation in his attitude.

“You haven’t sold one, eh?”

“No, sir,” I said, brokenly. Jim gave what sounded like a muffled sob. The tie rack man lifted his wan face into the light.

“By george,” said the bald-headed man, “step inside here a minute.”

Generous With Advice

He held the door wide, and we three trooped into the hall. Beyond, there was a table, through a haze of cigar smoke, at which sat three men playing poker.

“Just a minute, boys,” called the baldheaded man. “Step out here.”

The poker players got up and came into the hall.

“These three poor chaps,” said the baldheaded man, “have a very handy little article here, a tie rack. See? A handy little gadget. They made them themselves. They thought up the idea themselves. They painted then. They have been all over this district and haven’t sold one! Now, here’s a case where we ought to help, don’t you think?”

All four of them regarded us with deep sympathy.

We all sat down in the front room.

“You follows look like pretty respectable men,” said the baldhead.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’re all good honest mechanics, and we thought we could make a few honest dollars to help along. But it seems we can’t sell these things.”

One of the men opened the bundle of tie racks and they all passed them around, admiring them.

“A smart idea,” they said. “A first-rate article. A thing you would imagine would sell in any house.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Any man would appreciate having a thing like that to keep his ties in order.”

“Sure,” said one of the poker players, “my ties are all hanging on a knob by the mirror on my dresser. All in a mess.”

“I tell you what,” said the-bald-headed man, “you fellows have got a good article here, but no matter how good your article you have got to have a selling talk to go with it. It isn’t enough just to show them at the door from house to house.”

“That’s true, sir,” I said. And Jimmie nodded brightly.

“Now, we four men,” said the baldheaded man, looking around at his three friends who were regarding us sympathetically and curiously, “are in the merchandising business. In fact, this gentleman is something of a wizard at selling. I think we could get together right now and give you a sales talk on these articles which would work magic. You could dispose of this lot in no time, the three of you.”

“You’re right, Bill,” said the others, nodding.

“Now, let’s see,” said the bald-headed man. “How about this: you walk up to the door and when the lady comes you are holding the tie rack up like this, see? And you say, right off: “Madame, the problem of keeping your husband’s ties in order is one of the banes … no, not one of the banes…”

“The problem of keeping your husband’s ties in order,” stated one of the other poker players, a tall, thin, thoughtful man, whose tie was all skew-gee, “is promptly solved by this simple, attractive and handsome little article, only fifty cents.”

“That’s better,” cried the bald-headed man. “Or how about this: “Madame, how often do you have to sort out your husband’s ties, all in a tangle in his bureau drawer? This handy little article, etcetera, etcetera…” Do you see?”

The New Message

Jimmie and the tie rack man and I all saw, but the tie rack man had a slight bulge in his eyes that I did not like.

“I tell you what we’ll do, boys!” cried the bald-headed man. “We’ll go with you! This is most interesting to us, as sales experts. We’re not in the mood for cards to-night anyway, are we, boys? No. So just wait a jiffy and we’ll step out with you and see those racks vanish with a little snappy sales approach.”

“Good idea,” agreed the others, rising.

“Won’t there be a lot of us calling from door to door, sir?” I asked respectfully.

“I was going to suggest,” said the tall, thoughtful man, “that we might each take two racks apiece and we will scatter along the block and make a game of it. See who disposes of his racks first. Eh, boys! And so select the best sales talk.”

His friends all snapped up the challenge.

“How about it?” asked the bald-headed one, genially. “Will you trust us?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I assured him, nudging the tie rack man, who seemed to be on the point of saying something.

We trooped out the front door.

“You chaps work right along here,” said the bald-headed one, “but as we others are known around here we’ll walk a couple of blocks north and start. When you’re through wait here, will you? We’ll be back in no time!”

We divided up the package of tie racks, giving each of the four gentlemen two apiece. Pinks and blues.

