WHITTON and RITCH -Surname Studies and people from the Island of GRAEMSAY, Orkney

James Anstruther Scarth

James Anstruther Scarth

Male 1898 - 1981  (82 years)

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  • Name James Anstruther Scarth 
    Born 14 Aug 1898  Silver Creek, Manitoba, Canada Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Gender Male 
    Died 1981  Silverton, Marion, Oregon Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Person ID I12058  My Relatives
    Last Modified 22 Jun 2020 

    Father William Scarth,   b. 4 Sep 1863, Firth, Orkney Find all individuals with events at this location,   d. 27 May 1956, Silverton, OR, USA Buried Toledo Pioneer Cemetery Oregon Find all individuals with events at this location  (Age 92 years) 
    Relationship natural 
    Mother Isabella Lawson Jamieson,   b. 4 Jan 1863, Anstruther Wester, FIF, SCT Find all individuals with events at this location,   d. 3 May 1957, Marion, Oregon, Buried Toledo Pioneer Cemetery Oregon Find all individuals with events at this location  (Age 94 years) 
    Relationship natural 
    Married 18 Jun 1895  Winnipeg, MB, CAN Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Family ID F4645  Group Sheet  |  Family Chart

    Family 1 Flora Naomi Bushnell,   b. Abt 1900 
     1. Living
     2. Living
     3. Living
    Last Modified 22 Jun 2020 
    Family ID F4738  Group Sheet  |  Family Chart

    Family 2 Pearl M ?,   b. 23 Jan 1898,   d. 1994, Woodburn, Marion, Oregon, USA Find all individuals with events at this location  (Age 95 years) 
    Last Modified 22 Jun 2020 
    Family ID F4739  Group Sheet  |  Family Chart

  • Notes 
    • at 1900 census Canada Manitoba, Marquette, Silver Creek
      Home in 1920: Portland, Multnomah, Oregon

