The Work of Greg Clark and Jimmie Frise

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The Barn Dance

June 10, 1922

Wine and Water

She rose quietly and came over to Hubert, who had removed his hat and was looking at her dumbly.

By Gregory Clark, February 4, 1922.

Three generations in the city, and the wine of life becomes water.

The third generation born and bred in the city has lost its spring, its sparkle, its flavor. It does one of two things. It seeks artificial and erotic stimulation, and so becomes that type of sophisticated and effete waster common enough in cities. Or it succumbs to the enfeeblement it feels within its veins, and joins the lower ranks of those drab, mechanical tollers who are the chief inhabitants of cities, the fourth or tenth or fiftieth generation of dwellers in cities.

For there appears to be an energy in the soil that man must absorb. The city man goes away in summer for a two-week holiday close to the soil, and sucks enough of this mysterious energy out of the earth to revive him for a year. But presently there comes to town a young man born and raised close to the earth and abounding in this primitive energy. And he drives the city man to the wall; outlasts him, out-moves him, skins him, picks his bones.

But this new man’s grandson is in turn the victim of a newcomer, fresh from the soil. All about us are examples of the third urbane generation putting up its unconscious struggle against a soily Fate. In some of the wealthier families, so filled were the first generations with energy, as the wealth they accumulated bears witness, that the fourth generation is sometimes left still in the ring.

But we have made the pursuits of the soil so hard, unpleasant and unprofitable that the enfeebled generation finds it easier to slip back into the permanent category of the city’s damned than to return boldly to the soil to recuperate in a few generations the supply of vital energy.

There is a way out, nevertheless.

And J. Hubert Waterberry found it.

Hubert was the third generation in Toronto. His grandfather, son of an immigrant who fought with Mackenzie’s rebels in 1837, came to town and built up a great contracting and building business. Scores of houses still standing south of Carlton street were built by Hubert’s grandfather.

Hubert’s father, however, was sent to school and became a lawyer. A good lawyer, too. He had offices in Victoria street and developed a big practice. But he found professional life to be merely the service of business life, and he determined that his son Hubert should be a business man.

Hubert was twenty-one in the year 1900. He was a sophisticated, elegant young man, fresh from college. His father got him into a prosperous firm of insurance brokers.

When Hubert was thirty, he was a bachelor. He had been hectically in love with several girls, but all had rejected him, in an indifferent way, as if they had sensed a want of energy in him. At thirty, he was feeling that want of stamina. On his father’s death, he used up every atom of his energy in breaking away from the big insurance firm with another young member of it, and starting a business of their own with the old man’s money.

But after five years, Hubert’s partner became restless for some reason and left the partnership.

At forty, Hubert was not so much a bachelor as an old maid. His office was a dim, dusty mausoleum in that remote district behind the King Edward Hotel. His business was reduced to those old accounts which had not yet been won away from him by live competitors. Hubert lived in the same select boarding house on Sherbourne street which he had taken on his father’s death.

Hubert’s only employe was elderly Miss Murdagh, who had been middle-aged when Hubert brought her with him from the old company.

In the dim office, with its maps, calendars and directories, these two sat from nine a.m. to five p.m., writing letters, issuing renewals of policies, but rarely going out for new business.

He had no clubs, no recreations. He read his newspaper at night, sometimes he went to a theatre or a lecture. His only hobby was his health, which, finding its self an object of interest, became steadily more complex.

His hair grew thin and grey. At forty he looked fifty.

Then one day old Miss Murdagh failed to turn up at the office. Hubert phoned her boarding house and learned that she had died during the night, quite unexpectedly.

Hubert was badly upset. He could handle the work all right, but it meant hustling. And Hubert had not hustled in fifteen years. three weeks after Miss Murdagh’s funeral at which Hubert was the chief mourner, he struggled alone in his dusty office, but found a wave of untidiness, disorder and tangled business engulfing him. Several faithful old accounts phoned him impatiently. Each night he went home later and more distressed.

He decided he would have to get help. After writing and re-writing half a hundred ads., he went down at noon one day to the newspaper offices with this:

“Wanted a mature woman acquainted with insurance business and office work. Telephone Mr. Waterberry, Main –”

At three o’clock that afternoon, girls began phoning him and calling at his office. They had looked up his address in the phone book. Hubert got into a panic. Suppose he picked the wrong girl? He couldn’t tell what they, were like over the phone. All who called at the office were young, flippant girls with powdered faces–

At three forty-five, with the telephone ringing. Hubert breathlessly seized hat and coat, locked up his office and fled home.