They walked eagerly away and Jim and the tie rack man and I started down to the corner of the block for Jim’s car.

“Now for a getaway,” I exclaimed.

“Where do I get off in this?” demanded the tie rack man loudly.

“Ssssh!” said Jim. “We’ll pay you for the lot. Three bucks each, me and my little friend. Am I right?’

“Right,” I said, opening the car door and hastening my two companions into it.

“But where do you get off in this?” asked the poor tie rack fellow, bewildered.

“It’s worth three bucks each to us,” I explained as Jim drove quietly but smartly away from there, “for the lesson.”

“Lesson?” said the tie rack man.

“Sympathy and advice aren’t enough,” I said. “We are all learning that now. Those four guys right now are learning it, too! It’s the new message of good times returning.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “we’ll buy your stuff even if we don’t need it.”

“And even,” I added, “if we haven’t got it!”

“Well, sir,” said the tie rack man, “I do believe things are on the mend!”


Editor’s Note: This story appeared in Silver Linings (1978).

City Council Meeting a Symphony in Jazz

Hanged if City Clerk Littlejohn, who has seen 46 Councils come and go, can tell for a minute whether this is 1920 or 1895.

To the Bewildered Ordinary Citizen It Is Merely a Cacophony of Sounds.

Like a Big Bass Fiddle, the Mayor’s Voice Croons Steadily On Through It All.

By Gregory Clark, January 31, 1920.

Toronto’s brand new City Council is assembled functioning. It had its first business meeting and all went merry as a marriage bell. But it is so like all its predecessors that hanged if City Clerk Littlejohn, who has seen forty-six City Councils come and go, can tell, for a minute, whether this is the year 1920 or 1895. You might say, nothing changes in Toronto’s City Council but the names of its members and the fashion in clothes. And as for the latter, they change but slowly – in Toronto’s City Council.

The one thing that marks this year’s Council, the one bright incident that brings a faint ray of relief to the dreary round of City Clerk Littlejohn, in the ennui bred of nigh half a century of the company of City Fathers, is the presence of Alderwoman Mrs. L. A. Hamilton, the first City Mother1.

In the assembled Council, Mrs. Hamilton sits at the toe of the big horseshoe of benches, directly facing the Mayor’s throne. Should any alderman so far forget himself as to us open up one of those pre-1920 barrages of vituperation, the vain cry of “order, order!” is now reinforced with the presence of a lady. And some of our most irate civic parents have thus had their best teeth pulled.

But City Clerk Littlejohn, whenever the day grows drear and the Council meeting unduly tangled, scrambled and undone, raises his melancholy gaze to the toe of the horseshoe, refreshes his spirit with a glance at the lady member, and returns to his task of keeping the Mayor on the tracks, as one who breathes – “Ah, well! There are signs in the sky! A new day may dawn!”

After the manner of college magazines, we might categorize the new Council as follows:

This year’s Handsomest Man: Either Controller Alf. Maguire or Alderman Brook Sykes. It all depends how your taste runs. Controller Maguire is of the rich, autumnal type of manly beauty; somewhat on the stout side of what is called a man’s prime. His election photos temper justice with mercy. Brook Sykes is the youngest-looking member of the Council; blond, quiet, is alert. One could easily imagine him a movie star of the Doug Fairbanks or Tom Moore type; the manly kind, easy to look at. At any rate, he looks like one apart in that circle of Fathers. He looks like a Civic Son.

Homeliest Man: (Censored).

Youngest Man: Alderman Josephus Singer (who, not being Irish, and therefore not superstitious, occupies Seat No. 13).

Heaviest Man: Alderman Birdsall.

Lightest Man: Alderman Miskelly.

Noisiest Man: His Worship the Mayor.

Most Silent Man: This is a race, of apparently, between Aldermen Winnett and F. W. Johnston, with Alderman Cowan running up. Alderman Cowan’s ordinary speech consists of an ejaculation. A sentence is good going. Two sentences is his limit.

