By Gregory Clark, July 5, 1924.
Ralph Connable’s Puckish Pranks at Expense of Well known Citizens, Afford No End of Fun – Delights in Exposing the Four Flush – A Master in the Art of Disguise
It was the rush hour in the shower bath room I of the Lambton Golf and Country Club.
In from their game, half a hundred members were splashing and toweling vigorously, standing in Grecian statuary groups about the locker room and the showers recounting the tales of the day’s sport, others hurrying their ablutions so as to join the ladies on the clubhouse verandah.
The door from the outer world quietly opened.
And in walked a lady!
A lady of vampish and rakish demeanor. A lady in a huge picture hat, a green blouse, a short sport skirt disclosing flaming red silk hose, her face painted and powdered.
And undismayed by the scene before her, the half hundred men in a state of nature, she advanced into the locker room and headed down the aisle of lockers for the shower room.
The members fled in every direction, shouting, exclaiming, hiding behind lockers, diving under tables.
The lady reached the shower room. Thunderation and pandemonium broke loose. The gents under the showers screamed and ducked and fled.
“I’m looking,” said the apparition, in a shrill voice, “for my gentleman friend.”
Then she turned, and started with the utmost plomb from the room.
Colonel Goodie Gibson, clad in a Turkish towel, strode up to the lady, and in an accusing voice, looking her in the eyes, exclaimed:
“I know you! I know those eyes-“
“Well, you certainly should, colonel,” retorted the lady in a loud voice, “We’ve been out together often enough.”
But the jig was up.
Before the lady could make her escape a band of scantily clad husky men had seized the frail form and were tearing at her garments, pawing at her hat, and generally treating her in a most unladylike and ungentlemanly fashion.
But when the hat came off a wig came with it, and there before, the shouting multitude was disclosed the close cropped white head of Ralph Connable, the most incorrigible, irrepressible, practical joker in the city of Toronto.
A Man of Many Activities
Ralph Connable is the head of the great Woolworth organization in Canada – which should be quite enough to squelch the spirit of the average man. In addition to handling the executive work of the greatest chain store system in the dominion, he finds time to be a front rank Rotarian, to devote many hours over a long period of years to promoting public golf courses in Toronto – being the founder and the mainspring of the present Humber Valley course, and to entertain lavishly in his fine home on the Hill.
And on top of all that he has the reputation of the greatest practical joker in the city, whose name is connected with some legend or other in the minds of every business man in the city.
Mr. Connable has no hesitation about dressing up. He has devoted a good deal of time to developing disguises for himself and others for the sport of playing jokes. He has had for several years a set of fake false teeth which all his friends know well. He had them made by a dentist to fit over his own teeth. They are crooked and of the variety known as “buck” teeth, and they render him utterly unrecognizable even by friends.
He also carries a set of disreputable old grey whiskers. By putting in the teeth and slapping on the chin whiskers, Ralph Connable can transform himself in an instant from the snappy big business executive into a pathetic and dowdy old man.
He was a guest at one of the Toronto golf clubs which aspires to be THE club, the elect and exclusive club of the city. It is one of the customs of this club for everyone to gather on the verandah overlooking the eighteenth green, to observe the play of the members. It is a sort of social ceremony to be sitting on that verandah.
Such little social holinesses as this are the meat Mr. Connable loves above all delicacies.
Coming over the hill to the eighteenth hole, when all the wit and beauty and wealth of this club was posed on the verandah, he inserted his teeth, donned his, whiskers, and, bending nearly double, he played the last hole looking like a doddering old man of ninety-eight. The verandah was scandalized at such a golf performance by so old a man, and was thrown into a heap when Mr. Connable removed the disguise and bowed to the gallery.
Last year in Montreal he was drawn to play in the golf tournament against a Mr. Gneddiger. a wealthy fur merchant of Montreal. They had a good game, but Mr. Connable was defeated by his partner. Mr. Gneddiger thanked Mr. Connable for a fine game, invited him to come and see him every time he was in Montreal, and so forth, and they parted. When taking the train at the clubhouse station half an hour later Mr. Connable, disguised with the teeth, stepped up and greeted Mr. Greddiger and asked him what kind of a game he’d had.
“Oh, not so bad,” growled Mr. Gneddiger, in the tone of one who had been bored for the last two hours.
“Who were you playing?”
“Oh, a fellow from Toronto – fellow named Connable!” said Mr. Gneddiger.
“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Connable, removing the disguise, “I thought you said we had a fine game!”
Without a word. Mr. Gneddiger walked down to the far end of the platform and was seen no more.
The Three Bearded Footmen
Mr. Connable used to chum around with Sir John Eaton and is a great friend of Lady Eaton. At the Eaton mansion, Mr. Connable was always impressed by the retinue of butlers, footmen and servants that waited on table.
On one occasion he had Lady Eaton and another lady who was a guest of Lady Eaton’s to his home for dinner.