As he sat in his room waiting till dinner time, Hubert was filled with alarm. What would he do? Doubtless, when he went down to his office in the morning, there would be a queue of girls a mile long. He’d have to pick one. And Hubert didn’t want to have to pick one. He had lost his nerve. He would perhaps pick some horrible, hustling, cocksure creature.

Hubert decided he would be ill, in bed tomorrow, and maybe the ad. would blow over.

Just before supper-time, there was a knock on his door, and the housemaid said:

“You’re wanted on the phone, sir!”

Hubert went down.

“Mr. Waterberry?” asked a pleasant feminine voice.

“Yes,” His heart sank.

“I am answering your ad. in the paper today,” said the voice. “I hunted you up in the directory, finding your office, closed. Am I too late?”

Hubert was reassured by the softness of the voice. He could picture another Miss Murdagh.

“No,” he said.

“Then, I’ve had experience in insurance office work, not in Toronto, but in a small town in western Ontario,” said the woman. “I am very anxious to get any work, so whatever you regard as a fair salary I am willing to take.”

“Yes. All right,” said Hubert.

“Shall I call at nine or earlier?”

Hubert had an inspiration.

“Yes. And – and would you mind – I’m not very well – perhaps if you would take charge of the office for the morning and deal with the other applicants?”

“Why, yes!” said the woman. “The key?”

“Could you call here at my boarding house to-night? I’ll leave it with the housekeeper,” said Hubert.

“Very well.”

And Hubert, leaving the office key in an envelope, fled out and had dinner at a restaurant and spent a most enjoyable evening at Shea’s1.

The following morning Hubert went down town before lunch. He couldn’t help walking past his office, just to see–. There was no line-up of painted girls. He entered the building and paused outside his office door to listen.

There was a strenuous sound as of someone house-cleaning.

Hubert could scarcely eat his lunch, he was so excited. What if this woman he had engaged turned out to be one of those energetic, aggressive, chirpy women? What if she were young and bouncy? And Hubert spent a few minutes in prayerful remembrance of quiet, stodgy old Miss Murdagh.

Bracing himself, at two o’clock Hubert shoved himself down the back streets to his office. With leaden feet he climbed the old wooden stairs. He rapped nervously on his own office door and entered.

At the typewriter sat a big, splendid, brown-haired girl in a blue skirt and white waist.

She rose quietly and came over to Hubert, who had removed his hat and was looking at her dumbly. She smiled at him.

“Yes?” she said.

“I-I-ah!” said Hubert.

He looked expectantly at her. “Are – are you-?” he began.

“I’m in charge of the office. Mr. Waterberry is not in yet? Is there anything I can do?” said the pleasant young lady.

“Well,” said Hubert, immensely confused, and laying his hat down on a desk with an attempt at the proprietorial air. “I’m – ah – that is to say you see, I am –!”

“Ah, you’d care to wait?” said the girl, pulling out a chair.

And nodding pleasantly to him, she returned to the typewriter.

Hubert sat down weakly. He gazed around the office, noting its tidiness and order. “I – ah” he began.

The girl swung on her chair.

“You see,” said Hubert, “I’m Mr. Waterberry!”

What happened afterwards was a golden memory all his life to Hubert. The girl leaped up and helped him out of his coat. She escorted him over to his swivel chair. She was blushing furiously.

“Why – when you knocked,” she was saying, “you see, I was expecting Mr. Waterberry – but when you knocked, I thought you were a client. And then, when you stood there, with your hat in your hand –“

Her eyes were glimmering with laughter. Hubert looked sheepishly up at her and smiled. Then out came the laughter, boiling and bubbling. And Hubert suddenly joined in. He leaned back and laughed till he wept. They looked at each other and laughed again. It was years since Hubert had laughed with anybody. Years and years. It was a wonderful sensation. He hated to stop laughing. So he confessed about his fear, and how he ran away from the office yesterday -and – and –

So they chuckled and laughed. They exchanged confidences. Hubert how he detested these modern office girls. The girl, how she had come to move to Toronto. The minutes passed. Then an hour. Still they were talking. Hubert was zestfully explaining to her her work, the various accounts.

It was a long time since Hubert had been intimate with anyone.

When dusk caught them in the dim office. Hubert regretfully closed the discussion. He bade her a most cheery good night and went home feeling better than he ever remembered feeling in his life.