This Year’s Prophet: Mrs. Hamilton. The male members are regarding her as a sort of Mrs. Elijah. They are waiting for her to wave her mantle and hurl the challenge magnificent.

Most Serious Man: Alderman Plewman. He engages not in argument or vain clamor. When he sees his chance he points his order paper confoundingly at the assemblage, and says his say.

This Year’s Poet: Alderman Donald MacGregor.

The Most Aggressive Man: Controller Cameron, who in spite of his recent illness. still dominates the meeting, whenever he feels like it, with his Celtic fire.

At any rate, he looks like one apart in that circle of fathers.

Now, the plain citizen might regard with some awe and not a little sneaking veneration the assembling of the City Fathers. One would expect of them, dignity, precision, ease.

Let us attend a Council meeting and see.

The meeting is called for two-thirty, o’clock in the afternoon.

At 2.20, we peek into the Members’ Room: a nice, comfortable room furnished with leather chairs and cigar-fumes.

The City Fathers are already gathering. A dozen of them are draped in easy attitudes over the leather chairs and benches. All are smoking either cigars or pipes.

“Hello, Bill!” yells one City Father to another across the room. “Did ye get yer house yet?”

“Sure,” replies the other in the same prevailing tone, “bet yer hide I did.”

“Well, well!” cries another, “if it ain’t my old friend Henry!”

“Yep. Large as life and twice ‘s natural!”

I quote thus to show the easy air of friendly banter, airy badinage, that relieves the lighter moments of the City Father’s life.

The members continue to arrive. The air becomes thick with cigar smoke. Alderman Mrs. Hamilton enters, gently pressing her kerchief to her nose.

Just before 2.30, in stalks the spectacled and solemn Mr. Littlejohn, City Clerk. Several of the older aldermen attempt pleasantries with him. He seems, however, to be thinking of other things.

He sizes up the assemblage, never relaxing his dignified aloofness. Then he disappears for a moment. He has gone to see if his Worship the Mayor is ready. He is.

A loud bell rings in the Members’ Room. City Clerk Littlejohn takes the up his position at the door and stands looking in upon the members with an air of menace.

The members file blithely into the Council Chamber.

Let’s also go there.

The Council Chamber is high, but none too large for the twenty-eight members of the Council. The horseshoe row of little desks is drawn up facing the Mayor’s throne. There is an empty throne on each side of the Mayor’s. These are for visiting potentates. The Mayor’s dais is guarded by the banners of the 180th Sportsmen’s Battalion, one of the unfortunately broken-up.

The members take their seats behind their little desks. Eighteen citizens and two policemen in the steep little gallery lean eagerly forward to see.

“Order gentlemen!” booms a solemn voice from the door beside the throne. It is City Clerk Littlejohn again.

Then, with long strides, cutaway coat-tails flapping, in flies his Worship, the Mayor. The members rise to their feet. It’s a sort of “Parade, ‘Shun!” affair.

Now comes the startling part of our adventure.

Our eyes have scarce left the flying figure of the Mayor to note the rising members, the members are just in the act of sitting down, when a sudden, droning, nasal and unintelligible voice begins-

“Controller Maguire the minutes of last meeting be taken as read, seconded, carried!”

In the rustle and confusion of all the roomful getting seated, we fail at first, to locate the sound. Just as the last syllable is sung, we trace it to his Worship, the Mayor.

Yes, sir! He started his incantation as his foot touched the dais; and just as his coat tails brushed throne, he had got through the first item on the program.

Thereafter that strange, droning monotone was the motif of the whole piece.

For there is only one way to describe a City Council meeting: it is a symphony in jazz.

To be sure, the various members, officials, clerks, etc., seem to enter everything that is being said or done. But to the bewildered, ordinary citizen, it is merely a cacophony of sounds, a human jazz symphony of the cubist school.

