EDITOR’S NOTE: This story originally appeared on Page 10 in the August 25, 1938 edition of The Globe and Mail and is reprinted here by permission.
LITTLE CURRENT—On the main street of this busy Manitoulin Island village stands a monument to a local boy who made good.
It is an ancient hotel called the Mansion House. Its once-red bricks are now weather-beaten brown and it isn’t nearly so luxurious as its name implies.
But no towering skyscraper in the heart of a great city could bring more pride to the heart of Bill McGovern, “sole owner and prop.”
Many years ago, two youngsters carried bricks to build it. Every one in the village used to stand out on the corner watching each brick being placed in its proper spot. Merely to help carry them was an honor and a privilege to this pair of ragamuffin pals.
Stole in to Admire
The time came to pass when the Mansion House was completed and stood in all its glory. Over across the street, where now stands a war memorial, the two youngsters used to lie in the grass and look at it.
Their names were Bill McGovern and Bill Richards. Occasionally they used to sneak into the lobby to take a look at a large, flaming-hued picture of Custer’s Last Stand against the Indians. It still hangs on the wall. Whenever the proprietor spotted them, he kicked them out.
One day after a particularly hard boot in the seat of the pants, the pair were lying on the grass not saying much about anything, just looking at the hotel.
“You know,” said young Bill McGovern to young Bill Richards, “I’m going to own that hotel some day. Just you wait and see.”
Bill Richards just laughed, because the two were prone to play hookey from school and Bill McGovern hadn’t even learned to read nor write.
They hadn’t really grown up to be young men when the war broke out. When the bugles started to blow and the drums began to beat they forgot all about the hotel and joined up in the army to fight the Germans like Custer fought the Indians in that picture in the Mansion House lobby.
Blown Sky High
With a bunch of other young Canadians, they ended up one black and terrible night on the Canal du Nord in France. Again and again the Canadians had tried to cross the ditch of water and each time they had been blown sky high. Bill Richards, who always was a reckless sort of a guy, tried several times, got chased back, but ended up safely.
But he tried it once too often. A German shell came screaming across the ditch, and when the awful whine and crash was over, Bill Richards lay writing. One leg was gone completely and the rest of his body contained more shrapnel holes than one could possibly count in the fitful glare of battle.
The panting youngster who lifted the pile of meat to his shoulder and staggered two miles through the mud to a dressing station was Bill McGovern. He kidded Richards about getting wounded just so he’d have the ride and they laughed during the whole two miles to hide their terror from each other.
And Bill Richards lived and the war finally came to an end and they both came back to Little Current. Bill Richards hobbled along on a peg leg and laughed when his old pals told him he looked like Long John Silver of pirate fame.
As for Bill McGovern, then a full-fledged man, he waded right into the business of building up for the day when he’d own the Mansion House. He worked at odd jobs and saved his money and finally managed to buy himself a pool room. Eventually he saved up enough to make a first payment on the Mansion House when it chanced to come up for sale. That was two years ago.
Has Run of Hotel
Today he can sit down in the best chair in the lobby and look at the picture of Custer’s Last Stand just as long as he wants to. It hangs right beside the door that leads into the dining-room.
Bill Richards has a little farm just outside the village, but there’s always a room for him at the Mansion House when he comes hobbling into town on his peg leg. If there isn’t a room, some guest will have to get out, and that’s all. The same goes for meals, at any hour of the day or night.
“What’s mine is Bill’s,” declares the owner and proprietor of the Mansion House.
Which always causes Bill to grin widely and proudly at his pal, because it isn’t every man that has the full run of the Mansion House.
by Bruce West
Staff Writer,
The Globe and Mail
