Tag: 1945 Page 1 of 4

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, December 15, 1945.

“Five miles,” announced Jimmie Frise, “and then we turn right on a good gravel road.”

“I wish we hadn’t come,” I muttered.

“This farmer,” declared Jim, “has over 200 white Holland turkeys. You’ll never see a more beautiful sight.”

“I don’t believe,” I submitted, “a white turkey can taste as good as a normal bronze turkey.”

“And where,” inquired Jim loftily, “are you going to get a good bronze turkey or any other kind of turkey?”

“This Christmas,” I stated, “I would settle for a pair of big chickens. Or even a roast of pork.”

“Every Christmas,” said Jim, “they build up this scare about a turkey shortage. Then, every year, a supply comes along. But this year, of all years, it looks grim. I’m determined to have a turkey.”

“The wet, cold spring, Jim,” I explained, “was as bad for turkeys as for any other crop.”

“We’re going to find turkeys,” insisted Jim. “We had turkeys for Christmas all through the war. Do you mean to say that now the war is over, we are going to miss turkey dinner for the first Christmas? My dear sir, that would be an awful admission. That would confess that we had won the war but lost the peace.”

“If we had turkeys all through the war,” I pointed out, “we should deny ourselves turkeys this Christmas. An act of self-denial and an act of charity. We should send every turkey Canada has produced this year to Britain, France, Greece, Yugoslavia and Russia.”

“Aw,” said Jim.

“It’s a fact, Jim, ” I pleaded. “We haven’t begun to do for Europe and Asia what we should be doing. Here we are solemnly holding conclaves over the atomic bomb. All the atomic bombs in the world can’t do any harm unless there is hatred enough in the world to let them loose. It isn’t the bomb we should be fretting about. It is the hatred between nations. And if nations were generous with each other, there could be no hatred.”

“We’ve been generous,” protested Jim.

“But we still want turkey,” I replied. “The fact is, Jim, we haven’t been generous at all. Not in relation to what we possess. A country is ruled, not by its best brains, but by its smartest brains. Business men are the real rulers of every country. And foreign relations are dominated by business men. Therefore, when the government of one country thinks of another country, it does not visualize the vast mass of the people of that other country. It thinks of the government of that country. That is, two sets of business men, thinking of each other.”

“We have to be practical,” said Jim.

Forced Friendship

“Business is a contest,” I pursued “Business is a competition between men, between groups of men, between companies, communities and, finally, nations. Leave the world in the hands of business men, and you’ll have war as sure as fate. War is business carried to its logical conclusion.”

“You’re a Bolshevik,” suggested Jim.

“We now see,” I concluded, “three organizations of business men with a new and startling method of production – the atomic bomb. It can’t be patented. Their competitors are liable to work out the design any day. While they’ve got the exclusive use of this new machine, they are anxious to make the most of it. They want to corner the world with it.”

“What would you do with the atomic bomb?” inquired Jim.

“Public ownership is the solution,” I submitted. “I have no objection to private ownership, so long as the public is served, and not damaged. But the minute a lot of private ownership organizations get warring among themselves so violently that the public starts to get hurt, then, that’s where public ownership steps in and takes over. Give everybody the secret of the atomic bomb. Send them the blueprints. Send them supplies of uranium and all the rest of the materials!”

“Suicide!” cried Jim.

“Not at all,” I countered. “If we knew  every nation had a good big supply of atomic bombs, we’d HAVE to be friends!”

“Eh!” said Jim, so startled that he almost drove into the ditch.

“It’s as simple as that,” I assured him. “In the past, war has come because nations gambled that their armies, navies and air forces were bigger and stronger than some other nation’s. Give everybody the atomic bomb, and none of us would dare go to war. The masses of the people, who would be the ones to die. wouldn’t permit their business men to involve them in war. The atomic bomb is probably the solution of war. But only so long as every nation has it. While only a few nations have it, war is still possible.”

“Why, you’re crazy,” expostulated Jimmie.

“Wait and see,” I said calmly. “The solution of the atomic bomb will be – one big world factory where the world supply of atomic bombs will be manufactured for distribution, pro rata, to every nation on earth.”

“Pro rata?” cut in Jim.

“Certainly,” I said. “The smallest countries will naturally get the biggest supply. It stands to reason. It’s inherent in the very basis of law. You wouldn’t expect a little country like Belgium to have fewer atomic bombs than a big country like France? Why, that would put us right back in the old position of one country having a bigger army than another, just because it has more population. No, sir! The little atomic bomb puts an end to all that injustice. All countries, big and small, balanced. Then let anybody try to start a war!”

“But… but…” protested Jim helplessly.

“Look, Jim,” I said. “Back a thousand years ago, in war, the biggest guy with the biggest battle axe won. Then gunpowder was invented. And the day of the big guy was over. In fact, the smaller the guy, the more dangerous, because he was harder to hit. A big guy with a battle axe was pie. The next step in war was – who can make the biggest gun? Now we come to the next step in war. The atomic bomb. A little wee country can make as many atomic bombs as are needed to wipe the biggest country off the map. Probably they’re doing it right now.”

“What’s the solution?” begged Jim.

“Freely give everybody,” I suggested, “all they ask for. Let everybody know how many everybody else has got. Admit that we are all now prepared to blow one another to blazes at the drop of the hat.”

“Then?” said Jim.

“Then,” I submitted, “we’ll HAVE to be friends.”

“Aaaaa,” gritted Jimmie desperately.

The Wrong Road

But he had to take his mind off the atomic bomb, for we were coming to the gravel road which he said led three miles into the farm of the turkey specialist who grew the white Holland turkey.

“It’s the fifth farm,” said Jim, as we slewed into the side road, “on the left.”

But when we came to the fifth farm, it was just a little huddle of buildings with two cows hiding beside the barn from the wintry wind.

“It can’t be, this one,” I protested.

Jim walked up the lane, as it was too muddy to drive the car; and came back hurriedly, shaking his head.

“We must have the wrong side road,” he said. “I got the most careful road directions….”

“As usual,” I replied bitterly.

We drove hastily back to the highway. Up and down the main stem, cars were snoring in the usual December fashion, their windows steamed, their whole attitude one of huddle and hurry.

“There’ll be a gasoline station up here, somewhere,” suggested Jim.

“Aw, let’s turn back,” I snorted. “Didn’t that farmer know of any white Holland turkeys?”

“No,” confessed Jim, “but it must be in this neighborhood.”

I sat back in disgust. A roast of pork would do me for Christmas.

Two miles up the highway, we came to one of those lonely gasoline stations that sit aloof, as it were, halfway between villages. As we turned into the gas pumps, a man came hurrying out of the chilly little house.

“Say,” called Jim, running down the window, “can you tell us where a farmer around here named Hawkins lives – he breeds white Holland turkeys.”

The service station man seemed to wilt.

“No,” he said dispiritedly, “never heard of him.”