It was a new world for Hubert. It was a pleasure to go to the office. He felt infinitely younger, boundlessly young. The girl talked before a week was out, quite boldly about the need of new business. She discovered openings for it in old accounts. Hubert went and got it.

At the end of a year, the business and Hubert were so changed that Miss Pigeon – that was her name -found it necessary to hire another girl, and a little later, a young man.

She won Hubert over to joining a golf club. On business grounds.

Hubert and she still kept sacred their regular daily laugh and exchange of confidences. It was found necessary, after a while, to go to lunch together in order to complete these conversations. And finally, it came to theatres and movies.

Naturally, the whole thing had but one end. Hubert felt himself drawing the very breath of life through this vigorous, splendid girl. He depended on her more and more, in countless little ways, and in big ways.

Finally, she helped him select a new overcoat and hat.

He looked in the mirror of the hat store and beheld a mere lad of forty – a swagger, upstanding fellow–

And when they closed up the office that evening, the juniors having gone, Hubert helped Miss Pigeon with her ulster2. As he did so, something that had been smoldering in him all afternoon, broke loose. He felt as if an electric current were flowing from her to him, a magnetic, swirling current. And he released his hold on the collar of her ulster only to seize her shoulders, turn her around to face him and stare breathlessly and foolishly at her, and then enfold her in a vast, stupid hug.

Romance: thou art as sly of foot in Wellington street as in the castled fastnesses of Rosedale.

They were married in no time. They live in a bungalow out beyond High Park, in an atmosphere of the most absurd happiness, forty-four and twenty-five.

“You’ve made a new man of me,” says Hubert, at least once every twenty-four hours.

But while Hubert is aware of it, he doesn’t give proper value to the fact that his pigeon was born and raised on the farm.


Editor’s Notes:

  1. Shea’s Hippodrome opened in 1914, and was the largest movie palace in Canada, and one of the largest vaudeville theatres in the world. It was demolished in 1957 to make way for Toronto’s new City Hall. ↩︎
  2. An Ulster coat is a Victorian style working daytime overcoat, with a cape and sleeves. ↩︎

The Smiths Get in a Quarter-ton of Anthracite

September 9, 1922

The Big Coal Strike of 1922 was a general strike of miners in the US and Canada that lasted 163 days.

The Dark Thoughts of a Cottager

August 12, 1922

By Gregory Clark, August 12, 1922.

Hotels, golf, motor cars are the death of summer resorts – these three, and the greatest of these is hotels.

No hotel ever founded a summer resort.

Years after a few plucky pioneers had gone out into the wilderness and located a place of beauty and had developed a good transportation system by rail and boat, along comes a hotel and squats down in the midst of the cottagers. And revelry departs.

The hotel starts a golf course. It jollies the natives into making good motor roads. Presently these monsters of the city invade the sacred calm of the summer resort, endangering the lives of the children of the cottagers, kicking up dust that never had been raised before.

A crowd of gaudy strangers, with no stake in the community other than a sixty dollar hotel bill for their two weeks at the summer hotel, come and swarm all over the place, make the still water echo with their yells at evening, go strutting past the cottages with their golf bags, thus enticing the men of the cottages away from the pleasant and proper idleness of the veranday, spooning in the ‘cottagers’ private groves, dancing to all hours to the raucous music of a four-piece orchestra, which fills the night that hitherto had been filled only by the mellow note of the whippoorwill and the cricket.

Do these two-week strangers acknowledge any indebtedness to the cottagers for having come and pioneered this beautiful place and made it possible for a hotel to accommodate them? Not they. With their sixty dollar investment in a hotel bill, they swank on all their giddiest garments, sneer at the cottager, who tries to maintain the ancient summer resort traditions of “old clothes and comfort.”

Most of these two weekers, by the look of them, spend the rest of their year saving up fancy clothes to flash on the summer hotel. It is possibly their principal reason for coming to the summer hotel. For they certainly do not otherwise enjoy the realities of a summer holiday.

And why should men who play golf all the year round bring golf up to their summer holiday? It is pure swank. I think most of these people who play golf at summer hotels don’t belong to a club at home, and play golf only at the summer hotel. I have watched some of them playing, and I think I have the right dope.

As a matter of fact, I think most of them borrow the clubs they bring up, because I saw one man solemnly trying to play right-handed with a set of left hand clubs.

