Tag: 1953

By Gregory Clark, April 25, 1953.

When the porter conducted me down to my reservation, seat 5 in the chair car, I glanced covertly around at the chairs adjacent. It was an eight-hour journey ahead of me, the whole long day. I looked forward to spending the trip snoozing, gazing out the window at the coming of spring, reading a little bit, snoozing some more. And everything could be spoiled if, in one of the seats beside me or across from me, some chatterbox of a casual acquaintance were to be my neighbor, who would gas and blather away, mile after mile, hour after hour.

What might be worse, of course, would be two middle-aged women with brand new hairdos, on their way to some convention, who, in strident society voices, would ruin the whole journey by tirelessly interrupting each other, debating their plans. It was with pleasure I noted, with my first cautious glance, that my immediate neighbors were complete strangers, already deeply immersed in their newspapers, and not at all the chatty type. The seat directly across from me, chair 6, was not yet occupied. I hoped for the best.

I got a couple of magazines and a good fishing book out of my bag and disposed the bag and my coat up in the rack. I shook out the morning paper, swung my chair firmly around to face out the window, and snuggled down for a pleasant and restful eight hours.

Just as the train started, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the porter approaching with a bag. Behind him came an elderly man. I was lucky. It was a stranger. With a little shrug of content, I snuggled deeper in my seat. He was in chair 6.

I heard him thank the porter quietly. His voice was deep and kindly. A beautiful voice.

After watching out the window at the passing suburbs in the bright morning, I decided to swing my chair around casually and have a look at chair 6. He was just lighting a cigarette and had one of those 35-cent paper back novels laid ready on his knee.

His head was shaggy, gray and noble. His profile was intensely interesting, a strong curved nose, splendid rugged forehead, humorous mouth. His eyes glanced out from under bristly brows. And he was tanned, even at this time of year, a deep, grained brown. Not a Florida tan, I thought to myself. This is a man from the North. Perhaps he is some famous mining geologist from Yellowknife.

His tweed suit was rough and costly. My glance ran down to his boots: they were those soft, walnutty ankle boots, obviously handmade. By Lob, of London, I bet myself, or at least by Tricker, also of London¹.

He picked up the cheap paper novel and opened it with a sigh of pleasant relaxation. The more I looked at this magnificent old man, the more excited I became. Across his chest he wore an old-fashioned watch chain from which dangled some curious charm. On his left hand, I saw the iron finger ring of the Engineers. There could be no doubt about it; across from me sat one of the great Canadians. I cleared my throat and rattled my newspaper. He was already lost in page one of his tawdry novel.

After a while, I swung around and tried to enjoy the passing fields and woods. But I felt easier when turned slightly, so as to be able to seize an opportunity, if it presented itself, of opening a conversation. He swung his chair to face out his window.

An hour went by, two hours. He never took his eyes off his book. And he read dreadfully slowly. What a way, I thought, for a man of his stamp to waste his time, reading trash. I dipped into my fishing book. I glanced through magazines. I coughed, sighed. When he goes to lunch in the dining car, I figured. I will follow, in the hope of getting to the same table. But he fell asleep at lunch time; and after a long wait, I went in without him. He came in, to another table, just as I was preparing to leave.

The miles, the hours clicked by. I never remember a more restless journey. Not once did the distinguished old man meet my glance or indicate the slightest awareness of me, He was literally sunk in his book.

We neared the journey’s end. I thought perhaps he would finish the book in time for five minutes, 10 minutes, so that I could at least discover who and what he was. But it was a race between him and the book and the train. It was a dead heat. We lumbered into the station. People were all putting on their coats, as was I.

He finished the book and tossed it aside, stood up with a bright, kindly gaze around. He smiled at me, I at him, as he put on his hat.

“Do you know,” he said, “I believe I have read that damned book before!”

And I never did find out who and what he was.

---

Editor’s Notes: This story appeared in Greg’s Choice (1961).