The aldermen talk to each other. Four aldermen make at once. The City Clerk and the Mayor’s amanuensis, Mr. James Somers are both explaining something to the Mayor, while the Mayor, in his low cello-jazz voice, is reading a bill and Controller Alf. Maguire, as the chairman of the Council, is on his feet, twiddling his watch-chain and serenely explaining to the Council the meaning of the bill the Mayor is reading.

It’s a sort of mild pandemonium.

Now and then, as in all good jazz music, there is a pause, and somebody with a voice like a piccolo or a melancholy saxophone (one of the aldermen), picks up a new theme, plays it lucidly, daintily, musically, and then with a crash, fortissimo down come fiddle and drums, trombone, cymbals and bazoo; and they jazz that theme to ribbons and run. And like the oom-oom of the bass fiddles, the Mayor’s voice croons steadily on through it all.

And when it’s all over and you buy a copy of the sporting extra, you are astounded to see, all set out, the items of business done.

It’s a miracle, that’s all! A spectacle de jazz.

One thing we did catch, however, Alderman MacGregor (whose mythical voice corresponded to the fiddle in that mad symphony), rose a couple of times to a point of order and found he was just a couple of jumps ahead of the party on the order paper. His musical protestations were rudely stilled by several members.

One alderman, levelling a withering glance at Alderman MacGregor muttered:

“Fer heaven’s sake, sing!”

“For Heaven’s Sake, Sing!”

Editor’s Notes:

  1. Mrs. Hamilton was the first-ever female city councillor elected in Ontario. ↩︎

Thief! Thief!!

January 31, 1931

Honest and True

Jim and the man in the derby joined hands and I stepped on their palms and was hoisted aloft…

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, January 26, 1935.

“Be honest,” said Jimmie Frise.

“I flatter myself,” I said, “I am honest.”

“Honesty,” said Jimmie, “is a curious thing. If you were absolutely honest, you would be clubbed to death by an infuriated mob before you had been honest for three hours.”

“Honesty,” I agreed, “must be tempered by common sense. For example, if you were honest, you would tell your friends the truth. You would tell them that never, by any stretch of the Imagination, will they ever be good singers. Yet if you told them that, it would be wicked and cruel.”

“How come?” demanded Jim. “It would save them a lot of grief. And a lot of trouble. It would spare them years of struggle, trying to be good singers. It would put an end to a lot of suffering on the part of people who have to listen to them trying to sing.”

“Yes, but,” I said, “there are really so few things to do in this life. You think at first there are a lot of things to do. But after a while, you discover life has only two or three things to do. And one of them might be singing. Or so you think.”

“That’s what makes life tough,” agreed Jim.

“So, if a man thinks he can sing,” I pursued, and he starts singing, wouldn’t it be wicked, cruel and terrible to deprive him of that belief? He thinks he can sing. It sounds beautiful to him, as he lets his voice blow through his throat. It has a nice, strong feeling. It fills him with a sense of power, of beauty.”

“Yet,” said Jim, “he might be inflicting suffering on five, ten, or even two hundred people, if for example, he were singing in a church choir.”

“Quite so,” I said, “but it is easier to bear the defects of others than to know your own defects.”

“That’s quite a wise saying,” admired Jimmie.

“It’s an honest saying,” I said. “It is more honest than telling a guy he can’t sing.”

“Then we should go about lying,” said Jim. “Lying to our friends by not telling them. Swallowing the truth is the same as lying.”

“Then believe me, we are all liars,” I said. “Or should be.”

“Don’t you think the world would be improved,” asked Jim, “if, instead of kidding one another, we all told the facts and got down to brass tacks? If we all knew our faults, wouldn’t the world be a happier place to live in, a more sensible and practical and business-like place to live in?”

“We would all be dead,” I replied. “There would be no object in living if we had not our dreams and our hopes and our false expectations.

You certainly make a virtue out of dishonesty,” admitted Jim.