“He must be right around this neighborhood….” went on Jim.

“Never heard of him,” said the station man, miserably.

I never saw a more downcast man in my life than this gas station man.

“Sorry to trouble you,” I called cheerfully. “Horrible day, eh?”

He perked up at my cheeriness.

“It’s been like this,” he said, as if glad of a chance to talk, “for weeks. You’re the fifth car has come into my pumps today, so far, all day. And every one just wanted directions.”

“No sales, eh?” I queried.

“I can’t figure it out,” said the station man. “In summer, I get a fair share of the business. But the minute fall comes, and winter, everybody just keeps right on going.”

“I guess,” suggested Jim, “it looks too cold to stop here. People like to stop for gasoline or oil in a town, where it looks warmer.”

“I guess that’s it,” sighed the gasoline man.

“But it’s sure a disappointment. Christmas coming and I haven’t made $5 in a week.”

“Need any gas, Jim?” I murmured.

“I filled up at that last village,” reminded Jim.

“Oil?” I inquired.

“They examined the oil,” said Jim. “Full up.”

“Let’s get out,” I said, opening my door, “and stretch our legs. Can’t you think up some scheme for making your station look warmer?”.

“I got it painted,” said the gas man. “I spent most of my summer earnings trying to make the place attractive. But traffic just goes hurrying by. In fact, I sometimes think they put on speed when they pass here.”

“Look,” said Jim, “you don’t want to get down-hearted. Face the facts. That’s the secret of success in business. This is a summer-time station. People prefer to stop for gasoline here, in summer, in a nice fresh country setting. But in winter, it looks too forbidding. Too cold. Too exposed.”

An Idea Blossoms

I walked out to the road and watched the traffic go by. There was plenty of it. Both ways.

“My friend,” I suggested, “there is such a thing as business methods. There is a thing called sales resistance and another thing called sales promotion.”

“I’ve read all the business magazines,” said the gas man sadly. “I’ve written to the company. Nobody has any ideas that apply here.”

“I’ve got one,” I announced.

“Let’s hear it,” said Jim sarcastically, still thinking of the atomic bomb.

“Have you got any old tires around the back?” I inquired.

“Yes, there’s a couple,” said the gas man.

“My friend and I,” I outlined, “will go back up the road here, about 300 yards. You give us a hunk of rubber off an old tire. We’ll build a fire in that little woodsy bit, there, and throw the rubber on it.”

“Mmmm?” said Jim.

“The wind, you’ll notice,” I continued, “is blowing across the highway. The smell of burning rubber, here in this lonely country road will drift across the road. I bet you’ll have 20 cars stop here at your station in the first 10 minutes!”

Jim and the gas man looked at me narrowly.

“That’s a dirty trick,” said Jim.

“It’s what you call sales promotion,” I retorted. “The biggest and most successful businesses in the world use the power of suggestion to promote the sales of their goods.”

“Would it be ethical?” inquired the gas station man anxiously.

“Ethical?” I cried. “Why, what are you doing but suggesting to the motoring public that they take good care of their cars? Could anything be more ethical? When the passing motorist drives through the smell of burning rubber, he will immediately be conscience stricken. He will say to himself – ‘Ah. I’ve neglected this engine! There’s the fan belt, or the clutch lining, there’s my brakes gone! He’ll kick himself for having neglected to change the oil.”

“Everybody is guilty of neglecting their cars,” agreed the gas man.

“So,” I pursued, “what will he do? He’ll immediately slacken speed. He’ll spy your station here. And what more natural than that he will drive in? And when he drives in, he’ll lift the hood of his car, and get down under and smell around. And finding nothing wrong, his conscience will be relieved to the extent that he will buy a quart or two of oil, and probably take a few gallons of gasoline while he’s at it.”

Jim gave me a disgusted but slightly admiring look. The gas man hurried around to the back of his cabin.

“Of all the lousy tricks….” said Jim delightedly.

With his knife, the service man cut off a few big hunks of tire; and Jim and I strolled down the road to the little bushy patch where, in a small depression invisible from the road, I built a quick fire of dry sticks and Jim tossed the first bit of rubber on. The stink was immediate.

The breeze wafted it towards the wintry road.

The first car to cross the sales promotion skidded to an instant stop. The driver leaped out, lifted the hood and peered within. He slammed down the hood, leaped back in the car, and at a snail’s pace slowly drove the 300 yards and turned into the gas station. I could see our friend come bouncing out of the cabin.

In rapid succession, four more cars slackened speed as they passed us and all turned into the gas station.

We stoked the bonfire with the heaviest and wettest sticks we could find, so as to let her smoulder, and walked back to the service station. By the time we reached it, seven cars were tangled on the lot, all had their hoods up, and all the drivers were sniffing one another’s cars trying to locate the trouble. And the gas man, whose name was Sam, was pouring oil, pumping gas and lifting floor boards for all he was worth.

“I’ve telephoned for my brother,” he whispered, as he passed us to go in and make change. “I’ll need help.”

“We’ll light another,” I murmured, “up the other way. We’ll get ’em coming and going.”

That Burning Smell

Which we did; and Sam and his brother and a friend the brother had brought with him were all so busy there wasn’t a more crowded gas station between Toronto and North Bay.

“I feel like a heel,” said Jim, as we came back from setting the second sales promotion and got into our car. Sam ran over and shook hands furiously with us.

“Merry Christmas!” he gasped.

“A heel,” repeated Jim, as we drove out, narrowly missing two cars, from both directions, anxiously whirling into the service station.

“Jim,” I pleaded, “we are impressing on all kinds of careless people the need of taking care of their cars. By a mere suggestion, we are doing a great public good. And also helping that poor guy to get a little honest business. The gas and oil he sells are perfectly honest gas and oil.”

Up at the next crossroads, we met the rural mail delivery man who gave us directions to the farm where the white turkey breeder lived. It was three more crossroads north and then three miles in.

As we drove along, I began to chuckle.

“Jim,” I said, “that smell of burning rubber is sure the most potent suggestion in the world. I can smell the stuff still.”

“So can I,” laughed Jim. “If it weren’t for the fact that we knew what it was, I’d be in a panic right now.”

“It smells to me,” I chortled, “as if your gaskets were smoking.”

“It smells to me,” jibed Jim, “like my clutch!”

“Heh, heh, heh,” I laughed.

We passed the second side road.

“We made it too strong,” chuckled Jim. “Why, we must have scooped up a regular carload of those fumes as we passed.”

“The funny part is,” I submitted, “it seems to get worse. Scorched rubber, is certainly the most suggestive smell in all the world.”

“Eh, well,” sighed Jimmie. “After a dirty trick like that, I suppose the two of us ought to smell burnt rubber for the rest of our lives.”

“JIM!” I yelled. “There’s smoke coming up through the floorboards!”

Jim tramped on the brakes. He sidled to the shoulder of the road.

