“It’s true, James, alas, it’s only too true,” I unblushingly remarked. “But he hasn’t told you the whole story. You know what a charming woman Mrs. Stitt is. Now, I leave it to you, James, I leave it to you, what would you do if a lovely woman like Mrs. Stitt came up and put her arms around your neck and with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks would say to you: ‘For goodness’ sake, George, drink up all the whiskey there is in this house, or William will have the D.T.’s?” Mr. Oborne was completely obfuscated, and to the day of his death was undecided whether I was an inveterate liar or William a confirmed drunkard. Don’t think I got the best of it every time. Weelum generally evened up on me. One day at a little gathering, somebody or other remarked that everybody knew me and that I knew everybody. “Nothing of the sort,” says Weelum. “Not a word of truth in it. He’s an awful faker. Why I went to see some prominent people who were about to make a trip to the coast, and I told them that George would be on the train, but they didn’t know him at all. I called in the colored porter, and explained that this party was going out, but that George Ham would be on the train, and to see him about them. The porter said: ‘George Ham—who is he? Never heard of him.’ ” And Weelum led in the laughter in which everybody joined. Haunted by Presentiment. When Weelum passed away suddenly on April 1st four years ago, I was in Los Angeles, and could not sleep the previous night. There was a premonition of impending misfortune haunting me, so I hurried to the local C.P.R. office next morning where Polly—Mr. A. A. Polhamus—handed me two telegrams. While I am nearly as blind as a bat without spectacles, I hastily and distinctly read the despatches without glasses. One was from Charlie Foster, saying that Mr. Stitt was dangerously ill; the other of later sending was from my secretary, Bessie James, that he had died that morning in Captain Walsh’s office, adjoining mine. I was grief-stricken, and sadly walked over to where Alex. Calder and John McKechnie, two dear old Winnipeg friends of both Weelum and myself, were awaiting me, and wistfully whispered: “William Stitt is dead.” Their sorrowing downcast looks were pathetic. There was a sickening tugging of the heart-strings and tear-dimmed eyes, for we mourned as many another did over the passing away of one of the dearest souls God ever put life in. Captains Courageous. Vessels of the C.P.R. plough the waters of two oceans, and I don’t know how many lakes and rivers, but enough to require a large fleet. Let me tell you something about the sailors bold who have been for years in the company’s service, and some of whom distinguished themselves during the great war.