When Fort Rouge was taken into the city I began to figure in really troublesome times. Fort Rouge was created a ward of the city, but given no representation in the city council, which its people wouldn’t stand. What they lacked in numbers they made up in noise and determination. A meeting of a score or so residents, nearly all there were, was held, and three aldermen were selected (not elected) to represent the ward in the city council. They were Mr. Thomas Nixon, a well-known citizen, strong with the church-going community, Mr. Stewart Mulvey, a prominent Orangeman and brewer, and myself, without any particular pedigree. We three attended the first council meeting held after our selection, and got a mighty cool reception. Mayor McMicken, while sympathizing with us, followed legal advice and would not recognize us any more than he could help. In attempting to address the chair we were ordered to sit down which we readily did, only to arise again, and receive the same treatment. It was not until the other aldermen were threatened with legal prosecution that we were at all acknowledged. The old municipality of Fort Rouge had $1,700 in its coffers, but just before its termination as a separate municipality, the funds were voted into Mr. Nixon’s hands, as trustee, and we were going to fight the beasts of Ephesus with that money. In fact we had engaged Fred McKenzie, a bright young lawyer, and the city compromised—after an indignation meeting had been held at which Charlie Wishart and other non-residents of Fort Rouge vigorously denounced the council for its disgraceful conduct. We were given our seats, and an act was passed by the Legislature to legalize all that had been done. Then the proceedings deteriorated into what one sagacious alderman termed a “beer garden.” There was a feud between Ald. George Wilson and Ald. Mark Fortune (who was a victim of the Titanic disaster) and these two had no particular love for one another. One night while Ald. Wilson, Mulvey and myself were going to a council meeting, the question of the legality of a certain by-law was discussed. Ald. Wilson said it was _ultra vires_, and I told him, in discussing its legality in council, to again say it was when I pulled his coat-tail. I sat between the two warring aldermen. Wilson started out on the by-law, and Mark was busy writing a proposed motion. At the psychological moment, I pulled Wilson’s coat-tail, and he addressed the Mayor: “But, Mr. Mayor, I fear it’s _ultra vires_.” Turning to Ald. Fortune I whispered: “Mark, did you hear what he called you?” “No, what is it?” “Why he called you an _ultra vires_.” “What’s that?” Mark asked. “Well, I’d rather be called a dog’s child than that—it’s the meanest thing anybody can be called.” Mark arose indignantly and, interrupting Wilson’s remarks, shouted— “Mr. Mayor—Mr. Mayor—” Then, turning to me, he remarked sarcastically in a stage whisper that everyone could hear: