ODDS ‘N’ SODS — Good help is hard to find

The Paymaster gold mine, near Timmins, Ont., reopened in 1933 under the ownership of Paymaster Consolidated Gold Mines, after that company had acquired several adjoining properties.

The master mechanic had selected good tradesmen for the restarted operation, one of whom was known as Jimmie the Pipefitter. His hometown was listed as Detroit, but he spoke with a Brooklyn accent — “this” and “that” sounded like “dis” and “dat,” whereas “heard” and “bird” became “hoid” and “boid.”

One of the Paymaster’s directors had arranged for a job for his 25-year-old son who had arrived on-site from, as Jimmie called it, “Tranta.” The young man, who was to be the pipefitter’s assistant, introduced himself as Harlowe, to which Jimmie replied, “Where the hell did you get a name like Harlowe?” On his first day of work, Harlowe arrived two hours late, and Jimmie came down on “da toid” pretty hard. Harlow was a non-stop talker and goof-off, and was often in trouble at the pipe shop. After a couple of paydays, it was evident the young man was also a boozer and a womanizer, and could be seen wending his way across the tailings dam en route to the bootleggers and cathouses of MacDonald Hill.

One day, however, Harlowe threw himself into his work as he helped Jimmie install a new pipeline in the mill. They were working over a thickener tank 70 ft. in diameter, and Harlowe ended up falling into it. A thickener wasn’t considered a hazardous piece of equipment, but the alkaline solution it held was an eye irritant and could be hard on the stomach if swallowed. Harlow panicked.

The mill superintendent heard Harlowe’s screams from the third floor and hurried down. He eased himself into the thickener and tied a rope around Harlow, who was then pulled to safety. Harlow was hosed down, and the mine doctor pumped his stomach (he had swallowed a little of the high pH solution), washed out his eyes, gave him some aspirin and told him to rest in the bunkhouse. The next morning, Harlowe hitched a ride to the doctor’s office in South Porcupine.

Once there, he put on an act in the waiting room so that he was attended to right away. He then spent a lot of time telling the doctor how terrible he felt. The doctor, who was quickly losing his patience, grabbed Harlowe by the arm. “I’ve had enough of your theatrics,” he said. “We both know that you picked up a venereal disease from your fooling around on MacDonald Hill, so don’t blame feeling terrible on your bath in the thickener.” Harlowe returned to the mine, checked out at the office, packed his bag and returned to his beloved “Tranta.”

Jimmie da plumber could not have been happier.

— The author, a frequent contributor to this column, resides in Boyertown, Pa.