Smoke, really scorched smoke, billowed up through the pedal holes, around the hood, up by the windows.

We leaped out.

It was the clutch.

“Oh, oh, oh,” groaned Jim, tearing up hood and floorboards, “the clutch, of all things!”

So we hitched a lift from a passing car back to Sam’s service station. And there we telephoned to the next town for a tow-truck.

And we left the car in the town for the all-day job of tearing it down and relining the clutch; and took the bus back to Toronto.

And Jim was interested neither in white turkeys nor atomic bombs.

He just looked out the window all the way home.

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, October 27, 1945.

“Lady Luck,” chuckled Jimmy Frise, “is sure smiling on me!”

“It’s about time,” I suggested.

“This is a real break,” said Jim, “with the coal shortage and all.”

“Coal? Ah,” I alerted.

“Yes, coal,” pursued Jim eagerly. “I was talking to my next door neighbor last night. Just casually chatting. And he says he is going to have to close up his house this winter as his firm is sending him to California.”

“You’re going to get his coal?” I exclaimed.

“No, it’s even better than that,” enthused Jim. “It so happens that he hasn’t laid in any coal at all for this winter, as he was expecting to have to go south for his firm.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“Well, sir,” tantalized Jim, “he tells me that one of his friends has installed a new oil burner. And this friend has two tons of coal in his cellar, left over from last winter. And he wants to get rid of it.”

“He should have no trouble,” I submitted.

“He offered it,” announced Jim sensationally, “to my next door neighbor for nothing. If – and here’s the catch – if my neighbor would arrange to transfer the coal from the other guy’s bin to my neighbor’s.”

“And he’s going south?” I caught on.

“So,” triumphed Jim, “my bin being full, and my neighbor’s empty, what more natural than that my neighbor accepts the offer, stores the two tons in his bin. And I get it!”

“Well, that is a break,” I agreed heartily. “It’ll be no trouble to shift a couple of bags every day or so across the side drive. And that’s all the distance it is.”

“I’ll have to carry it up my neighbor’s cellar stairs,” explained Jim, “and down mine. It’ll be a chore. But think of two tons of coal for nothing! Not a cent. And this year of all years, when coal is millions of tons short.”

“Some people,” I said, “have all the luck.”

“Little breaks like this,” sighed Jim happily, “make life worth while.”

“Isn’t your neighbor going to rent his house while he’s away?” I inquired.

“Not him,” asserted Jim. “He doesn’t want strangers wrecking his place. He’s got a swell little home. Beautiful furniture and lovely new drapes and all. His wife wouldn’t dream of renting it.”

“But there’s a housing shortage,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t seem right for a man to be away all winter and leave a house idle. A house that would shelter half a dozen people. Maybe a returned soldier and his family.”

“Aw, now, never mind the high moral tone,” scoffed Jim. “You’re just jealous of my luck. Would you rent your house if you were going to be away two or three months?”

“Well, of course, my house is full of old books,” I pointed out, “and fishing tackle and stuff. I could hardly have strangers living among all those fragile and perishable things…”

“Everybody, except people without any sentiment,” said Jim, “feels the same way about their homes.”

“It seems to me,” I said righteously, “that the National Housing Board ought to have some say in a matter of this kind. Nobody should be allowed, in times like these, to leave a house untenanted.”

An Ugly Thought

“I suppose,” said Jim, “you’re trying to blackmail half the coal out of me? Well, it’s too far to carry to your house. But it’s just across the alley from me.”

He rubbed his hands appreciatively.

“Who’s going to pay,” I inquired, “for transferring the coal from the other guy’s house to your neighbor’s?”

“Well, that’s just the point,” said Jim amiably. “We called up half a dozen coal dealers and asked them what it would cost, and they just hung up.”

“Hung up?” I questioned.

“Coal dealers,” explained Jim, “are nearly crazy trying to fill their orders now. And are they going to waste time transferring coal from one house to another, coal they have no interest in? Coal they didn’t sell?”

“Aaah,” I mused.

There’s the guy who has the coal,” outlined Jim, “who is installing a new oil burner. Not only does he not need the coal. It is in his way. He’s got to use the space of his coal bins for fuel storage tanks. He wants that coal out of there. Right away.”

“That’s why he will give it away,” I realized.

“Precisely,” said Jim. “And here’s my neighbor, with his bins empty. But he doesn’t need the coal. Because he’s going to be away all winter.”

“And you…” I concluded.

“I, in return for watching over my neighbor’s house,” announced Jim, “can have the coal stored in my next door neighbor’s bins. If.”

“If?” I followed.

“If I can arrange to transfer the coal,” said Jim.

I began to get uneasy.

“Surely there is some trucking company,” I said hastily, “that would undertake the job. After all, you can’t expect busy coal dealers to waste time handling coal they don’t sell. But there are any number of trucking companies that take on all sorts of jobs like this.”

“I’ve tried them,” said Jim. “I spent nearly all last night, with my neighbor, telephoning. I called big truckers and little truckers; I went all through the telephone book and the want ads. I tried little, foreign-sounding, one-truck outfits. I even telephoned some of the big social service organizations and asked them if they knew of any ex-soldiers in need of a one-day job.”

“How far is this guy’s house from you, the one with the new oil burner?” I inquired.

“Only four blocks,” cried Jim. “If I could. find some guy really looking for a job, he could do it with a wheelbarrow.”

“In about 50 trips,” I snorted. “Jim, it’s a nasty job, handling coal.”

“Aw, a truck could do it in one trip,” scorned Jim. “Two tons of coal? Just one trip.”

“Well, no matter how you manage it,” I admitted, “it won’t cost even half as much as two tons of coal. Whatever you pay, you’ll be in on the deal.”

“In Your Hands”

Jim studied me with a friendly and long look.

“Greg,” he said, “there is only one solution and it’s in your hands.”

“My hands!” I protested.

“Yes,” said Jim, tenderly. “You’ve got that little old open car…”

“It’s not so old,” I interrupted sharply, “that it can be used as a coal truck!”

“Aw, now, wait a minute,” soothed Jim. “I’ve thought it all out. I know you wouldn’t want to see me miss a lucky break like this. We’ve been partners too long for you to….”

“Jim,” I warned, “we’ve been partners all these years strictly because neither of us has tried to take advantage of the other.”

“Look,” said Jim, hitching his chair closer to me. “It is obvious you couldn’t carry bags of coal in a closed sedan.”

“You could,” I assured him. “And besides, your sedan is two years older than my touring.”

“Your little open job,” declared Jim, “is famous, and you admit it, for its carrying capacity.”

“True,” I admitted. “It has a record of six deer, three hounds, two hunters and their rifles and baggage.”

“There is nothing like a touring car,” announced Jim admiringly, “for carrying a load. It makes a joke of closed cars. Now, my idea was, I’ll supply the canvas tarpaulins…”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Jim,” I stated firmly.