When the guests were all seated for dinner no servants appeared. The party waited for several moments, and nothing happened.
In some embarrassment, Mr. Connable begged to be excused, and went from the dining room.
In an instant, in came a servant in full evening dress, with a huge black beard down to his waist, followed by the maids, and bearing on a tray the first course, which was handed about by the maids.
The impressive looking footman left the dining room and then Mr. Connable appeared, all beaming, and rejoined his guests at table.
The next course was again delayed. No servants appeared. Expressing apologies once more, Mr. Connable again left the table to see what was wrong, and hardly had he left the room before in walked a more imposing footman than the last, a man with a huge bushy red beard and fierce red hair, bearing the second course. As soon as he retired from the room Mr. Connable promptly appeared and took his place at table.
By this time the guests as well as Mr. Connable’s family were in something of a state.
When the third course failed to appear, and Mr. Connable left the room, and a waiter with a huge beard a bright bluish tint entered, Lady Eaton could no longer retain her mirth and she burst out laughing.
The blue bearded footman, with an angry gesture, snatched off the beard, disclosing Mr. Connable as the functionary himself.
“There you go!” cried Mr. Connable. “Spoiling everything! I go to your house and a whole t army of servants comes marching in. Then you come to my house and I try to put up a little impression and you go and give it all away…!”
But before the evening was out, the strangers present were thoroughly acquainted with their host.
At the Montreal tournament mentioned above, Mr. Connable, with his whiskers on, and collar turned up, asked A. E. Ames if he could carry his bag. Mr. Ames refused.
“I’m an old man and I have to make my living,” whined Mr. Connable.
“But there’s no need to carry it,” said Mr. Ames, distressed. “Where would you carry it?”
“You darned old tightwad,” said Mr. Connable.
And when Mr. Ames turned indignantly, it was Ralph Connable that was facing him.
Cold Shouldered at Church
Mr. Connable set out, a couple of years ago, to visit the various churches of the city dressed as a poor man, to see what reception he would have, and he intended to give the results to the newspapers. But he was so successful, both ways, that he made up his mind not to go any further with it, as the papers would not print the names of the churches where he received the cold shoulder.
Two churches – big north end churches – gave Mr. Connable an unmistakable snub. Three smaller churches took him to their bosoms.
In old clothes, looking as decrepit as possible, he visited a certain uptown church, was shudderingly showed into a back seat by an outraged usher, and when after the ceremony Mr. Connable tried to enter into the fellowship of the little fraternization which takes place in the aisles and vestibule, was snubbed flatly by managers and members alike.
A week later, in his silk hat and frock coat, Mr. Connable was greeted effusively by the same usher, was conducted to a front seat and was welcomed warmly by managers and members after the service.
“That’s one church,” says he, to his acquaintances, “I didn’t go to again.”
In three small churches he was welcomed, accepted, given treatment in his old clothes that could not have been exceeded for politeness and cordiality if he had had on his topper and cutaway.
He takes a puckish delight in disclosing the four flush.1
He had a neighbor, the story goes, that bragged of his charity. Not a churchgoer, but a charitable man. In a Salvation Army hat that had been given him to help in a Salvation Army drive, Mr. Connable called to see this neighbor, and was refused any assistance. He then disclosed himself as Ralph Connable. The same neighbor had a visit from him dressed as a tramp, who came to the back door and begged a meal. He was driven off with a threat of the police. Again he disclosed himself as the neighbor.
Keeper of the Hounds
At one of Sir John Eaton’s dinner parties, Ralph Connable protested to Sir John that all these common fellows went in to dinner ahead of him, and what he craved was some distinction, some badge of rank that would entitle him to enter immediately behind Sir John.
So Sir John dubbed him Keeper of the Hounds, though Sir John didn’t have a hound to his name, and this entitled the wearer of the title to precede all the common herd to the dinner table.
As a lark, Mr. Connable had cards engraved “Ralph Connable, Keeper of the Hounds to Sir John Eaton.”
Once crossing the border at Detroit, he got into a slight difficulty with the customs officers, and happening to have one of these cards amongst his others, he tendered it to the officers who exclaimed, on seeing the title:
“Is that so!”. Waved his hand, ignored the trouble, and spent a pleasant few minutes listening to Mr. Connable telling about the vast pack of huge hounds Sir John kept, hundreds of hounds, thousands of hounds.
One of his staff in the Woolworth organization is a teetotaler. He was making a trip to the States, and was sitting talking with a group of men in the chair car when the inspector, coming along and opening his bag, disclosing to all eyes a large empty quart whiskey bottle right on top of the contents of the bag.
There was no need to query who had done the trick.
