Seated in a ditch a half-mile down Kingsway, McCurdy relaxes somewhat.
With the dogs otherwise engaged, he sees no benefit in trying to put more distance between himself and Woodlands, especially given the two alternatives: either to thrash through thickets and crawl over fallen trees or to stroll along Kingsway, a bleeding man in institutional pajamas waiting to be plucked off the road by police or an ambulance, then strapped into a straitjacket and bundled off to captivity.
He could do with a drink or a snort or a puff, or anything really, lacking which he crawls away from the road until he finds an inconspicuous spot beneath a monkey puzzle tree. There, he wraps himself in Rollins’s jacket, assumes the foetal position and waits for morning…
Well past dawn he is jarred awake by the abrasive complaint of a pair of crows on the ground a few feet away, eyeing him sideways like proctors at an exam. When he begins to stir they scold in earnest, batting their wings up and down for emphasis.
He curses the vile creatures, then realizes that the crows are doing him a good turn when he hears the rhythmic grinding of steel tyres on cement, along with the heavy, hollow clop of horseshoes.
He mutters an apology to the the crows, who flutter to a nearby log to discuss.
Back in the ditch by the edge of the road, he fogs his spectacles and wipes them with the tail of his pajama top, wondering, Is there any point in planning anything?
Moments later, a farm wagon turns off Columbia Street onto Kingsway. Painted Irish green and with McCormack printed on the side, it is pulled along by a draught horse with some variety of skin disease; but though rudimentary, it at least holds the promise of a leisurely ride to Burnaby.
He waits until the wagon passes in front of him, then climbs out of the ditch and scurries after it. Reaching to within arm’s length of the tailgate, he grips the top edge and jogs along until he establishes a rhythm; then, skipping on one foot, he places the other foot on the deck overhang and vaults over the tailgate and into the wagon, feeling rather athletic for once—
And finds himself thigh-deep in sheep shit.
The wagon is carrying a load of fertilizer for distribution to gardens all over the city. Manure has become a saleable commodity given the dwindling number of horses in the streets.
At this close distance, the stench is nearly enough to knock a man out. He turns to the front of the wagon, where the driver hunches over the reins, oblivious to the smell and, more important, to the acquisition of a passenger.
By the time the wagon reaches Burnaby, the reporter is draped over the tailgate like a discarded rag doll. The unfamiliar sensation of a right turn clears his mind sufficiently that he senses it might be time to do something.
In a what-the-hell frame of mind, he heaves one leg out of the muck, rolls over the tailgate and tumbles onto the road. From a seated position he breathes in deep gulps of delicious air as he watches the farm wagon recede into the distance.
Behind him is a picket fence enclosing a kitchen garden, next to Chuck’s Grocery. To his right is a billboard, advertising, oddly, the Devonshire Hotel. Pleased that at least he is no longer in the wilderness, he struggles to his feet and makes his way up Rumble Street to the Interurban Railway.
As a general rule, a member of the male gender is permitted to stink of sweat, tobacco, rotten teeth, liquor or all four combined.
But not sheep shit.
In any North American city in 1925, the most offensive stink one can emit is the smell of the farm. The farm is what half the population came to the city to escape. The farm is an affront to everything the city stands for.
However, as it is with a skunk, an offensive rural stink can be a social weapon if you brazen it out—if only because the smell of the farm is the smell of their parents. As such, it brings on feelings of guilt over having abandoned the homestead. You are shunned, but respectfully. They make way for you to pass by as they would a crippled veteran. McCurdy contemplates a future piece on what prominent men smell like, and shelves it for later use.
On the tram, he hands the driver a dollar and stares him down while the fellow provides change, ostentatiously holding his nose. When he turns to seat himself he finds that the aisle has been cleared, to make room for this special passenger.
Twenty minutes later, stepping off the streetcar at Main Street, he walks purposefully north, looking like something out of an Uncle Remus story, bleeding from scratches and scrapes, wearing an ill-fitting coat and soiled institutional pajamas. Yet nobody stares at him or comments. On passing, pedestrians look straight ahead and unemployed loiterers examine their fingernails.