“I’ll get two, or even three tarpaulins,” explained Jim, making little diagrams with his pencil, “that we can lines the car with. Then, I’ll borrow good, sound coal bags. All you’ve got to do is drive the car. We can make it in two or three trips….”

“Two tons of coal?” I shouted. “In my little touring? In two or three trips?”

“I’ll do all the carrying,” went on Jim hurriedly. “I’ll go down into that guy’s cellar, shovel the coal into the bags. Then I’ll give you a call on the telephone, see? You won’t have to do a thing but come and drive in his side drive. I’ll carry the bags up, very carefully. I won’t fill them too full. In fact, I’ll moisten them, so they won’t shed dust at all.”

“Nothing doing,” I said, getting up.

“Then,” pleaded Jim, “I’ll take the tarpaulins – I’ve got it all figured out, see? – and line your car with them. Line it completely, so that not so much as a single grain of coal dust can escape. Then I place the sacks of coal in, very carefully. On the floor.”

“It would hold about two,” I snorted. “It would take 20 trips.”

“I figure,” said Jim, “that we could do it in three or four trips. After all, what is two tons of coal?”

“Well, it seemed to be a lot,” I reminded him, “when you were feeling so lucky five minutes ago.”

“I mean,” said Jim, “it’s a lot in one sense. But it’s not much in another.”

“I don’t think it’s fair,” I announced, “to propose using my little car for a coal cart when you’ve got a car of your own.”

“But a closed car,” exclaimed Jimmie.

“You can line the inside of your closed car,” I insisted, “with tarpaulins. You can take the back seat out. You could get six bags of coal in it.”

“And smear all the upholstery!” cried Jim.

“How about mine?” I retorted.

“Yours is leather,” said Jim, “or imitation. If a little coal dust gets on that, I can wash it off. That’s the beauty of your car. It’s practical. It’s useful. It’s a real, sensible car.”

“Flattery won’t help,” I informed him.

“Aw,” begged Jim, “be a sport. All you’ve got to do is drive. Maybe three, maybe four short trips. I’ll do all the work, all the carrying.”

We Strike a Bargain

“Jim, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “What kind of coal is this two tons?”

“It’s blower coal¹,” said Jim.

“That filthy dust!” I snorted.

“There’s four bags of cannel coal,” put in Jim.

“Ah, cannel coal?” I said. “For grate fires?”

“The guy with the new oil burner,” explained Jim, “is installing gas grates in his fireplaces.”

“I think,” I proposed, “we can make a little bargain here, Jim. If I am let in on this bit of luck, I might be interested in the trucking job.”

“The cannel coal, you mean?” said Jim, a little crestfallen.

“Precisely,” I said. “I can do with four bags of cannel coal. You wouldn’t want to hog all the luck, would you, Jim?”

“Not at all, not at all,” agreed Jim. “Of course you take the cannel coal for your trouble. I should have thought of it in the first place.”

And next day being Saturday, Jim took me in and introduced me to his neighbor. One of those harassed executive types. Just the kind who are sent all over the country by big, soulless corporations.

“Without a thought of me,” he explained, as he glumly outlined his plans for the winter. “That’s the heck of these big international organizations. They just shove you around.”

He came with us over to his friend’s, who was installing the oil burner. In fact, when we got there the oil burner men were already at work on the old coal furnace, taking out the grates, relining the fire-box with new tile and unpacking all the motors and gadgets that go with oil burners.

Jim’s neighbor had already explained to his friend about putting the coal in his bins for Jim’s use.

“I don’t care who gets it or where it goes,” said the new oil-burner owner, “so long as it gets the heck out of here. And soon. I spent half of last week trying to sell it. You’d think with the coal shortage and all, there would be somebody glad to buy two tons of coal,”

“Not even your neighbors?” I inquired. “Who could carry it next door or a couple of doors away?”

“My neighbors,” he replied drily, “are the kind who filled their bins to bursting last summer.”

On the Job

“Well, it’s a great break for us,” I assured him. “I’m getting the cannel coal in return for the use of my open car as a truck.”

“The cannel coal?” exclaimed Jim’s neighbor. “Oh, you’re taking that, are you?”

“We figured that was a fair break,” explained Jim. “I get the blower coal and he gets the four bags of cannel.”

“Good, good,” said Jim’s neighbor. “A real idea. Well, boys, I’d like to stay and help with the job, but I’ve got…”

“My dear man,” protested Jim, “don’t think of it. You’re doing enough, lending me your cellar, putting me in touch with a break of luck like this.”

And he and the oil-burner enthusiast went upstairs, leaving Jim and me face to face with the binful of blower.

Jim had borrowed three coal sacks from neighbors and had two old ones of his own that, in palmier days², had delivered cannel coal to his house in tidy orders. You remember the days?

He also had two old brown dunnage bags, not very substantial now, with holes in them. But he had brought some newspaper to put inside to cover the holes.

With these for our containers, we proceeded to organize the job. True to his promise, Jim had obtained two big tarpaulins from among his wide circle of neighbors and acquaintances, and with these we lined my touring car to make a sort of large dustproof well or tank into which we could stow the coal sacks.

“We’ll move the cannel coal first,” I suggested, “and drop it off at my place.”

“Okay,” agreed Jim.

But when we looked for it, we found it in an outer bin, and at that very minute, one of the oil-burner workmen had placed a large, heavy crate full of motors, electric fuse boxes and other gadgets right on top of the cannel coal bin.

“I’ll have that open and distributed,” said the mechanic, “before you come for your second load. Leave it for now.”

So we proceeded with the blower coal, first filling all our five coal sacks and two dunnage bags, then carrying them up the cellar stairs to my waiting car.

Jim did the actual carrying while I came behind, supporting the bag with my shoulder. A bag of that soft, dusty blower coal is mighty heavy load. And more than that, it is a dirty load. We hadn’t carried two bags before we were already disappearing from view.

We got all seven bags into my car.

“At this rate,” I said, spitting coal, “It will take us about five or six trips.”

“We’ll see,” said Jim. “You can’t estimate a bin of coal by the eye.”

I drove the load carefully the four blocks to Jim’s side drive, and there we found Jim’s neighbor awaiting us to show us which cellar window to put the coal through.

“If you don’t mind, boys,” he said, “I’ve left the hose, so you can spray it as it goes in, to keep the dust down.”

“Okay,” said Jim. “Okay.”

Love’s Labor Lost

And as Jim carried each bag back, I would stand by, and as he lowered the bag and tilted it, I would turn the hose nozzle for the finest spray and let is sizzle in the cellar window.

It was a good idea, even though it moistened us and added to our murk.

On the second trip, I noticed the crate of motors was still on top of the cannel coal. “I’ll have it out of there by the next load,” said the mechanic.

On the third trip, the cannel coal was still unavailable.

“It will take only two more trips,” I explained to the mechanic.

“I’ll open the crate within 10 minutes,” he replied, his hands full of wrenches.