      Del: What was Elk City like when the Scarths had a homestead near the Hodges?
      Jim: Elk City had three stores, a livery barn and two sawmills.
      Del: My granddad owned one of the sawmills. Who owned the second one?
      Jim: I don't recall. I left Elk City in 1917. I was out of Lincoln County until 1935 when I went to Philomath.
      I used to pass through Big Elk Valley getting acquainted with farmers trying to sell livestock feed. I stopped by your dad's place occasionally. I'd never find anyone home.
      Del: When the roads got better and we got more or less dependable transportation the folks would go to town or take trips out of town quite often.
      Jim: I remember one time we went to the Lincoln County Fair and Pearl said if you took Claudine Hodges' exhibits away from the fair there wouldn't be any fair left!
      Connie: When and where were you born, Jim?
      Jim: I was born in Canada, August 14, 1898. We moved to Oregon in 1902. My dad's name was William Scarth. He opened up the bank in Toledo, and then he opened up a branch in Newport. The Toledo bank was the old Lincoln County Bank and the Newport bank was the Leese & Scarth Bank. Then they opened up a branch in Corvallis in the lobby of a hotel and they called it the Willamette Valley Banking Company.
      Del: Where did the original capital come from?
      Jim: Well, my dad was born in the Orkney Islands off the coast of Scotland. He was from a large family, and they had a nursemaid. She told them so many ghost stories, that my dad and his brother, who were about 13 and 14 at the time, decided to leave home and went to sea. They went on the Conway, which was the training ship for merchant marines. Then they had to serve so many years before the mast. By the time my dad's training was over, he'd sailed in those old square riggers into every important port in the world—with the exception of Columbia River. That was probably in the late 1800s.
      Pearl: Your dad was born in 1860 and your mother was born in 1863.
      Jim: My dad went through his merchant marine training so fast that he got to be a petty officer and he went to work on the PNO boats that are still operating. In fact, they come through Portland every now and then. They're tour boats. People were taking tours down through the Far East—India, China and Japan. Dad was on one of those. He said he grew him a mustache to make him look older because he was an officer. My dad never shaved his upper lip for as long as he was alive. After he worked through the ranks and had his captain's papers, the job was getting to him, so he and another brother moved to Canada and homesteaded up there.
      They raised a little wheat. But mainly they'd go out in the late summer and cut the grass down out of the swamp land where it'd be lakes in the wintertime, and pile it up for hay. In the wintertime, when the other fellers would be out of feed, then my dad and uncle would go around and buy up stock and feed them this swamp hay and fatten them up. Then they'd take them to market in Winnipeg or Quebec. That's the way he made a going of it.
      A feller there got them talked into investing in a bank in Brussels, Ontario. But they kept homesteading more land there until there weren't enough lakes for them to make a living at bailing hay, so they started wheat farming.
      This is a funny story. For two straight years, Dad had all the binders out and ready to go first thing Monday morning. They couldn’t work Sunday, so they had to be readied by Saturday at sundown. As it turned out, they had to put the binders away on two Sundays because of hail storms. After that, they considered themselves through for the year. Dad said, "This is no way for me to raise a family." So they sold out.
      Dad and my uncle had letters from different banks in the states, like Ladd & Busch and the Bank of California in Portland, that were trying to interest them into coming to various places in Oregon to settle. Ladd & Busch were very anxious for them to build a bank in Turner. And then they talked to somebody who gave them a good picture of Tillamook. They were terribly interested in Tillamook and they were going to go down there and, of course, wanted to know where in the hell they could catch the train. The bankers told them, "There is no train to Tillamook. You have to wait until the storm's over and go by boat!" Dad said, "Nothing doing. I was raised on the Orkney Islands and that's the only way people could get around there. I left that and I'm never going to live like that again." Then the bankers told them about Lincoln County and Toledo in particular. They said, "That railroad went in there just a couple of years ago."
      So my dad and my uncle went to Toledo in 1901 when they were just starting to build the Masonic Hall on Main Street. They leased space in that new building and ordered the vault and had it built right in.
      Fred Horning, who died here a few years ago, told me Dad's vault was the first big piece of equipment he had ever moved. He said he had an awful time moving it through the mud.
      Anyhow, they put in the vault and opened up the bank in 1901. Dad moved us down in 1902.
      Then the feller that owned the bank in Salem wrote Dad a little note one day stating that he was sending him some important papers and that "I think it is advisable for you to make an unexpected trip to the Willamette Valley Banking Company in Corvallis. I think there are a few things you should see." Well Dad had all the confidence in the world in his partner, Thomas Leese, and the other feller had just let it out that the bank was practically broke! So Leese spent the rest of his summers in British Columbia and his winters in California, and Dad peddled every darned thing he had—his life insurance, everything—and bought that farm up on the Big Elk as an investment. He still had the home in Toledo; that's the only thing he had left.
      Pearl: Tell them about the bank building your dad built in Newport, Jim.
      Jim: The business section on the Newport waterfront burnt down in 1910 or 1911 on New Year's Eve. The bank, saloon, grocery store and butcher shop were downstairs and the dance hall was upstairs. There was a dance on Saturday night and on Sunday morning there was nothing. We were living in Toledo. Dad and I were notified and we came right over. The vault was the only thing that was standing. People wanted to know when Dad would open it. He told them, "It might be this week, it might be next. It all depends on how long it takes for the damned thing to cool off." In the meantime, he hired someone to be a watchman to guard the vault.