And as they stroll elegantly from place to place over this beautiful land saved from the wilderness by the pioneering cottagers, these two-weekers cast haughty glances at the cottager, who, in a pre-war pair of trousers and pre-hotel pair of running shoes a little split around the toes, dares to enter the hotel to patronize it to the extent of a plug of tobacco (which they keep for the hired help).

They look on the cottager, with his investment of thousands in his cottage and his hundreds in annual operating expenses, as a hick.

There is only one escape. To go on and on, into some remoter wilderness, there to enjoy the peace and beauty of nature, until you have so improved the train and boat service that a hotel can come and usurp your paradise.

There is no law against hotels and motors and golf. They mean nothing to your true pioneer of summer resorts. They are the perquisites of the two weeker.

Clocking the Ponies as Day Breaks at the Woodbine Track

May 13, 1922

This is from a story by Fred Griffin on the opening of the Woodbine Track for the new season.

The First Tooth

March 18, 1922

By Gregory Clark, March 18, 1922.

The death of popes, the marriage of princesses, the fate of jazz-party legislators are, after all, minor events in comparison with a baby’s first tooth.

The first tooth is a sort of coming-of-age. A toothless baby is merely an infant. When the first tooth emerges, the baby becomes a child. It is no longer a harmless creature. It can bite its papa’s finger. It can make papa yell. It is a creature of consequence.

A young couple of my acquaintance were blessed six months ago with a male infant. The father works in the same office with me. For six months, I have been subjected to an intensive course in babiculture. I know how much a baby should gain per week. I can tell the difference between a hungry cry and a temper cry. I know how to hold them in the bath. This friend of mine has spared me none of the intimate details of a baby’s daily routine.

It has been “baby” this, and “baby did that”; “baby nearly crawled to-day,” or “baby has learned to pull his daddy’s hair.”

Yesterday, however, my friend strode jauntily over to my desk and said:

“Well, what do you think! James bit an arrowroot biscuit last evening!”

I was puzzled.

“James?” I said. “James did what? Who the deuce is James?”

“James is my son,” said he, proudly.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Baby!”

“Baby nothing,” he retorted, exultantly. “He has cut his first tooth! James he is from now on!”

This shows how a tooth can go to the head.

The first tooth of a first baby, however, is a tolerably weighty event in a young household. That indispensable volume which arrives shortly before the baby in most menages, the “doctor book,” says:

“Teething: preceded by drooling, restlessness, biting of hands, loss of appetite for a few days.”

This friend of mine wasn’t just sure what that word “drooling” meant. He was of the opinion that it meant emitting a sort of wail. His wife disagreed with him, but would not admit what she thought it meant. They were both somewhat shocked, on phoning the doctor, to learn that it meant merely dribbling or slobbering at the mouth.

“Good gracious!” cried the young mother. “Baby’s been doing that ever since we got him!”

Baby was also restless. He was also biting his fists. He was also a little careless about eating, much to his mother’s alarm, for she thought the baby was losing affection for her.

So father went and scrubbed his hands, took baby on his knees, and inserted the point of his little finger into baby’s jaws to feel for a tooth.

“You!” he shouted, jerking his hand away, sending the baby into roars of fright, and causing mother to snatch him angrily from his papa.

“My dear,” said father in an awed voice, turning red and white – “James has a tooth!”

So they took a teaspoon and waggled it in James’ mouth, and were rewarded by a small, faint, tinkling sound. The rest of the evening was devoted to calling up James’ grandparents, uncles and aunts, and friends and acquaintances twice removed to impart the remarkable news.

The tooth can now be seen – if the light is good – and James keeps still. It is a tiny thing, a minute splinter of mother o’ pearl –

James’ school, college and university have now been selected by his male parent. He is going to have a gold watch if he doesn’t smoke till he’s twenty. His father has already commenced weeding out his library, destroying certain trashy books he wouldn’t care to have around –

“You know,” said the father this morning, “It’s a caution how time flies. He’ll be in long pants before you know it. It takes a thing like this first tooth to wake a parent up to his responsibilities!”

Fair Exchange is No Robbery

January 28, 1922.

Back in the early days of cars, it was not uncommon to lay a coat over the front in very cold climates to try and keep the radiator from freezing over.

Clara and the Traffic Cop

January 14, 1922.

This illustration went with a story by Mary E. Lowrey about a police officer admiring a mannequin in a store called “Clara”. This is the same writer who would later get married in 1924 and be known as Mary Lowrey Ross.

Grandmothers vs. Science

“No,” cried Grandma, in a strong voice, leaping to her feet with sudden violence and picking the boy up in her arms. She placed herself in front of the mantel.