“The best thing to do is not think about honesty at all,” I pointed out. “Just take life as It comes and help your brother.”

“It’s a good philosophy,” concluded Jim.

Sportsmen Stick Together

This conversation took place in Jim’s car as we drove to what they call the Annex, which is a district of Toronto north of the parliament buildings, a district where nearly everybody in Toronto was born but from which nearly everybody that was born there has moved away. It is filled with happy grandfathers and grandmothers; thousands of civil servants and university students dwell in it; it has a comfortable air but hardly any side drives. More bachelors and old maids reside in the Annex than in any other concentrated neighborhood of the city, with the result that the lights are out in the Annex earlier at night than in most neighborhoods. Panhandlers do not think very highly of the Annex because bachelors are always saving for their lonely old age.

But Jim knew some people who lived in one of the handsome apartment houses of the Annex. They had an uncle die who had been a great sportsman. He had left behind him great piles of fishing tackle and guns and mackinaw clothes and expensive hunting boots from Scotland. And we were on our way to buy some of the tackle for the benefit of the heirs. At least, that it what you say to your wife. Ah, we sportsmen are so devoted to one another!

“Despite our honesty,” said Jim, as we drove up in front of the beetling apartment house, I wouldn’t put it past us to control our expressions very carefully in case there are a couple of Cellini rods in this collection of junk we are going to see. I could do with a four-ounce Cellini.”

“The only thing to do,” I said, “is to bid one against the other. If there is a rod I want, I’ll say right out how much I’ll give for it. Then you say how much you’ll give. It will be a sort of private auction.”

“You’d never make a business man,” sighed Jim. And we walked up to the apartment house entrance.

Apartment houses always embarrass me. The embarrassment I feel on entering any strange house is multiplied exactly by the number of families living in the apartment. If there are forty apartments in the place, I am forty times as embarrassed. And further more there is, in a few of the better-class apartments, a sort of commissionaire standing in uniform in the front hall. Almost Invariably he is a veteran not of the Canadian but of the imperial army, and he has a high and snooty look.

There was such a one as we entered the foyer of this magnificent apartment house. He had a small red moustache and small bright brown eyes. He eyed us grimly.

“Mr. Grimbleberry’s apartment?” asked Jim sweetly.

“Third floor, number thirty-four,” said the imperial, haughtily.

We went up the self-serve lift. It was an upholstered, creepy lift, like a coffin going heavenward.

On the third floor we got off and started to look for apartment thirty-four. Soft plush carpet, soft lights, soft music and soft odors of food lingered in the long corridors.

Through the Transom

We went down the corridor and turned to the left, where we met a large, extra-stout gentleman in a derby hat coming to meet us.

“Ah,” cried the gentleman in the derby delightedly. “By Jove, you’re just the men I’m looking for! I’ve done a very silly thing.”

We paused politely. He was well dressed, obviously one of the better-class tenants of the high-class apartment.

“I’ve done an absurd thing,” he giggled, shamefacedly. “I’ve just snapped the door shut and left my key on the inside!”

“The sergeant-major downstairs will fix it for you,” I suggested.

“Nonsense! That man!” giggled the gentleman in the derby. “He would merely start in motion an act of parliament to have the caretaker appoint somebody in the course of the coming week to make an adjustment of the matter. Look here, chaps, I want your help. I forgot an important matter, my wife’s wrap. I’m just rushing to meet her at a party. Do help me!”

“Certainly,” we both said. “How?”

“Through the transom1,” he said. “The transom is slightly ajar.”

We walked along the corridor until we came to apartment number thirty-eight. It had, in fact, a transom. The transom was ajar.

“Better still!” cried the derby one. “I’m so big. You are just the size to go through a transom, by jove! Would you mind, I say?”

He was patting me on both lapels.

“I’m still athletic,” I agreed, taking off my overcoat and handing it to him.

Jim and the derby joined hands and I stepped on their palms and was hoisted aloft.