A Caller for Mr. Mathews
Mr. R. C. Mathews of Toronto is a gentleman of dignity. He was seated in the chair car of the New York train just before it pulled out of the Union Station, the car was filled with Toronto people, everyone alert for the beginning of the journey, when in rushed Mr. Connable bearing a huge bandbox, and exclaiming loudly:
“Oh, Mr. Mathews, Mr. Mathews!”
He rushed up and laid the box down beside Mr. Mathews’ chair where all could see and began rummaging in it.
“I had a terrible time,” cried Mr. Connable. “I hunted all over the city. I’ve been in every store on Yonge street, but I got it. I got it!”
And he produced from the box triumphantly a large celluloid collar.
Ignoring Mr. Mathews’ bewildered protests he held up the collar admiringly.
“All you have to do is give it a lick and a wipe on your sleeve and it’s as good as new.”
The train started, and Mr. Connable, protesting that it was no trouble, no trouble at all, fled from the car.
Mr. J. Macdonald, head of the big dry-goods of house of that name, is a fancier of fancy vests. He has a collection of them of which he is very proud, made of strange and beautiful materials, and Mr. Macdonald wears them in public without a qualm.
One day Ralph Connable landed into the club wearing the most eye-puncturing vest conceivable, a vest of dark velvet, brocaded, and embroidered with silk flowers and patterns in scarlet, green, blue and gold. It was a beautiful vest, a gorgeous vest, and with his coat thrown open, proudly, he stalked through the club, and bowed most ostentatiously to Mr. John Macdonald.
Not only did the vest outrival anything Mr. Macdonald had ever appeared in, but this magnificent waistcoat was of velvet all around, and was embroidered at the back as well as in the front, to prove which Mr. Connable, in the dignified precincts of the club, removed his coat and paraded about the rooms, and taking particular pains to pass Mr. Macdonald.
Censured the Road Hog
Mr. Connable is an ardent motorist and drives a huge Pierce-Arrow very skillfully. Motoring out to golf one day, he got behind a Ford that did not make way when he tooted his siren, but merely put on speed and held to the centre of the road. Mr. Connable horned again and again, but the Ford refused to give way.
So he laid one wheel off the pavement and got past by a swift maneuver, then he turned his huge car across the highway, blocking the Ford’s way, and stepped out.
Drawing a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, he advanced to meet the Ford.
“Why didn’t you make way?” he demanded.
“Well, I was going at the legal speed. I don’t have to make way if I go at the lawful speed,” answered the other, eyeing the handcuffs with some alarm.
“I’ve a good mind,” said Mr. Connable, jangling the handcuffs thoughtfully, “to place you under arrest.”
He made no claims to being a magistrate or a policeman. He let the handcuffs do the talking.
“It is motorists like you who create all the trouble on the highways,” went on Mr. Connable. “You ought to know that the law is that when another motorist signals to go by, you must let him pass. You look like a decent sort of fellow, so I will let it pass. But if I ever hear of this again it will go hard with you.”
Pocketing the handcuffs, he got into the car and drove sadly on.
This Time Joke was on Him
He was summoned for speeding near Oakville. When he appeared before the court he was asked if he had anything to say.
“Indeed I have!” exclaimed Mr. Connable. “Judge, were you ever attacked by a swarm of bees?”
“Bees!” said the court.
“Yes, sir, great big bumble bees, hundreds of them, swarms of them. Here I was quietly driving along the highway when suddenly a swarm of bees attacked me, and I put on speed, and they pursued me, and the faster I went the faster they followed, and I HAD to step on it, judge, to get away…”
The judge studied the defendant intently.
“Did you get stung?” asked the judge at last.
“No,” admitted Mr. Connable.
“Well, then, you will be now: Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents please,” announced his worship.
Another time, Mr. Connable was summoned for speeding out Whitby way. To this court he said, in extenuation of his offense:
“Yes, Judge, I was speeding.
“But only last week the Ontario Motor League, of which I am a member, sent around letters, asking us to send in the numbers of motorists we saw speeding or driving recklessly, so that the league could help put an end to that great public menace.
“Well, sir, judge, if a fellow didn’t go whizzing past me on your highway out there, at a fearful rate, so, remembering my duty to the Motor League, I pursued him in order to get his number. And that was, when your policeman took my number.”
“Did you get the other man’s number?” asked the judge.
“No, on account of the dust, I didn’t.”
“Well, you look like an honest fellow,” said the judge. “Case dismissed.”
But the fun and frolic in the make-up of Mr. Connable are simply the surplus flow from his heart of the milk of human kindness which makes him one of the city’s greatest philanthropists, whose name is on every worthy subscription. If not on the list of the committee, who feels no compunction about assisting personally in drives and campaigns, who takes the most practical personal interest in his hundreds of employees, and who has been put, as every golfer in this city knows, to no small expense of money and time in the effort he has been making for the past ten years to secure for Toronto free public, golf courses.
Editor’s Notes:
- Four flush is an old-fashioned word meaning a bluffer. ↩︎