By Gregory Clark, December 30, 1922.

The struggle now going on between science and grandmothers is really stupendous.

In my household I happen to be referee between science and grandmother. And while prejudiced, as a member of a generation fed on science and efficiency must be, in favor of the experts, I have to admit that in the case with which I am familiar science spends most of its time with its back flat on the mat with a grandmotherly shoe placed on its neck.

For some time before the subject of this colossal struggle between science and grandmother put in an appearance, science had a little the better of the first encounters. But he was not more than three weeks old before grandmother got in a vital blow. That was in regard to the question of regularity of meals. Science frowningly laid down the rule that he should be fed every four hours – and no oftener or sooner.

But he cried and cried so pitifully, and with so hoarse a tiny voice, about the third hour, that grandmother insisted that he was hungry, and she raised so whole-hearted a row that the boy was fed -though his parents stood fearfully by expecting the scientific heavens to fall.

Nothing happened except that the wee morsel leaned back luxuriously after his meal, rolled his eyes with contentment, and looking intently up at his mother’s face, as if seeing her for the first time, distinctly enunciated his first word on earth —

“Bgloobl!”

I shall always remember that remark. It seems to me to contain the complete refutation of all science.

From this incident onward, grandmother has won most points in the fifteen-month battle that has been waged. The “baby book,” a little manual which contains the cream of science’s pronouncements and which is to be found in most modern nurseries, grandma soon found to be the source of most of her difficulties. She has hidden the book in all possible places. She has loaned it to people. It has mysteriously fallen behind radiators, bookcases, and once I rescued it from under a whole year’s accumulation of magazines in the cellar. How it got there, grandmother had no idea. She advised me to call in a scientist to solve the mystery.

One thing we had our mind made up on, however, was candy. No candy should ever pass our boy’s lips until he was grown well out of babyhood. Grandmother solemnly agreed.

“There is nothing worse for a little child,” said she, “than candy.”

And I secretly rejoiced that here at least was one point on which grandmother and science were one.

For some weeks, I have observed a most touching relationship growing between the small boy and his grandma. First thing in the morning, when he is released from his coop, he rushes to his grandmother’s door and thumps heartily upon it, shouting his eloquent self-made words, and dancing up and down from the knees in most comic way. All day long, he pays her most sedulous attention. He comes when she calls and ceases his tumult when she admonishes him. If she tells him to eat his dinnie, he at once stops his favorite sport of seeing how far he can blow a spoonful of porridge.

They have a language of their own, too. There are words that only they two can comprehend. I have been just the least little bit jealous of this private little world of theirs into which I could not enter.

Coming into the living room the other afternoon, I interrupted a quaint little scene.

The boy was over at one end of the fireplace, dancing furiously up and down and exclaiming a sound that seemed to be

“Pease! Pease! Pease!”

And he was stretching himself up towards the mantel.

Grandma was sitting motionless in the shadow of the corner.

“Come here, my pigeon,” she said tensely. “Come to Dodo!”

“Pease! Pease!” cried the pigeon, reaching one little hand up towards the mantel.

I looked at grandmother and she seemed to be holding herself as with a leash.

“What is it, boy?” I asked. “Is there something up here you want?”

And I approached the mantel.

“No,” cried Grandma in a strong voice, leaping to her feet with sudden violence and picking the boy up in her arms. She placed herself in front of the corner of the mantel.

“What is it?” I exclaimed, alarmed.

Grandma looked at me with bright, excited eyes.

But the boy, the little pigeon, solved the mystery and betrayed his grandmother. Over his shoulder, he reached to the mantel, threw a photograph to one side and seized and triumphantly flourished – a barley stick!

A barley stick, partly gone!

I stared at grandmother with shocked eyes.

“Barley sugar,” said she in a soft dangerous voice, “is not candy.”

“What is it?” I retorted. “A vegetable?”

At this moment, I was reenforced by Science, in the form of the boy’s mother, coming into the room.

I held up the barley stick, which I had seized from the pigeon’s hand.

A long, tense, and most quiet battle then ensued between science and grandmother, quiet save for the voice of the pigeon shouting, “pease, pease, pease,” in a most compelling and persuasive tone.

Science won.

Grandmother walked over to the fire place and tossed the barley stick ostentatiously into the ashes.

“It’s all nonsense,” she stated. “Candy is chocolates and gum drops and those pink and yellow creams with scalloped edges. But barley sugar! My dear girl, you have eaten tons of it!”