“You’ll see a sort of cotter pin,” said the derby-hatted one softly. “Just give it a smart pull. Then the transom will drop open. Don’t bang it. The people on this floor are very fussy about a little racket. Mostly old women.”

I drew a cotter pin holding the transom rod to the frame. The transom dropped and I caught it and let it softly down. With a few struggles and a wiggle or two, I got through, dropped to the floor and opened the door.

“There’s no key,” I pointed out. “It was just locked. The catch had sprung.”

“Good heavens, where’s my key, then?” cried the gentleman in the derby hat. “However, I won’t detain you. Would you care for a drop of something, raspberry vinegar2 or ginger cordial3?”

“No, thanks,” said Jim. “We’ve an appointment.”

“Well, cheerio and thanks a lot,” said the gentleman in the derby.

So we went and found apartment number thirty-four and the Grimbleberrys were in, and they laid out the piles of their late Uncle Billie’s sporting gear. He had three Cellini rods, all about four ounces. Jim and I paid no attention to them. We just picked them up and laid them aside, as it to see more interesting exhibits. There were fly books crammed with fresh and untouched dozens of flies and boxes loaded with dry flies. There were precious fly lines rolled carefully on storage spools of cork. There were English reels with agate line guides. There were Scotch waders and brogues of leather. Baskets and rod carrying boxes of Spanish walnut with brass fittings and locks. There were English guns in leather cases. There were Harris tweed fishing coats with immense pockets that were just made to order for Jimmie. Nets, gaffs, fly oiling bottles and silver-cased pads of amadou for drying the fly. Pigskin valises and canvas kit bags of the wide-mouth English pattern, trimmed with genuine leather.

In fact, it was a sensation.

“Is That a Fair Price?”

We pawed casually amongst it all. I could feel Jimmie trembling every time he leaned against the table. I coughed loudly, and complained about a raw throat.

“Errumph,” said Jim. “Now one thing you have got to bear in mind, Grimbleberry,” said he, “there are plenty of rogues around who wouldn’t give you a fraction of the value of these things.”

“I’m sure there are,” said Mr. Grimbleberry.

“I’m sorry there isn’t much here that interests us,” I added. “We have so much stuff now our wives think we have gone crazy. In fact, I have to smuggle anything I buy into my own house.”

“Ha, ha,” we all laughed, including Mr. and Mrs. Grimbleberry.

“There are a few little items here,” I admitted, “that I think I could pick up, things I’ve worn out, and so on. But the great majority of the things are second-hand, of course, you see?”

“I wouldn’t mind one of these rods,” said Jim with a faint quaver in his voice.

“Oh?” I said, surprised. “I wonder what condition they are in? How long did your uncle have them?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Grimbleberry. “You see, I don’t fish, none of the family does. It’s just so much junk to us. I was hoping you chaps would take the whole shebang. Give us a lump sum for the whole works. That’s what I was hoping.”

“”Mmmmm,” said Jim and I together, like a duet.

I jointed up one of the Cellinis. It was like a living thing. It was like a jewel, like Aaron’s rod4, pulsing with sensate life, a gorgeous, vital, leaping creation of bamboo yet weighing only four ounces for all its nine feet of length. It was worth every cent of the seventy-five dollars Uncle Billie, now with God, had paid for it new.

“Mmmmmm, not bad, Jim,” I said. “Feel that. Isn’t it a bit loggy to you?”

“Mmmmmm,” said Jim. He had actually to wrestle his gaze loose from that rod. He laid it aside doubtfully.

“How about twenty dollars for the lot?” asked Mr. Grimbleberry. “Is that a fair price? Ten dollars from each of you.”

I didn’t breathe. Jim cleared his throat.

“Or fifteen?” asked Grimbleberry. “I don’t want to impose on the fact that I know you two gentlemen.”

What was worrying me was how Jim and I were going to divide the loot. Who was to get the odd Cellini, for there were three. And who the pigskin bag? And that solid copper dry fly box?

