He stared for some time at me without a word, then smiled a kindly, indulgent, rather sceptical smile. “It would be hardly suitable,” he mentioned, as I felt his whole being draw away from me as from something dangerous and unclean. Possibly, of course, he did not believe me; I am sure he prayed for me. Our relations seemed less cordial after that; he read most carefully every word I wrote in his magazine and children’s pages, but he never referred to the matter again. My Methodist job, none the less, was a happy one; this first regular wage I had yet received in life gave me the pleasant sensation that I was launched. My connexion with Methodism ceased, not because I was dismissed or had failed to give satisfaction (indeed, the editor had just told me my salary was to be raised!), but because all the capital I should ever have was sent to me about that time from England--about £2,000--and I went into partnership with a farmer outside Toronto and bought some forty head of pedigree Jersey cattle. CHAPTER III The Islington Jersey Dairy, Messrs. Cooper and Blackwood, started business with a retail office in College Street, a number of milk carts bearing our names in black lettering upon a yellow background, and the supply farm at Islington, a lovely little hamlet on the shores of Lake Ontario, some six miles west of the city. We sold rich Jersey milk, we sold eggs and butter too. I gave picnics at our pretty little farm for customers I knew socially. The upper floors of the building in College Street we furnished, letting bedrooms at a dollar a week to young Englishmen, clerks in offices, and others. I engaged an old, motherly Englishwoman, Mrs. ’Iggins, with a face like a rosy apple, to “do” for us--she made the beds and cooked the breakfast--while her pretty daughter, in cap and apron, was our dairymaid. The plan did not work smoothly--the dairymaid was too pretty, perhaps; Mrs. Higgins too voluble. Complaints came from all sides; the lodgers, wildish young fellows in a free and easy country, made more promises than payments. One wanted a stove, another a carpet in his bedroom, another complained about his bed. I had my first experience of drink and immorality going on under my very eyes.... Trouble--though mercifully of another kind--spread then to the customers. The milk began to go sour; it was too rich; it wouldn’t keep; the telephone rang all day long. Cooper, an experienced dairy-farmer, was at his wits’ end; every device for scouring the bottles, for cooling the milk before bringing it twice a day to the city, failed. At dinner parties my hostess would draw me tactfully aside. “The milk, I’m afraid, Mr. Blackwood,” she would murmur softly, “was sour again this morning. Will you speak about it?” I spoke about it--daily--but Alfred Cooper’s only comment was, “Say, have you got a bit more capital? That’s what we really want.”