A PRINCE RUPERT family lit a roaring blaze in the living room fireplace and prepared to enjoy a recent blustery fall Sunday afternoon to the fullest, when a splatter of rain sent, father bounding out of his overstaffed chair. That leak in the roof around the chimney was still unrepaired, he declared, and must be made good before any more rain fell. Doing a quick change to old clothes he disappeared out the door and could presently he heard pounding away up above while his sympathetic family snuggled closer to the fireplace below.
As the afternoon wore on the pounding only grew* heavier. Finally dinnertime came and the younger generation were making scornful remarks like, “Dad’s had time to put a whole new roof on and still he’s banging away up there.” Just then the telephone rang, a neighbor calling to say, “I think you’d better go out and rescue your father the wind must have blown the ladder over and he seems to he stranded up there on the roof.”
He’d been stuck there for a couple of hours, as a matter of fact, and nearly caved the roof in trying to attract attention, but do you think
anybody in that - family
of his would pay any attention?
Visitors to Victoria are jolted out of the pleasant lethargy that peaceful spot inspires by sight of a large truck (“van” they call it in Victoria) brandishing the message of a local rendering company:
“We want YOUR fat and bones.”
A fellow in Cannington, Ont., got stuck some miles out of town when his motor broke down and not a garage in sight. Very little traffic, either, and when all his fiddling under the hood did no good he despaired of ever getting home. It was a sour gaze he turned on the first car to come along, which was aflutter with pink and white ribbons, ajangle with tin cans. A wedding party at a time like this!
To his amazement the car pulled up, and it was the bride who popped
out first, pretty as a picture. With scarcely a word she plunged under t he hood, poked about, announced the trouble was a dirty carburetor, and asked the loan of the victim’s cover-
alls. Then she proceeded to tear down the carburetor and overhaul it. Later she climbed out of the coveralls, effected repairs to her make-up and waved a cheery parting salute. “First chance I’ve had to work on a car since I got out of the Army,” she declared with satisfaction, as her groom drove her off.
Snitched from the darker annals of (he Toronto Men’s Press Club is the story of the party the newsmen threw for the visiting comedy team of Olsen and Johnson who, as you may have heard, played to 22,000 people a night for 14 nights at Toronto’s Exhibition. The shenanigans didn’t start till midnight, after Q&J finished their nightly performance, and went on till long after the Globe and Mail had been put to bed.
Well, one journalist who really enjoyed himself was a fellow from Canadian Press who found a seat not merely at the ringside but right at the guest table between Ollie and Chic. For the first half of the party he merely roared appreciatively at their antics and then, able to restrain himself no longer, got into the act in person. He was pretty good, too, eyewitnesses assure us, and the worldfamous comedians accepted him happily as a blood brother. In fact, when the party finally broke up the three of them departed in a body, the CP man still wedged between the visitors, an arm clasped about each in warm affection. As they left therestof the crowd behind the newspaperman was heard to exclaim, apologetically, “This is very embarrassing, but I can’t keep you two fellows straight. Which one of you is Laurel and which one is Hardy?”
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