It Pays To Be Honest

At that terrific moment, there came sounds from the corridor outside the apartment. Excited voices and thudding feet. Grimbleberry hastened to his door, saying “There’s been a pants burglar5 working this neighborhood.”

Grimbleberry opened the door and a buzz of excited voices rose from the outer hall. Above all rose the irate and commanding voice of an imperial. He was saying:

“Two of them, a small one in a bright brown coat and a tall one. I spotted them the instant they came in.”

Jim strode to the door. “Are you looking for us, sir?” he demanded sharply.

The commissionaire from downstairs came and stared dubiously at Jim and me.

“These are guests of mine,” said Grimbleberry. “They have been here at least half an hour.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the commissionaire stiffly.

He told how the Bunthorpes in apartment thirty-eight had come in and found their place ransacked, their transom open and valuables stolen.

“It was a small man done it,” stated the commissionaire shrewdly. The only stranger I’ve seen here tonight was a big stout man in a derby hat, and carrying a club bag. But he couldn’t have got in through no transom, no, sir. Not him.”

He went away to pursue his criminal investigations.

We went back to the Grimbleberry’s dining room table were Uncle Billie’s collection of a lifetime – and a connoisseur – was spread out.

“Mr. Grimbleberry,” I said, stoutly, this stuff is worth more than twenty dollars.”

“In fact,” said Jimmie, “just one of these rods alone is worth a great deal more than twenty dollars.”

Mr. and Mrs. Grimbleberry looked at us with open mouths.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” I put in.

“That pair of waders with brogues is practically new,” said Jim, “and they sell, new for about forty dollars.”

“Good grief,” said Mrs. Grimbleberry casting a look around her apartment at the curtains and the rug with an appraising eye.

“One has to be honest,” said Jimmie. “Especially as, in this world, you are so often dishonest without knowing it. So I suggest this. I suggest you have a clerk from a fishing tackle store some night come up and set a fair valuation on all this stuff.”

“A great idea,” said Mrs. Grimbleberry.

“On an off night, have him come up,” I added, “and he can list all this stuff and put a fair second-hand value on everything.”

“And then we’ll come up again and bring some of our friends,” said Jim, and we can have a sale, eh?”

“Beautiful,” cried Mrs. Grimbleberry. “How much do you think it might come to?”

“Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said.

“One hundred? Two hundred?” asked Mrs. Grimbleberry eagerly, and I saw Mr. Grimbleberry suddenly give her a sharp look.

“It wouldn’t be wise to say,” I suggested. “But it would bring you more than you’d get from a casual sale.”

So Jim and I left them and went down and as we passed through the foyer, the commissionaire saluted us respectfully.

“Ah,” said Jim, as we got into the car, “it pays to be honest.”

“Especially,” I agreed, “when it is within your power.”

January 22, 1944

Editor’s Notes: Normally now, if a story is repeated later, I publish the original and mention the repeat with a copy of the new artwork. But when I first started this project, I was not aware that some stories were repeats. So I published the repeat of this story back in 2020 as “Honesty Pays” which is from January 22, 1944.

  1. A Transom is a window that exists over a door frame. It was not uncommon for these to open on the horizontal in offices or homes. ↩︎
  2. Raspberry vinegar is a a drink made from raspberry juice, vinegar, and sugar.  ↩︎
  3. Ginger cordial often combines ginger, lemon and sugar. ↩︎
  4. Aaron’s rod refers to any of the walking sticks carried by Moses’ brother, Aaron, in the Torah. The Bible tells how, along with Moses’s rod, Aaron’s rod was endowed with miraculous power. ↩︎
  5. “Pants Burglar” was literally someone who stole pants. I guess the object was to also get money or a wallet that might be left in them, but there are historical newspaper references to people who just stole pants. It was a term used primarily in the early 20th century. ↩︎

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