      The new bank was built down at the foot of the hill there where the fish market is that had the Harbor Barber Shop in it. The building belongs to Dick Christianson now. Russell, Dick's brother, and I went to high school together. Dick asked me, "Jim, do you know how that old building's reinforced?" I said "No. All I knew is that Dad said that building will never burn down or fall down." He said, "Well, they wanted me to put a new window in it, so I said I'd get a guy to cut the concrete and put in a bigger window." So they got this feller and he started in to cut and found out that building was reinforced with railroad iron. Dad never told me that's the way it was. But I can remember when we first went down there it was right about the time Southern Pacific was taking over the Central & Eastern, and they had to put new rails in all the way through because those little rails down there wouldn't hold the big locomotives. And, lord, there were rails piled up everywhere. I just imagine scrap iron wasn’t to high a price. Dad could buy those rails cheaper than he could buy steel. So, I'd sure like to be around there when they go tear it down.
      Del: Did the Depression break the banks?
      Jim: Dad and his partners opened up a second bank in Toledo. The Depression closed both of them up eventually.
      You know, I’d like very much to have a copy of the bank's incorporation papers, but I doubt if I can ever get them. If I talk to C. P. Moore's son, Vince, I might be able to get a copy, but I don't know him hardly at all. Tom Leese had $9,000 in it and Dad had $9,000. That was the total capitalization, and here they opened up three banks! But, that was a lot of money in those days.
      Besides the banks, Dad put the first public water works in Toledo.
      Del: Where did he go for his water?
      Jim: He had two tanks where JC Sentry Two is now. Fred Horning had a barn there at one time. He eventually sold out to Smith Transfer. He bought the tanks and had them torn down. In their place, he put in two big brick wells—all built by hand.
      Annie and Fred Horning are very good friends of ours and every time we go to Lincoln County we go and see them. I asked him, "How did you put those bricks in?" He said, "I didn't know how I was going to do it at first, Jim. I finally got onto an idea, so I went down to the fire chief. The department had a bunch of old fire hoses. He said, "I took them and ran them down the hill so I'd be lower than the wells. Then I made a raft and dropped it down into the well and I used those hoses to siphon the water out. As the raft went down we took a wrench and lifted the bricks out until we got right down to the bottom."
      Del: I'll be darned. How deep were the well?
      Jim: Oh, I’d say about 20 feet deep and 20 feet in diameter.
      Del: How were the wells kept filled?
      Jim: There was an old Fairbanks-Morris engine over there to pump it when the tank was standing up there. They had the tank on the town side so they could see from downtown how much water they had. When the water was getting low, my brother Lance and I would go over there and start that Fairbanks-Morris alone. If one of us got one wheel and the other got the other wheel we could put it over against the Depression and start the motor. So, we were fairly familiar with gas engines by the time we were pretty small fry.
      Lots of times we would start to fill that whole tank and then we'd forget about it. Dad would come home from work and find it running over and we'd kind a get a little bad time of it.
      Connie: Where was your house in town located?
      Jim: It was right below Hillcrest Market which is sitting on part of our old place.
      Connie: What do you remember about it?
      Jim: I talked to Fred Horning one day and he said, "Jim, you know they're still some of the windows in that old house before they tore it down." Actually, they were from the house my dad tore down in Corvallis when they started to build the Oregon Agricultural College. The front door had these little colored glass pieces in it, and it was from there. The attic windows were the original glass, I bet, because they were the only ones high enough us kids couldn't throw a ball or a rock through.
      Del: It seems like people in those days salvaged every single bit of glass and lumber. I bet we can still find some of the boards in our fences that were sawed around the turn of the century. Every nail, every board was saved and reused.
      Jim: You didn't pile them flat either. There were sticks in between the layers to keep them from rotting. Things came hard and you weren't getting any big wages. There was no such thing as big wages.
      I remember the fun we used to have at your granddad's motor powered mill. There was a loft above the mill where they held dances. We used to have some great dances there.
      Dell Hodges was like Pearl's dad. He was a great fiddler. Mort was quite musical too.
      Del: Pat also played the violin.
      Connie: From what I understand, Clyde did also.
      Del: Yes, Clyde did too. Did you know Clyde? He was the baby of the family. We always called him Uncle "Thud," but I don't remember why now.
      Jim: No, I didn't know the younger boys.
      Del: Where was the Scarth farm located?
      Jim: Right next to where your granddad was. You know where the trail goes over the hill to Mill Creek?
      Del: Right over there across the river. And then Dad's homestead was up on top of the hill.
      Jim: I helped your dad when he built that first shed up there; that first little house up on the hill. They called that Scarth Gap. I helped him split shakes up there. We had to drag them up through what is now part of Jim Parks' place now. At the time, we didn't even have the road cut through. We were trying to get a bridge over the river and a road up to our place. Our place was the same distance from Toledo as it was from Elk City.
      Del: Did you have to ford the Big Elk?
      Jim: Our ford was right there at our place.
      Del: If you were on the north side of the Big Elk, how did you get out?
      Jim: We always forded right at our place.
      Del: That would come out in the field just before the bend? Just up above that steep gorge there? It would come over in what is now Tancredi's place and was then Alice and Ed Chatfield's place?
      Jim: I believe that was the name of the place, yes. The old house burned down and the barn fell down.
      Del: You wouldn't go down and come up into Jim Parks' field? It was up above that?