1. Lobb’s and Tricker’s still exist. ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, October 31, 1953.

The thing to do, when the tough young son of a tough old friend (now departed) comes to you for advice and help with regard to getting a job, is to give him a letter of introduction to the toughest old cuss you know.

To spare the innocent, as they say in the radio dramas, I will have to employ false names in this little item. We will call the young fellow Butch, and the tough old cuss will be Andrew McGurgle, president, general manager and secretary-treasurer of the firm of A. McGurgle & Co., general contractors.

When this young Butch opened my office door, I knew him instantly, though I had never heard of him before. He was the son of an old, old friend who was one of the most hard-boiled men I have ever known. He had graduated in engineering last spring; spent the summer growing muscles up in the Labrador iron-mine construction job; and he said his father, before he died, had mentioned me as a possible contact if he ever needed help in getting a job.

I hastily sized Butch up. He had the build of a shorthorn bull and the mild and gentle countenance of a Jersey heifer. Some of the darnedest men I have ever known had that Jersey-heifer look. I decided not to inflict Butch on any of my more delicate acquaintances; and my thoughts naturally turned to A. McGurgle & Co., general contractors.

I wrote Butch a nice letter to Andy. Butch walked out of my office and went to the parking lot where he had left his jalopy. He had about 40 blocks to drive out to the office and yards of McGurgle & Co. But he had not driven two blocks, in this populous city of a million people, before he almost ran down an elderly man who was defying the red light and striding across Butch’s right of way on the green light. Butch tramped on his brakes. The pedestrian was a heavy-built, brindled character with a protruding jaw. He and Butch engaged in a few well-chosen words. They were about evenly matched. I understand they turned the air bright blue all over the intersection. Butch didn’t know it, but he was addressing A. McGurgle, president, etc., etc., of A. McGurgle & Co.

He drove out to the plant and had to wait some little time, chatting with Mr. McGurgle’s secretary. Like all construction-company presidents, Andy always comes in the back door of his office. His secretary took my letter in. A moment later, Butch was summoned into the presence.

Ten minutes later, I had a telephone call.

“Lightning rods!” bellowed the voice of my old fishing friend, Andy McGurgle.

“Which?” I exclaimed.

“Lightning rods!” repeated Andy violently. “Who the Sam Hill was this crazy young chump you sent me with this letter of introduction? What would I want with lightning rods on my summer home? You know I haven’t got any summer home…”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I broke in. “What’s all this stuff about lightning rods?”

“Didn’t you send me this young punk So-and-So with a letter of introduction?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t sell lightning rods. I sent him to you to see if you could give him a job. I knew his dad well, a great guy. This boy graduated last spring…”

“I got all that here in the letter,” said Andy. “But you don’t mention anything about a job!”

And suddenly Andy McGurgle began to howl. He whooped and hooted and I could hear him banging his desk. When he recovered, he said:

“I thought I recognized this kid! I was just coming out from lunch at the club at noon today and was walking across the street when a car almost ran me down. A car driven by as bull-headed and bad-tempered a young punk as I ever saw. The names he called me, Greg! Why, I never heard such language…”

“Oh, yeah?” I said.

“It’s the same kid!” yelled Andy McGurgle. “Half an hour later, he comes in here with your letter! He figured I recognized him. So he goes into this act about selling me lightning rods. Look, Greg! Where do I find this boy?”

Butch had left me his telephone number. I called and left a message. About 4 P.M. a rather subdued Butch called me. I asked him how he had got along with Mr. McGurgie. Not very good, he confessed. And then he told me the whole story of nearly running down an old fathead crossing against the red light; his arrival at the McGurgle plant; and his awful moment on being ushered into the old boy’s presence.

“I figured it was hopeless,” said Butch.

“What made you think of lightning rods?” I asked.

“Well, when I stood there in front of him,” he said, “I felt a terrible need of lightning rods sticking up all over me. So I grabbed the first out that offered. I told him I was a lightning-rod salesman and went into a big act about selling him lightning rods for his summer home…”

Butch went out right away, and at 5 PM. was being shown over the McGurgle plant by his new and enthusiastic employer.