As he limps down the sidewalk, he forms a plan—a pathetically short-term one, but a plan nonetheless.
He will make careful use of the rest of his share of Rollins’s money by securing a room for a maximum of thirty-five cents under an assumed name. Then he will use a nickel to telephone DS Hook and to find out whether the police are looking for him.
For all he knows, they are hunting him down as a dangerous lunatic. And in the case of the toothy creature he heard screaming, is a charge of criminal negligence waiting for him as well? On the whole, it paints a gloomy picture of his prospects. In the face of everything else, potential snipers from neighbouring rooftops are of minor concern.
The first step is to gather information. He wonders where he learned that, then remembers that he is a reporter by trade.
He steps into a cigar store, buys a World for five cents (a dollar fifty-five left), seats himself on a bench in front of the plate-glass window and reads.
On page two, below the fold, he finds a Trotter item that simplifies his situation, if only slightly.
Inmate Mauled by Dogs
Institutional Success Story Recovering in Hospital
Max Trotter
Staff Writer
The Vancouver World
An inmate at Woodlands hospital named Charles Setter is recovering from multiple puncture wounds after being attacked by the institution’s watchdogs. The animals had been patrolling the grounds to discourage pranksters, who frequently breach the fenced perimeter in order to taunt the inmates, defecate on the lawn and harass the staff.
It is probable that Mr Setter exited the building by means of a fire door. Still, police are baffled as to why an inmate was permitted to venture outside on his own. An ambulance attendant reported that, while being taken to hospital, Setter was raving about chasing someone.
Dr Walter Freeman, who supervised Mr Setter’s treatment, noted that Mr Setter had only recently been taken from the segregation facility and transferred to the main building, as he was deemed no longer a danger to himself or others.
Dr Bigney, the eminent surgeon who treated Mr Setter, regrets the incident. “It is a crying shame,” he said. “The patient has made such progress. With Charles, we had every hope of a remission or a cure.”
While many will sympathize and express hope for Mr Setter’s recovery, it must be noted that Mr Setter’s story is a strange one.
Two years ago, a neighbour accused Setter, a roofing contractor, of having stolen his dog. Not receiving a satisfactory response, he called the police, and two constables came to Setter’s home, where they encountered a number of animal skeletons stacked on the south side as though to bleach in the sun.
In the back porch was what appeared to be a butcher’s table, together with a bone saw, a meat saw and a cleaver. Acting on a hunch, an officer inspected the kitchen icebox, where he found a stack of wrapped packages, carefully labelled.
In the front parlour, another officer discovered a central table displaying a collection of dog collars. The collars were later identified by distraught owners whose dogs had disappeared, some of them years earlier.
“That collar belonged to my Skye terrier,” testified Mrs Wade Brown. “It is heartbreaking to think that dreadful man ate Rosie.”
Upon his arrest, Mr Setter confessed straightaway. It was during this early interview that officers observed how the suspect had filed his teeth into points. Mr Setter explained that he had served a year for burglary in Pentonville Prison, London, and had filed his teeth as a means of protecting himself from violent convicts.
Neighbours were able to cast little light on Mr Setter’s habits or personality.
“He was a quiet fellow,” commented one neighbour. “He tended to keep himself to himself.”
“We spoke once in a while,” added another, “but I couldn’t look at his teeth.”
Sentenced to three months for the theft and slaughter of domestic animals, Mr Setter was sent to Woodlands upon examination by the prison nurse and was confined to Maple Cottage, a segregation unit for potentially violent patients.
The two dogs responsible for the Woodlands attack, Buster and Cliff, will not be destroyed, due to Mr Setter’s past history with dogs. Mr John Spriggs, their trainer, spoke on the animals’ behalf, noting that Alsatians can sense hostile intentions in humans and may react in defence of their species as a whole.
As Mr Spriggs observed: “The dogs can tell if you like to eat dog.”