      (1) Bea Parks 1977 (2) Bear Creek School 1949 (3) Big Elk Rancher Jim Parks 1977
      Photographs From Lords of Themselves: A History of Eastern Lincoln County, Oregon 1978
      Jim: Right.
      Del: It was up above the eel trap. That was your ford.
      Jim: There was no eel trap that I can recall then.
      Del: The eel trap was there long before you came in there. I'd always heard that area—the upper end of Jim Parks' place near the railroad—was known as the eel trap.
      Jim: I didn't know there was ever an eel trap there. We used to fish an awful lot. There was quite a long stretch of still water that started just a little below our place down on the Jung place. Part of the Parks still live there. That used to be our favorite troweling place for steelhead and trout and so forth. We used to get a boat at the upper end of that for troweling.
      Del: When was my dad homesteading in there?
      Jim: That would have been before WWI. I know the war started in Great Britain in 1915, because I had two aunts who came to the states to visit us. Then Germany and Austria and Great Britain all got into the war, and you should have seen them scramble to get home! We moved to our place up there in 1910 or 1912, something like that.
      Del: I figured out myself that my dad had to have been 21—or lied about his age—in order to have gotten his own homestead, and that would have been at least 1907 when he would have first been there.
      Jim: Well, Dell was older than I was. The only Hodges boys I can remember were Jim, Bill and Mort. Jim had three or four children and lived up on the little place about half a mile up to you granddad's place. He lived across the river.
      Del: Did Bill have his homestead behind where the Hodges homestead is now? Up on the Aplet place?
      Jim: No. That wasn't it. I don't remember where it was.
      Del: Where was Mort's place? Mort got married and he and his wife separated. His wife was teaching school at the time, and she came to live with my folks one year and taught school while she and Mort were separated.
      Del: We ran across his daughter, Marguerite Collins not long ago. She came over for my mother's funeral in August. That's the first time I remember seeing her. Apparently she has a sister named Salina, but I've never met her.
      Where did your folks farm while you were out there?
      Jim: We had quite a bit of farm land.
      Del: Did you farm both sides of the river?
      Jim: Yeh. We broke in quite a bit of land across the river and then we had all that flat land. Better than half that land was on the flats. I think there's more flat land on that place than on any other in Big Elk Valley. A quarter of the section was timber. That would be down towards Beaver Creek.
      Del: What did my dad do up on his homestead?
      Jim: Like all the rest of us, not much of anything. He tried to break in a little bit of farm land. He and I'd trade work, and monkey around that way. He was always down around our place a lot. Sometimes we'd get a little bit hungry for fresh meat and we'd have a pretty good time finding it. He was a pretty good feller to go fishing with.
      Del: Was he working out for wages any?
      Jim: There weren't any jobs. Like a lot of folks, when WWI started, he started digging out ship knees.

