Tales Of An Empty Cabin by Grey Owl

Author:Grey Owl [Owl, Grey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780771598487
Google: hWDsnQEACAAJ
Publisher: Macmillan of Canada
Published: 1974-01-15T04:20:27+00:00

The judicial and social welfare of this irregular and unconventional band of prominent citizens was very adequately cared for. We had among us a representative, long retired, of those red-coated riders of the Western plains, the North-West Mounted Police. He was one of the originals, and while he no longer belonged to the Force, he represented the law in this neck of the woods, and though he acted in an entirely unofficial capacity, we knew, understood and respected him, and were better pleased to have him around than a uniformed constable; for your real, dyed-in-the-wool, free woodsman is intensely individualistic, and has an instinctive dislike of a uniform—he may have accepted one for the duration of the War, but only as a means to an end. This ex-Mountie, even if he had at one time worn regimentals, was one of our own kind and we didn’t hold it against him; in fact his past history (actually he had been more of a scout than a policeman) seemed rather glamorous to us, and with the rigour and severe discipline of the early days of service still upon him, was something of a martinet, and was a very hard nut to crack. And while he could enjoy a celebration with the best of them, he was always on the lookout for prospective clients and threw a professional eye on the wrists of newcomers to town, to see if they’d fit any handcuffs that he had. In the event of an arrest being necessary he would swear out the information, and serve the warrant with the utmost consideration, but with an extremely business-like look in his steel-blue eyes. He would go the prisoner’s bail, feed him, house him, take a drink with him and generally provide what was probably the most efficient, all-round police service to be found anywhere in North America. The Complete Police Officer, no less. A parental advisor to those in trouble—he had helped many a repentant transgressor over the lump—a stern disciplinarian of the conspicuously erring, he concealed under a bluff exterior and an habitual expression of suppressed ferocity, a heart as big as a barrel. This last infirmity he kept resolutely hidden, like it was some besetting sin. It was his one big failing, his own particular skeleton in the cupboard. But we all knew about it.

All honour to you, old friend. Very well I knew you, better than perhaps you ever thought. And in the old days, whether we met over a glass of the best, or maybe to discuss some small point of personal conduct concerning which we could not, for the moment, see eye to eye, there was a mutual respect, and an ungrudging appreciation of the other man’s qualities. And besides it was all in the Game—the good old, sporting Game that is now so nearly played.

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