But did science, win?

You don’t buy barley sticks one at a time. It seems to me, you buy them in a bottle, about twenty small sticks to the bottle.

At any rate, grandmother assisted her pigeon to bed. And, before retiring that night. I went in to see him.

On his rosy cheek, just beside his month, like a yellow jewel, there stuck a small, smooth, well polished little nugget of barley sugar.

Insurance & Life

November 11, 1922

By Gregory Clark, November 11, 1922.

There are, it is rumored, 5,081 life insurance agents in Toronto.

The 81 don’t know about me.

The other 5,000 have me in their pocket diaries as a promising prospect.

They come in to see me at the office, at home, in church, on the street car, at the club, on the street, in twos, fives, and tens. When there is a measles epidemic, or an outbreak of the Spanish flu in Honolulu, they pursue me in scores and hundreds.

For it seems I am of the blond, impressionable type, fearful of calamity, frightened of death, a family man – having all the qualities, in short, of the ideal insurance prospect.

There has been a great change in the insurance business in the last few years. It is a science now. There are magazines devoted to the science. You can read how to tell a prospect at a glance. How to read character in relation to selling. Whether to use the “scare-him-to-death” method, or the “appeal-to-his-widow” method, or just the plain hard-headed “investment” method.

You see, insurance hasn’t escaped the “science” bug that has got into the business world the last dozen years. There are no more insurance agents now. They are insurance salesmen, or life underwriters. Selling insurance is no longer merely a matter of a fellow with nothing else to do bothering the life out of all his relations and friends until they buy some protection.

Life Insurance is a SERVICE.

“I’ll be the best friend you ever had, if you take that policy.” says the modern insurance salesman, with the air of a grave but kindly tipster. “You’ll thank me all your life. I don’t want you to take out the policy. It’s nothing to me. But it is my duty to show you the value of insurance.”

Word must have leaked out that I was married, had a child, was buying a new house, and was going deer hunting.

In addition to that, I was classified at a glance as blond, impressionable, soft-hearted, soft-beaded, and immensely wealthy, because I wear spats to keep my feet warm.

Anyway, seventy-eleven life underwriters got on to my trail.

“I can’t take out any insurance,” I said with assurance, “because that baby of mine has set me back about five hundred dollars.”

“Aren’t you going to provide for that baby, in case anything happens to you?” retorted the underwriters, in gloomy voices.

“All the money I can scrape together is going into a new house,” I said, desperately.

“You should protect the mortgage with a life policy,” countered the salesmen, with hard glances. “If anything should happen to you, where would your wife live? Eh?”

“Happen! Happen! What’s going to happen to me?” I asked, with my healthiest expression.

“Ah, Bill,” said the one life underwriter, turning to his assistant, “remember that poor fellow we tried to sell that policy for $20,000 to? The one that died from the pip two days after?”

And then the senior drew a blue book out of his pocket and said:

“Are you aware of the number of hunters who are killed annually?”

What is the use of struggling against such science as that?

With my sidekick, Griffin, they use another method, the business man’s method. They never try any sentimental stuff on him. They can tell by the color of his hair and the shape of his nose that he would simply tell them to go to blazes and provide for their own wives. So they put it up to him as an investment. They assume he is saving so much per annum – quoting a figure five times as great as he is really saving. Then they show him how much better an investment insurance would be on the same terms.

One way or the other, it is a SERVICE.

Every insurance man to-day thinks his predecessors must have been terrible types. For if you talk to one of them long enough, ho Is sure to branch off from that SERVICE line to tell you of the high grade of men who are now going into insurance as a profession or calling.

And they are having a hard time with a public that still thinks insurance agents a nuisance They can’t seem to set it across on the public that SERVICE is the whole philosophy of the insurance man, and that the way to receive him is to welcome him with open arms and an open check book.

If they keep at it long enough, and keep stressing the fact that superior men are going into the game out of pure love of mankind, and if they to their shoes shined, finally the public will get over the old obsession that insurance men are trying to sell them a set of the works of Sir Walter Scott, complete in thirty volumes.

The last time we poked a little fun at the insurance boys, the entire underwriters’ origination of the world rose up in arms and protested against The Star Weekly, seventeen insurance publications, weekly and monthly, replied with what to the baseless slanders, and the number of salesmen calling on me increased from 2,700 to 5,000 – an increase of nearly 100 per cent.

Lightning never strikes in the same place twice.

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