the choice moment to slip cable. And so here I was back to the round of ’phone booths, wasted nickels, shoe leather burned, lies told to suspicious landlords. Still, it might be worse. At least I wasn’t looking for work.
The best prospect of rooms to let was in lower Westmount, or perhaps I could go native on the east side amongst the Frogs. There I’d stick out, a square-headed peg amongst the peasantry. No, I wanted to remain near the train stations and the river. It was far too easy to get trapped on this island in the St. Lawrence.
The concourse at Windsor was crowded and noisy. I noticed no police presence save a sole bobby pacing along with his hands behind his back, nodding pleasantly at unattended women. On the board I considered prospective destinations, all uninviting: Ottawa, Kingston, Niagara Falls. I should head over to Bonaventure Station to locomotive south. Winter was coming. The Florida land boom had busted and I could tend the greens of a golf course rotting away into mangrove swamps and live off alligator meat, oranges, and malaria. Sail away to Havana and die. Too much to ask for on a mere hundred dollars. No, ninety-seven now. How much would be enough? Have to see.
I walked over to the waiting room. Inside, tramps warmed their feet at the stove, smoking sweeps from the floor. It was overhot and brutally close, so I turned around and checked my bag for the price of a dime. Exiting the station I nodded at the bronze Lord Mount Stephen, a statue everyone mistook for King George. It was the beard. This was George Stephen, father of the railroad west. He’d started his rise at a haberdasher’s back in Edinburgh, picking a pin up off the floor and tucking it behind his lapel for use later, impressing the bosses with his perfect thrift. From there to the Bank of Montreal and the CPR and now he was dead, his mansion converted into a private club for those who couldn’t cut the mustard with the reviewing board of the Mount Royal or St. James. You couldn’t turn around in this town without tripping over a striving clerk from the Old Country made nabob and knight in the New. The earthly paradise was a reading room where one could snooze over three-day-old copies of the Times in an overstuffed chair.
As if to illustrate my point St. George’s across the street disgorged its parishioners. Out came barons who’d traded the kirk for a well-carved Anglican pew. I saw Sir Rupert Irons, Holt, a few Molsons, and that fat bastard Huntley McQueen shaking hands with the reverend. Today’s sermon had no doubt been on how the rich could enter heaven by forging a needle out of Ontario steel large enough for a dromedary camel to stroll on through. These were the men to do it, our captains of industry, plutocrats in the Commonwealth’s service. Inside the church a plaque commemorated an Irishman killed in Quetta, India, due to a mishap playing polo, fondly remembered by his regiment here in Montreal. There was Empire for you, binding soldiers, financiers, priests, politicians, aristocrats, and its discontents. Myself.
An itch played in the palm of my hand. Money coming my way. I scratched a lucifer on the rough stone of the station to light a smoke. Ninety-seven dollars and change. Now what to do? Might ride a trolley across the island and back. Instead I remembered what I’d read in the ’paper yesterday and hied uptown to mooch in the little park beside the new Forum.
WHEN THE HOUR came ’round I dropped fifty cents for a seat in the stands at Atwater Park to see the ball game with Ruth and his ringers playing for both sides of two local all-star teams, a sort of Vaudeville turn. Assembling to watch, we were a good-sized crowd, it being the last time to enjoy outdoor sport before the weather turned completely. Before us was Ruth at home plate, warming up by blasting baseballs out of the park, one after another. Scampering children beyond the right field fence fought over each ball like dogs for a crust.
I was wedged in between on my left a thin man like Jack Sprat with a wife who ate no lean and on the right a file of French factory workers. Light rain fell, then quit. The band came out and we stood for the anthems: “God Save the King,” the American number, and our other tune. Through a loudhailer a lady soprano sang: “In days of yore, from Britain’s shore, Wolfe, the dauntless hero came, and planted firm Britannia’s flag, on Canada’s fair domain. Here may it wave, our boast, our pride, and joined in love together, the thistle, shamrock, rose entwined, the Maple Leaf forever.”
Half the crowd was mum, thinking on Montcalm and the fleur-de-lis or perhaps plumb not knowing the words and merely humming along, holding their hats. I piped up for the hard part: “Our Fair Dominion now extends from Cape Rock to Nootka Sound. May peace forever be our lot and plenteous store abound. And may those ties of love be ours which discord cannot sever, and flourish green o’er freedom’s home the Maple Leaf forever.”
Applause. All hats back on. The audience sat for the ceremonial toss of the horsehide by the mayor. With that the game began and a cold wind blew down from the north. The first pitch. Urban Shocker from the Yankees was tossing for Beaurivage and Ruth played for Guybourg. Two strikeouts and a fly ball to deep left and the sides changed before we’d even settled in our seats.
Ruth came on the field and took his position at first base. He doffed his cap and the crowd cheered. First a strikeout, then an easy infield fly, and third a sharp rap to shortstop that was winged back to first. Ruth almost bobbled it but managed the out and we went into the next inning straightaway. Ruth led off, fouled twice, and then hit one deep into centre that was snagged by the fielder at the track. The next batter made it onto first but then got caught in a double play.
I rose and went for a Frankfurter covered in mustard and onions, followed by a Coca-Cola. I wiped my mouth and drained the green glass bottle. As I stood and watched the next inning a short Jew in a raccoonskin coat sidled over. Unbidden he offered me a small cigar. He waggled his eyebrows and smiled.
“Did you see the Babe hitting them out of the park?” he asked.
“Sure did.”
“Too bad he couldn’t do that in the series.”
“I thought he had three homers in one game,” I said.
“One game. Then he loses the whole damn thing trying to steal second. The Cards nailed New York to the cross, you’ll forgive the expression.”
I laughed and looked at him, blowing smoke.
“Well, someone’s always the scapegoat.”
He hiccoughed. I asked him his line of work.
“Brassieres. A very uplifting profession.”
I laughed again and he winked back. The Beaurivagers had a rally at the bottom of the second and were up three runs by the end of the inning. Ruth moved to shortstop and barehanded a fast zinger to beat a steal at second to end the run. He struck out his next at-bat and someone shouted: “Va chier, Babe!”
There was a tremor of nervous laughter. The Jew pulled out a flask and offered me a slug. I croaked it down and asked its pedigree.
“A special mixture.”
Playing an American I asked him if I could get it in the States. He told me that I could, in the Middle West. Some countrymen of his ran it down from Regina.
“Where’s that?” I pretended.
“Saskatchewan.”
“Man alive. How’d they do it?”
“It’s classed as a patent medicine, for doctors to carry a bottle in their black bags. If you’re interested maybe I can facilitate an introduction.”
“Swell. Can they get into Vermont or New York?”
“That I don’t know.”
“I know some folks’d be happy for help, if you know what I mean.”
“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you my card. You can come by to talk.”
“I’m not here too long.”
The strange import of that phrase suddenly struck me.
“Well, neither are they. Come by and talk and I’ll call Solly. You can speak to him.”
“Solly?”
“He’s the smartest of the brothers.”
“Brothers?”