We made the whole job on the fifth trip, but it left no bags available, nor any room in my car for the cannel coal which was now available, the crate having been broken apart and the motors removed.

“I’ll come back for it,” I said thickly from behind a mask that now covered me like a fabric.

And as we arrived in the side drive and started carrying the last bags back to the bin window, a telegraph boy on a bicycle arrived and rang the neighbor’s bell.

He came out and greeted us heartily.

“This the last?” he inquired, as he opened the telegram.

“The last,” heaved Jim, hoisting a bag while I got the next one ready.

The neighbor, stood on his step staring at the telegram.

“Bad news?” I inquired.

“Awful!” he said. “This places most embarrassing position.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“How will I ever explain to Jimmie?” he said, looking at the wire helplessly.

I began to feel limp.

“The head office,” he read, “has changed program stop You will not be going California stop Acknowledge stop.”

“Not going,” I said hoarsely, “to California?”

He waved the telegram weakly.

Jim came from the back of the house with the empty sack.

“Jim,” said the neighbor brokenly. “Read this!”

Jim took the wire in his grimy hand and read it. Then read it again, his lips moving so as to take it in better.

“I’m so sorry, Jim,” said the neighbor.

“But…” said Jim… “well… but…”

“I’ll pay you,” said the neighbor eagerly, “I’ll pay you both for transferring the coal. I’ll pay you whatever you like, whatever is fair, whatever the usual charge is for…”

“How can you pay us?” I croaked. “Are we coal carriers?”

“Not at all,” said Jim, firmly. “It was just an unfortunate misunderstanding, a coincidence…”

“Do you mind,” I inquired bitterly, “if I take the cannel coal?”

“Certainly not, certainly not,” said the neighbor. “By all means. That will repay you for all your trouble. Your car…”

I looked at my poor little bow-legged car, still with its load of blower. What a filthy sight.

“Come on, Jim,” I said grimly.

And we hoisted the last five bags, with the neighbor now hastily helping, with his fingertips on the ears of the sacks, as we dumped them down his cellar window.

“I can’t tell you,” he kept repeating, “I can’t begin to tell you…”

“Skip it,” I assured him.

When the car was empty, I bade Jim good-afternoon and drove straight back for the cannel coal.

When I got down among the oil burner installation crew, the cannel coal bin was empty.

“Who took it?” I demanded smudgily.

“A guy took it,” said the head mechanic, “in three big ash cans.”

I went up and rapped on the kitchen door and the head of the house answered.

“The cannel coal?” I demanded.

“What of it?” he inquired.

“It’s gone,” I said.

“Who took it?” he inquired astonished.

“Don’t you know?” I grated.

“Me?” he said. “How do I know? I don’t care who gets it. So long as it…”

But I backed out, drove home, had a bath.

And even the bath water smelled fishy.

---

Editor’s Notes: For whatever reason, this story is longer than usual.

1. I’m not sure about the difference better types of coal and how they would be used in old coal furnaces. Cannel coal is mentioned as more expensive as it burned with a bright flame, was easily lit, and left virtually no ash, presumably compared to blower coal. ↩︎
2. “palmier days” means “back in the days of more prosperity”. ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, April 28, 1945.

“How long have we got?” demanded Jimmie Frise feverishly.

He was putting the finishing touches on this week’s Birdseye Center cartoon. We were in his den, at home, where he works when he is badly behind schedule.

“We have,” I said, sternly consulting my watch, “one hour and 22 minutes.”

“I’ll make it,” he said, scratching furiously at the paper.

“Well, you know the consequences,” I informed him grimly. “You heard what the editors said.”

“Editors,” said Jim, “have grown very industrial lately. You would think it was shirts they were manufacturing, instead of newspapers.”

“Publishing,” I enunciated, “is an industry. And as such, it must keep up to date.”

“In the old days,” mused Jim, as he scratched, “men plowed with a hand plow and a team of horses. Now they use a gang plow¹ behind a giant tractor. In the old days, men set type by hand and got newspapers out in such a leisurely manner that they would run off a couple of dozen, walk down to the hotel with them, let the boys look them over. And if there was nothing to complain of, why, the editor would have a couple more beers, walk back up to the plant and run off the rest of the edition.”

“Well,” I retorted, “you speak of tractors and plowing. You can’t deny that we are getting far better produce from the land than we did in former days. Why, there is hardly an agricultural item you can name that hasn’t been improved almost out of recognition.”

“Yep,” said Jim. “And more starving people in the world today than in all history.”

“There’s no connection,” I protested.

“There must be a connection,” said Jimmie. “There is always a connection. And it is finding the connection that is the biggest job in the world today. I think we should go back to the old way of producing newspapers. And only get one out when there is something new to report.”

“Huh,” I scoffed, “as if there isn’t plenty to report these days! Why, there is a regular avalanche of news.”

“What about?” inquired Jim mildly.

I didn’t even answer. I just looked at him, hunched over the drawing board.

“You mean the war?” inquired Jim, absently. “That isn’t new. That’s so old, everybody is tired of it. The war news ought to be cut down to a little paragraph. In fact, you might stick a little one-sentence paragraph up in the other corner from the weather probabilities. Something like: ‘Advance today 17 miles. Nine towns captured.'”

“And what would you fill up the rest of the paper with?” I inquired.

“News,” said Jim. “New stuff. Interviews with the greatest minds on earth about how we are going to work out real friendship between, say, America and Russia. Big stories on how we Canadians can get really interested in the Chinese people, in place of our present attitude, which is sort of like our interest in birds or butterflies.”

“Puh,” I said, “Who’d read that?”

“There you have it,” agreed Jimmie. “Newspapers always give the people what they want. In the old days, the newspapers gave the people serious arguments on public questions. The press was a sort of debating society. It was what the public wanted. When a man was plowing, behind a team of horses, plodding slowly over the fields, he wanted something to mull over in his mind. He didn’t want exciting, agitating news and sensations. He wanted something to ponder. Today, a man driving a gang plow tractor doesn’t want anything to ponder. He can’t ponder. How the heck could a man ponder, sitting up on the seat of a big roaring tractor yanking gang plows?”

“Get on with your drawing,” I warned, looking at my watch.

“Okay,” said Jim. “You talk. You tell me about all this Dumbarton Oaks² business and Bretton Woods³.”

All About Depreciation

“Ah,” I said. “You have me there. That’s like asking me to explain the Einstein Theory. Only a few men in the world can understand these big international things.”

“Aha,” said Jim. “Maybe our plow-pushing grandfathers could, though.”

“Naturally,” I admitted. “Back in the pondering days.”

“Well, give me a sort of nutshell description of Bretton Woods,” suggested Jim, industriously scratching. “Put it in a few words. It’s about the gold standard, isn’t it?”

