neither of the gentlemen was known to the housekeeping department a
member of the Club--a well-known newspaperman--was asked to inquire
their identity. The result was that the Premier of Ontario and his
friend left the Club, without dinner.

The next day the newspaperman looked over the shoulder of his
editor-chief in office and said,

"Who is the important-looking man in the photograph?"

The answer came, "Hon. E. C. Drury, Premier of Ontario."

"Great Scott!" he said huskily, "that's the man I turned out of the
Club last night."

Drury had the sense of humour to regard the matter as a joke on both
the newspaperman and himself.

The opening of the new Legislature was a spectacle. Dignitaries and
judges, professors and generals stood about the farmers--led by the
farmer-in-chief, morning-coated, carefully groomed, plainly nervous but
sustained by the dignity of it all. His voice was firm; his manner
that of a very circumspect bridegroom. The old smug strut and
case-hardened pomp of legislature inaugurals was lacking. An
undercurrent of deep sincerity stayed many a tremorous hand. Drury was
the least nervous of all. I imagine that in the morning he had sung to
himself some good old fortifying hymn, like "Rock of Ages."

Since that day the Premier has learned that practical politics is a
game that taxes all a man's technique in Christianity. Autocratic
Hydro and Mackenzie the loosening octopus; New Ontario preaching up the
old plaint of secession; better roads and prodigal Mr. Biggs; what to
do with Education that Cody had not started to do; how to stave off
commissions on reform of the school system; the constant queues of
moral reformers; the new menace of the movies and the censorship farce;
the timber stealers; disconcerting Dewart and redundant Ferguson;
returned soldiers and khaki members; the Reds and the plain clothes
men; blustering Morrison, and the tyrannical U.F.O.----

Until the Premier, plain, homespun gentleman that he is, longed for
Friday evening and the Crown Hill farm and the quiet little church in
the village, because one week at his desk took more out of him than a
month in overalls. And then to relieve his surcharged soul he made
that speech at Milverton in which he boldly proclaimed that he was
going to head, not a mere group called the U.F.O., but a People's
Party. For this "broadening out" speech he got clods thrown at him by
Morrison, and Burnaby put rails on the road to upset