but financially he did not reap where he sowed, as Strathcona, Mount Stephen and the peerless Hill have done. And though Bow Park was a failure, it was an effort in the right direction; it helped to blaze the way and was an uplift for Canadian breeders of pure-bred stock, and indirectly helped his adopted country.

My readers will naturally ask what this story has to do with the range. The answer is that it laid the foundation for entering upon that business. In the summer of 1879 Conrad Kohrs, then of Deer Lodge, Mont. (of whom more hereafter), spent a few days at Bow Park and bought some stock. Hope was immensely struck with his strong personality, and often referred to it. There was a glamour about his talk as he opened up the vein of his vast experience. In the autumn of 1879, after a very successful showing season at the fairs in the States and Canada, we held a sale at Dexter Park, Chicago, and as it went off very well, we held another about the middle of April, 1880. Around the ring were several rangemen, and they helped Col. Judy, who wielded the hammer. The party who stands out distinctly in my recollection was Mr. Lee of the old firm of Lee & Reynolds, post traders, ranchmen, etc., at Fort Supply, Indian Territory. Before and after the sale I had several talks with him, and he made a distinct influence on my mind by his intelligent description of his work in the West. I do not recollect ever meeting him except on that occasion, although I ran across Mr. Reynolds frequently, who was latterly a resident of Denver, Colo., and stood high till his death in that community. So as a brooklet finds its way to a mother stream and eventually rolls along with the increasing volume of water, I gradually drifted into this range business, treading many a tortuous path from then till now. At the old Exposition building on the Lake Front in Chicago in 1882, '83 and '84, we were showing Clarence Kirklevington, Lady Aberdeen, and various other fat cattle, and in those years and at previous shows, I met many rangemen and absorbed much of their glamour and optimism.

7

This afternoon shortly after I had penned those words, I was sitting down in my garden, which lies under the shelter of Gloucester Breakwater. It was a clear, brilliant day in June. A strong southeast breeze was blowing outside, and big waves with white caps were rolling up from Cape Cod way. Wreaths of silver spray broke on the granite rocks of the wild New England shore, as the big combers spent their energy. Across the little bay that lay quiescent, just enough motion to make it shimmer in the sunshine, a lighthouse, its tower and buildings painted white, was silhouetted against the blue of sea and sky, some two hundred yards away. Seaward there was the sound of breaking billows. Inside the bay little wavelets made music that charmed your ear. At their moorings boats swung slowly to and fro. As I sat there and took in the scene, unconsciously I had sat down on a chair given to me many years ago by E. W. Whitcomb. One summer's day some twenty years ago I had called upon him at his home in Cheyenne. The trim lawn, the cottonwood trees, whose shade was welcome, caught many a man's eye. It was so peaceful, the rich greenery so grateful after the arid sunbaked plains. On the lawn were two chairs made out of elk horns, one in the rough, the other varnished. The generous old man whom I had obliged in some ways, said he would give me the above, and in due course they came along and one of them has landed on this surf-beaten shore. And so my memory traveled back to this scene on the range. Scarce a day, whether it be in the hurlyburly of business, or in the quiet scenes such as the above, but what you think of old days. It was pleasant to look back at the old man Whitcomb, a stocky frame with a noble head and a pleasant presence, for amid the rougher side of life which you meet on the frontier, he had ever remained the innate gentleman. He had a wife with some Indian blood in her veins, a clever woman she was, a splendid helpmate and a fond mother. He faced his troubles with courage, he was generous to the full extent of his means, and he was loyal to his friends. Before I knew him he lived upon the

Chug. Selling out there he moved to Cheyenne, where he stayed many years. Latterly he had a ranch near to Moorcroft, Wyo., where one summer's afternoon a thunderbolt struck him and he was found dead near to his home, and with him went out a shining light, a man without guile, yet with a magnetic personality.

T

CHAPTER III

HE SCOTCH, who are supposed to be one of the most thrifty races on the globe, are on the other

hand the most speculative. Not the speculation you see at Monte Carlo, French Lick or Palm Beach-their young men reach out from inclination and necessity. They are progressive and aggressive, and they will venture anywhere in the pursuit of commerce. Never venture, never win, is printed on their flag. This love of money making, enterprise you might call it, was not confined to the wanderers. on foreign shores. The business men at home, the staid steady-going yet successful merchant, farmer, lawyer, doctor, down to the candlestick maker, were always willing to invest their bit of money and take a chance.

Twenty-five years ago the principal butcher in the little town of Kelso on the Scottish Border, divulged to me the history of a syndicate formed in the town to operate on the Chicago Board of Trade. Result: disaster and much trouble before the losses were settled. The Civil War and the immense amount of financing it developed, led on to British investors taking advantage of the necessities of the States, and in this way many a Scotch bank account overflowed. A field of fresh adventure in the world of finance was reopened. A number of rich men in Edinburgh led the way in the northern kingdom, and a large amount of money found its way from Scotch coffers across the Atlantic.

About the year 1872, Mr. W. J. Menzies, afterward knighted, organized the Scottish American Investment Co. It was organized on the lines of a $50.00 share, of which $10.00 was paid up. The subscribers, who were generally strong men financially, were therefore liable for a call of $40.00 per share if necessary. Against this they borrowed money from insurance companies, other investment corporations, and the public generally at a low rate. They got

their money at 4 to 41⁄2 per cent and loaned it in the States and Canada at an average of 6 to 8 per cent. For years the business was most profitable, and other companies, not only in Edinburgh, but in Glasgow, Dundee and Aberdeen soon followed suit. It would be impossible to name them and this explanation only leads on to my main story. A great many financial lights met at the office of the above investment company. Sir George Warrender was the chairman of the company, a shrewd, keen man of business, inclined to be purse proud, but just in his ways and methods. At a board meeting he was expeditious and clear headed; when in the chair at a shareholders' meeting he always read his speech, this having been prepared beforehand, every word fitting in its proper place. If a shareholder proved unruly, or was unduly prosy, Sir George could snuff him out in a very polite yet decided way. Thomas Nelson, of the great and successful publishing firm of Messrs. Thomas Nelson & Sons, was the richest and most influential of the coterie who gathered round the board. Small in stature, physically rather weak, he was mentally a giant with a great bump of kindness in his nature. Added to this was a simplicity that made him loved of children, and he could pen beautiful stories which charmed old and young. He was keen after money, but it was not his god. He loved to get away to a Highland glen and spend two or three months amid its babbling brooks and purple hillsides. He had an eye for the beautiful, for art; he found sermons in stones as well as in the pulpit, and in his life he was a shining example of the successful business man and good citizen.

Edward Blythe was another prominent man. He was a big, handsome man who had made a fortune as a civil engineer, and he was almost as well known in Edinburgh as Sir Walter Scott's monument. He was big in every way-mentally, socially, a good sportsman, loving a Highland moor with a loch by its side, and at a Board meeting he was invaluable, for he had a great bump of common sense. To use a western expression, he was never "stampeded." There