“To tell you the truth, Jim,” I confessed, “I don’t actually know. World politics isn’t as simple as religion. You can put the Christian religion into a nutshell by quoting the Golden Rule. But there are over 400 Christian sects. You can’t put world politics into even a Golden Rule⁴. So you can imagine how many sects there must be in world politics.”

“Well, suppose Bretton Woods is about the gold standard,” pursued Jimmie, “what is the gold standard?”

“Just concentrate on your drawing,” I suggested firmly.

“Gold standard,” persisted Jim.

“Well,” I began carefully, “you know about depreciation, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Jim, “depreciation is the fact that all property depreciates. You build a house, and it begins to depreciate the day you move in. Buy a new car, and it depreciates $500 as you sign the paper.”

“Exactly,” I explained. “One of the most distressing things about property of all kinds Is that it depreciates. This has worried mankind for countless ages. From the beginning of time. Our best brains have worn themselves out, across the centuries, trying to figure some way they could produce property that would not depreciate. A farmer toils all year to grow a crop. All the time he is working on it, his implements are depreciating. His horses are depreciating. His land is depreciating. He’s depreciating himself. His house, his barn, his pump, everything is depreciating in the process of producing a crop.”

“I can see that,” said Jim.

“Now, in olden days,” said I, “the farmer produced wheat in order to use some of it himself, but also to trade with the next farmer for the pork or hay that the other farmer produced. But everything he got, in exchange for what he produced, was perishable. The world was full of depreciation.”

“Everything perishes,” agreed Jim.

“But,” I clinched, “among men were a certain percentage, a small percentage, who weren’t content with that fact. They didn’t like the idea of everything depreciating and perishing. So they invented gold.”

“Aha,” said Jim.

“They explained to all the common people, the people who know in their hearts that everything perishes, and are content with that knowledge, I pursued, “that gold was a medium of exchange, only. To save time. To make it easy for people to deal in goods with one another, even at some distance.”

“It does do that,” admitted Jim.

“But its real and wicked characteristic,” I summed up, “was that it did not perish. It I did not depreciate. For crafty and greedy men who were smart at producing things, who by reason of their brains and industry, were able to produce far more than they needed, it was a way of preserving property right in the face of the one eternal natural law – that all things depreciate and perish.”

“So that’s gold?” cried Jim.

“The funny part of it is,” I explained, “the men who know and talk most about depreciation – industrialists and factory owners – are the busiest at trying to collect the largest amount of the one thing on earth that doesn’t depreciate – gold.”

“It’s the old dream of eternity,” said Jim. “Everybody trying to convert the perishable into the eternal.”

“It’s worse than that,” I checked. “While the mass of mankind is allowed only the perishable; while depreciation of everything they own, including their lives, is the very driving force of their lives, a small element of mankind – the smart, the clever and the hard-working – have kidded all mankind into agreeing that one thing is eternal – gold. Then let the poor man get it – if he can!”

“What devils,” cried Jimmie, “the clever people of the world are!”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “Clever people don’t understand about Bretton Woods any more than we do. They don’t even understand about gold. Most of them never see gold from one year’s end to the other, except in the ornaments they buy their wives. Gold got too clumsy to hoard. So they invented paper dollars. Paper dollars got too clumsy, so they invented bank accounts and stock markets. Now a man collects gold on his cuff. All he needs in his pocket is a dollar and a half in change.”

“The clever be damned,” said Jimmie, “they don’t even understand their cleverness.” And he gave a few final flourishes with his pen, unpinned the drawing and waved it in the air to dry it. “How long have we got now?” he demanded.

“Forty-three minutes,” I announced, startled. “Jim, we’ll have to hustle.”

“If we make good connections,” said Jim, racing into his coat, “we’ll have plenty of time. Six minutes to walk to the bus, 30 minutes on bus and street car…”

I led to the door, and very briskly we set off up the street and along the three blocks to the bus stop.

“Everything under control,” cried Jimmie. “There’s the bus just coming.”

And we hastened our steps and arrived at the bus stop exactly as the bus wheezed its brakes and drew up at the corner.

“Now we’ll make it right on the dot,” I said, as we started to swing aboard. “Thirty minutes exactly.”

A car horn tooted very brief and friendly.

A voice sang out –

“Can’t I give you a lift?”

And a fine looking car, with a fine looking gentleman leaning out the window, inched closer.

Jim pushed back and we waved to the bus driver.

“Thanks very much,” cried Jimmie, opening the car door.

“I saw you gentlemen hustling to catch the bus,” said the stranger genially, “and I figured you might be in a hurry.”

“We are, as a matter of fact,” I admitted, slamming the car door. “My friend here has an ‘or else’ situation on his hands. His boss told him that if he didn’t get his work down by a certain hour, the boss would take steps that would astonish us.”

As we sailed smoothly past the bus and speeded down towards the main highway to downtown, the stranger took us in with friendly but slightly amused glances.

“You must have a tough boss,” he said. “What’s your work?”

“He’s an artist,” I explained. “I’m a writer.”

“Well, well,” said the stranger, with the amused air of a gent who has accidentally picked up a couple of circus freaks.

“Yep,” said Jimmie, clutching his portfolio.

We whammed to the main corner and turned on to the main drag. Our driver was a business man who drove with that large, easy confidence.

“We’ll have a good 10 minutes to spare,” I said to Jim, showing him my watch. “We can pose around the editor’s door ostentatiously for 10 minutes and just show him.”

“I’ve got one call to make,” said the stranger. “It won’t take a minute. Where do you go?”

“To the Star Building.” I said anxiously.

“Within a block of where I park,” said the, business man.

He then announced the line of business he was in, explained that he was the executive manager and gave us a few brief biographical outlines of just who he was. He said any time we wanted an interesting story about Canadian business, we ought to look him up.

But we still stuck to the main downtown route, and at a good pace, and every block. we travelled, I felt easier.

Just One Call

All of a sudden, at Spadina Ave., he swerved the car south on to the old street.

“I’ve a brief call to make down here,” he said, “have to see a man about an order that has gone astray. Won’t be two minutes.”

Off into a dingy side street he turned, one of those old streets with churches converted into garages and old rough-cast houses used as storage places for unsightly merchandise of one kind and another.

Along this street, amid battered old trucks, he wound and wove his way, at a slow pace, until we turned into even a narrower and more dilapidated street, a blind street, cluttered with decrepit traffic of truck and horse-drawn wagon.

He drew up before a ramshackle factory of weathered planks.

“I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” he said cheerfully.

And he swung out and ran athletically up the steps and into the joint.

“I don’t like this, Jim,” I said. “We’re a good five minutes’ walk back to Spadina. And we’d have to transfer off Spadina and along King…”

“Why did we accept the lift?” groaned Jim bitterly. “We caught that bus just in the nick of time. It would have given us perfect connections, with time to spare…”

“We’ve got 16 minutes yet,” I said. “In this car we could make the office in about eight minutes.”

We sat forward and stared at the door of the drab factory.

