together from May to October on a small island in a thirty-mile lake of the Ontario hinterland; we shared a long slice of difficult life together subsequently in New York; we shared the horrors of East 19th Street together. He failed me only once, missing a train a few years later by a couple of minutes. It was the Emigrant Sleeper to Duluth on Lake Superior, en route for the Rainy River Gold Fields, where four of us had made sudden plans to try our fortunes. I was on a New York paper at the time, and had secured passes over the first fifteen hundred miles. As the train drew out of the Central Station I saw my friend racing down the platform, a minute too late! From that day to this I have never set eyes on him again. It was an abrupt end to a friendship cemented by hard times, and my disappointment at losing his companionship was rather bitter at the time.
