I suppose I just rolled leisurely down
hill like many another fellow.
My friends, however, still credit me with one virtue; that is an
absolute respect for my neighbor's wife, a feeling which, however,
does not extend to his dollars. His money is mine if I can get it,
and to do myself justice I prefer getting it from him honestly, at
least without sufficient dishonesty to place me behind prison bars.
Some experience has taught me that when a man is reduced to getting
his living, as I do, by side issues and small deals, there is no
better locality for him to operate than around the borders of some
Indian Reserve.
The pagan Indian is an unsuspicious fool. You can do him up right
and left. The Christian Indian is as sharp as a fox, and with a
little gloved handling he will always go in with you on a few lumber
and illicit whiskey deals, which means that you have the confidence
of his brethren and their dollars at the same time.
I had outwitted the law for six years. I had smuggled more liquor
into the Indian Bush on the Grand River Reserve and drawn more
timber out of it to the Hamilton and Brantford markets than any
forty dealers put together. Gradually, the law thinned the whole
lot out--all but me; but I was slippery as an eel and my bottles of
whiskey went on, and my loads of ties and timber came off, until
every officer and preacher in the place got up and demanded an
inspection.
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