“Big business executive,” I sneered.

“Well, he tried to do us a favor,” protested Jim.

“Big business,” I scoffed. looking at the decrepit view.

“Well, it’s in places like this,” assured Jim, “that gold is found. If it’s gold you are looking for, you never want to go to one of those big handsome buildings. The bigger and handsomer the edifice, the less chance you have of coming out of it with anything.”

I studied my watch.

“He’s been three minutes already,” I gritted.

“Whose idea was it,” demanded Jim, “to get off the bus and accept this lift?”

“Both of us,” I stated. “It’s human nature to accept a lift.”

“Without even thinking,” said Jim.

“The guy was good-natured about it,” I submitted. “He’s a good-hearted guy, no doubt. We’re good-hearted guys. And we were in a hurry…”

“The trouble is,” propounded Jimmie, “nobody stops to think any more. There is no time for pondering.”

The factory door opened, and our friend stuck his head out.

“I’m afraid I’ll be another 10 or 15 minutes…” he began.

But Jim and I were already out the doors and headed up the narrow cluttered street, back along the side street and out to Spadina.

We were 17 minutes late at the office.

But the editor was locked up in a conference with the vice-president for 40 minutes. So Jim had time to put a few more finishing touches on Birdseye Center while we waited.

---

Editor’s Notes:

1. A gang plow is a plow designed to turn two or more furrows at one time ↩︎
2. The Dumbarton Oaks Conference was an international conference at which proposals for the establishment of the United Nations, were formulated and negotiated. The conference was led by the Four Policemen – the United States, the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union, and China. It was held at the Dumbarton Oaks estate in Washington, D.C., from August 21, 1944, to October 7, 1944. ↩︎
3. The 1944 Bretton Woods Agreement was the first example of a fully negotiated monetary order intended to govern monetary relations among independent states. The Bretton Woods system required countries to guarantee convertibility of their currencies into U.S. dollars, with the dollar convertible to gold for foreign governments and central banks at US$35 per ounce of gold. ↩︎
4. The Golden Rule  is the principle of treating others as one would want to be treated by them. ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, January 20, 1945.

“Ah,” sighed Jimmie Frise, “if we only had a little money!”

“What could you buy?” I protested. “You can’t buy shotgun shells. You can’t even buy .22 ammunition. You can’t buy any sporting goods…”

“What I’d like,” confided Jimmie, “would be to be walking down the street and find a wallet with $2,763¹ in it.”

“Why that amount?” I asked.

“Oh, I just thought of a number,” sighed Jim. “I’d be walking down the street and there would be the wallet, a fine, tan one.”

“It wouldn’t be in your possession long,” I assured him. “Your conscience would at least make you put a lost-and-found ad in the paper if there weren’t one looking for it already.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “but suppose some unknown man dropped it, some American visiting Toronto overnight, and on arriving back at his hotel, and finding his wallet gone, he would drop dead.”

“Ah,” I considered.

“Nobody would know he had lost it,” went on Jim, “I wouldn’t know who he was. It would just remain an unsolved mystery….”

“He would be sure to leave some letters or other identification papers in a wallet with all that dough in it,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but this is just supposing,” explained Jim. “And the kind of guy I mean would be some mysterious individual, some crook, maybe, over here on crooked business, without any identifications.”

“Okay,” I said decisively, “finding a sum as big as that, you would simply have to notify the police. They’d take charge of it.”

“Aw, heck,” growled Jimmie. “Can’t I even suppose?”

“Go ahead,” I agreed. “But my point is, what would you do with all that. How much was it?”

“Two thousand, nine hundred and thirty- six dollars,” said Jim.

“It’s getting bigger,” I remarked. “Call it, $3,000.

“Nobody ever finds money in round numbers like that,” complained Jim. “Leave it at $2,866.”

“Any amount you like,” I submitted. “In the first place, finding all that money would simply move you up into a higher income bracket. You would feel so good with all that cash you’d spend it. Then, along comes the income tax…”

“I wasn’t figuring,” interposed Jim mildly, “on mentioning it to the tax department. It would be just found money, see?”

“My dear man,” I cried, shocked, “you have to report every cent, whether found or not.”

“In that case,” said Jim, “I don’t want to find any money. But in the first place you said, what could I spend the money on. And in the next breath, you say I feel so good at finding all that cash, I spend it.”

“We’re Sitting Pretty”

“Oh, I suppose a man could spend $2,800 if he had it,” I admitted. “But it wouldn’t he spent on anything useful. There is nothing of any really fundamental value to be bought any more. You can’t buy guns. There isn’t a car to be bought. There isn’t a canoe, let alone boat. About all a man could do with any surplus money he might come by these days is pay off his debts.”

“With wages as high as they are these days,” surmised Jim, “and with all the money there is, in comparison with what little there is to buy, there must be mighty few debts left unpaid.”

“Don’t forget the soldiers,” I reminded him. “There are 500,000 Canadians overseas. They aren’t rolling up any bank account.”

“But they’re going to get from $1,000 to $2,000 each for their rehabilitation grant,” said Jim. “That ought to cover any debts their wives may have run up. No, I’ll bet you, there are fewer debts outstanding in Canada today than at any other time in her history.”

“Think of poor old Britain,” I said. “And poor old France, and Italy and Germany and Russia. Do you think it’s lucky for Canada to be so comfortable?”

“Aw, nothing can happen to Canada,” cheered Jim. “The only enemies we had were Germany and Japan. They could have attacked our shores. But now! We’re sitting pretty. And all our debts paid and bonds in the bank.”

“Which puts us,” I announced, “in the worst position we have ever been in in our history. Because the better off you are, the more enemies you have, the envious friends you have, let alone enemies. I tell you, it’s just about now we Canadians ought to get anxious.”

“Aw, what are you giving us?” cried Jim. “Who would be enemies with dear little old far-off Canada?”

“Far-off?” I snorted. “Boy, we’re in the middle! Square in the middle of the map. We’re half-way between China and Europe. We’re half-way between Russia and the United States. We’re half-way between practically every place in the world. We have been brought up on flat maps, that showed Canada stuck away off in the far left-hand top corner. It’s time we started looking at the round map and see just where this comfortable, debt-paid, hotsy-totsy little country of ours is.”

“You can’t scare me with maps,” said Jim.

“Maps are about all we should be scared of,” I replied. “It is certainly maps the 300,000,000 people of Europe are scared of, right now.”

“Well, who would want any part of Canada?” demanded Jim.

“They’re talking about spheres of influence these days, Jim,” I offered darkly. “Suppose Russia announced that Canada came within her sphere of influence, so as to protect Russia against attack by the United States?”

“What nonsense!” laughed Jim.

“Or better,” I suggested. “Suppose the United States said they had to have a chunk of Canada in order to erect defences against possible aggression from Russia? Or China?”

“You’re dreaming!” scoffed Jimmie.

“When we were small boys, Jim,” I recalled, “do you remember the old scares in the United States about the Yellow Peril? How wild-eyed Americans foretold the day when Japan would fight America, so as to get land in which to expand the Japanese people outside their terribly limited islands? The Yellow Peril was scoffed at by 99 per cent of the American people. Well…?”

“Hm,” said Jim.

“What was a wild-eyed dream, I concluded, “has come true. And all I say is, the more comfortable and secure and happy a people is in that comfort and security, the more they should realize they have enemies. Enemies unseen. Enemies undreamed of.”

“It won’t be in our time,” said Jim.

“No,” I agreed. “And there are a few thousand old Americans long in their graves, who laughed loudest at the Yellow Peril, whose grandsons lie newly buried in the soil of uncharted Pacific islands.”

A More Pleasant Thought

“Well, I wish I had stuck to that wallet I was going to find,” muttered Jim, “with $2,985 in it. That was more pleasant to think about.”

“Okay,” I surrendered. “I’ll play. What would you buy with it, first of all?”

“Well, let’s see?” said Jim, looking up at the ceiling.

Suddenly he let the chair legs down with bump.

“Hey, what time is it?” he exclaimed.

“Ten to five,” I informed him.

“By golly, come on,” he cried. “I’ve got to pick up the steak at the butcher’s for supper. I nearly forgot, and they’ll be closed.”

So we threw our coats on, raced out to Jim’s side drive and piled into the car.

“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” I soothed.

“He closes as near after five, that old Scotchman,” urged Jim, “as the store gets empty. Any time after five, and if there isn’t a customer in the shop, bang goes the door and down comes the blind.

“Good old Davie,” I said, as we backed out.

We reached the butcher shop in good time. There were still three or four customers in the shop but you could see old Davie hustling to get them dealt with, his eye on the door all the time.

Jim got the steak and we exchanged a few cracks with Davie about rabbit hunting and the fact that it is only 14 weeks and two days to the opening of the trout season on May 1.

“In fact,” said Davie, “tae pit it anither way, in 10 weeks, it’ll be only four weeks and twa days…”

At which moment another customer opened the butcher shop door and Davie waved us angrily out.

“Now see what ye’ve done!” he hissed.

When Jim and I walked out to the car, there was another car double-parked outside of us.

“Well, well,” said Jimmie. “What nice manners people have in this district!”

As a matter of fact, at this busy hour of the afternoon, there were three or four cars double-parked along the one block of little shops. Last-minute shoppers.

Jim walked out, opened the door of the car that had us blocked and tooted the horn long and loud.

“Maybe he’ll recognize his own horn,” said Jimmie.

A couple of long minutes went by and nobody appeared.

“What an outrage!” stamped Jimmie angrily. “Imagine anybody having the infernal nerve…”

At which moment a dear old lady, with some knitting in her hands, came toddling out from the sidewalk.

“I hope,” she said, “we are not impeding you.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Jimmie, cheerfully.

“My daughter has just stepped into one of these stores,” said the old lady, getting in the car. “I was just along looking to see what was keeping her but I couldn’t see her.”

“Aw, she’ll be along,” said Jim heartily.

Three cars ahead, a truck started to work itself out from the curb.

“Ma’am,” said Jimmie, to the old lady in the car, “would you mind if I just drove you ahead into that open space the truck is leaving? Could you keep your eye peeled for your daughter when she comes along?”

“Oh, by all means,” said the old lady. “That’s very good of you, I’m sure.”

So Jim got into the driver’s seat, the key being left in. And I got on the running board, just to make sure the old lady would feel easy about strangers.

But as Jim started the car, and just as the truck moved out of the space, another car, with a hustling lady at the wheel, came smartly from behind and, cut in front of Jimmie, stealing the place.

“Well,” laughed Jim, “we’ll just go ahead a bit….”

But ahead, there were no more spaces. In fact, it was a good 75 yards before we found an opening.

“Jim,” I suggested, “go right around the block. This lady’s daughter will never find her away down here. It’s an imposition on the lady to have her get back and watch…”

“Okay, okay,” said Jim, putting on speed.

So we went around the block.

And as we slowly moved around the corner. in front of the shops, not only was there no parking space, but a man coming suddenly out of a shop door let out a terrific bellow and started waving furiously at us.

A Big Mistake

“Any relation of yours?” inquired Jimmie of the old lady.

“I’m sure I never saw the gentleman before,” said she, eyeing him shrewdly as we drove past. He started chasing us.

“What do you suppose is the idea?” demanded Jim.

And he was so busy figuring it out, that lost the one chance of a parking space that offered.

“Round the block again, Jim,” I counselled.

“You didn’t notice your daughter along there?” inquired Jim anxiously.

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” she said.

So we turned the corner and started around the block a second time. And then we heard the furious sound of a car horn right under our tail bumper.

Toot, toot, toot, went the horn furiously. And suddenly we felt a violent bump from its bumper.

“Hey, what’s this!” demanded Jimmie, hotly. And he slowed the car and stopped in the middle of the street.

The door of the car behind burst open and a lady came charging out.

“Mother, mother!” she cried breathlessly. “Where are these men taking you?”

And she tore the door open and seized the old lady by the arm protectively.

“Why, my dear,” said the old lady, looking around the car. “Isn’t this our car?”

“It isn’t, it isn’t!” cried the younger woman brokenly. “Oh, these brutes!”

“Calm yourself, darling,” soothed the old lady. “I must have got in this car by mistake and the two gentlemen were just going-“

The sound of heavy footfalls and loud breathing suddenly burst upon us from the other side.

And there, with two other men with him, one of them a truck driver armed with a large wrench, was the gentleman who had come out of the shop shouting at us.

“Aha,” he breathed furiously. “Caught in the act! Caught red handed! And with a pious old dame in it for camouflage, eh?”

“Come on,” said the truck driver loudly brandishing the wrench. “We’ve sent a call for the cops. Don’t try anything funny.”

“Oh, oooh,” wailed the younger woman the other door.

“Now, now, my dear,” cried the old lady, starting to get out.

“Stay where you are!” roared the truck driver, darting around the back of the car with the wrench.

“Don’t you dare, you brute,” screamed the young woman, taking up a defensive position in front of her poor old mother.

By which time, people were coming from all directions, and it was a mob scene, with us parked in the middle of the street.

Well, it took quite a lot of explaining. We told about the car double-parked outside ours. And how the old lady came along and got into the wrong double-parked car by mistake. And how, when we saw a space offering….

The truck driver said he would escort us back to the shop. And if our car was there, as we said, why, he would let us go.

But he followed behind us all the way, with the wrench.

“You see, Jim,” I explained, as we started back with the steak for Jim’s supper, “how easy a war starts? It is always somebody who thinks he is being wronged.”

“Two of them,” growled Jim.

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Editor’s Note:

1. $2,763 in 1945 would be $47,630 in 2023. ↩︎