      (1) Two large ship knees by Frank Vernon and Bill Collett of Napavine, Washington.
      The Collett family moved to Burnt Woods and traded their car for a sawmill from Bill Mulkey.
      They got ship knees which were hauled to Blodgett by Ms. Collett.
      (2) Depression hay making. This hay was again pitched into the mow.
      Photographs from On the Yaquina and Big Elk By Evelyn Payne Parry 1985
      Del: What are those?
      Jim: They're the roots out of big fir trees. They'd float them downriver on rafts.
      Del: What were they for?
      Jim: The sides and the bows of ships. I helped Frank Updike dig up a bunch at Bear Creek. Frank went to work for my dad when he first came here.
      Incidentally, we had a slaughterhouse on the farm at one time. A feller by the name of Cook was living on the place before Dad moved up there, and he peddled meat. One day he'd go up as far as Chitwood and the next day he'd go up as far as Harlan, and he supplied the meat for Toledo and a lot of the meat for Newport.
      Del: Where would you get the stock?
      Jim: We'd buy it from whoever we could.
      Del: What kind of money were the animals bringing in those days?
      Jim: Not very much. I don't remember how much per head or per pound, but not very much.
      Del: How many animals at a time would you handle?
      Jim: Oh, sometimes three a day. We didn't butcher every day. I know my job was skinning. It was all cut by a hand saw. Of course you knocked a critter in the head or shot it and it just rolled over. The slaughterhouse door flopped open and you cut it's throat and the blood just ran down into the trough and the pigs were right out there ready for it.
      Del: The pigs liked that blood, huh?
      Jim: You bet yah. I'd take the stomach paunches and slash them open and take the rough out and put them in a big iron kettle. Then I'd take rotten old split rails that he had piled up near the house and use them for firewood under this kettle. Then I'd put cold potatoes in the pot and this beef and maybe one or two sacks of grain. I can just see my dad put his foot on the fence and say, "Boy, it's fun to raise pigs; you can just see them grow."
      Del: How would you preserve your beef?
      Jim: It was all shipped in. Harry Norton ran a boat called the Transit from Elk City to Newport three times a week. He'd pick up the mail and the milk and what have you all the way downriver.
      Del: Do you recall a boat by the name of Rose? We have a photograph of the Rose and don't know anything about it.
      Jim: No, but I've got an interesting boat story for you. When my dad and Oliver Altree, who owned the shingle mill in Toledo, built a float the Lincoln County Leader said it was the biggest boat ever launched on Yaquina River. It was 50 feet long, or something like that. Well, that really wasn't true. The Ella May was longer than that. It was around 60 feet long. I wanted to write to the paper about it and set them straight.
      I saw a piece in the paper just a while back about a bunch of businessmen from Toledo who had gone to Elk City on the launch Ella May. Dad had picked it up and he'd taken it out a few times over the bar fishing. He used a led gig and a hook on it and gigged for bottom fish. They never thought about salmon in those days. You could get all you wanted in the bay anyhow.
      And the US naval fleet was going up the Pacific Coast, so they decided to get the boat all fixed up. She wasn't coming in close where you
      could see her from shore. So Dad sold tickets for the crowd to see the float as it briefly went by.
      Del: Was your dad's boat a sail boat?
      Jim: My dad's boat was operated by one of the first gas engines to come in. He had two stationary Fairbanks-Morris engines with double screws. People thought he was crazy to put two screws in them.
      Del: Roughly what time was that?
      Jim: Around 1904-1905.
      Del: They had the Ella May upright on timbers on the bank below the sawmill. The men were working at night and rushing around. One guy decided he wanted something from the engine room and went down there with a lantern. It was closed up and he stepped in there and it blew the boat and everything else all to pieces. That was the end of that.
      Del: I'll be damned. Was the explosion from the fumes?
      Jim: Yes, the lantern ignited the fumes and burnt the whole thing down.
      Del: Did your dad have a ship building operation?
      Jim: No, that happened while he was still living in town. He built one boat in the back yard—a sail boat—and he and a feller who was working for him at the bank would sail it to Newport. They spent lots of nights at Whale Cove. Then they'd sail the Siletz to Kernville and Taft.

      Newport Mural Photographs Courtesy of Julie Hendricks
      Del: How much water did the boat draw?
      Jim: Oh, not much. He knew what the water was on every one of those bars in the Waldport area, of course. Being a seaman, he led everyone to them.
      When I was at Bird Bay, I found a book at the Chamber of Commerce advertising Lincoln County. It told about all the things you could raise there and it had a picture of my dad standing in a grain field with old John McCluskey, who was George McCluskey's dad and Kenny Litchfield's granddad. He was standing in a field of rye up to his head, and all you could call it was "William comin' through the rye!" The photographer was taking pictures all over Lincoln County. The Elk City, Toledo, Yaquina City, Newport, Taft, Kernville, Waldport and Florence chambers of commerce all worked together to produce that promotional book.
      Then they bought a boat. Southern Pacific had taken over the railroad line and they were charging so much for freight to get the groceries in that they decided to buy a boat to cut the cost. However, nobody knew how to bring it into the bay. So dad went to Portland and put out over the Columbia. That's really the first time he got to sail over Columbia River Bar. Then he showed the captain on that little boat how to operate it.
      I can remember that thing coming up the Yaquina into Toledo. The mill whistles would blow, the church bells would chime, the fire bells would clang, and the school bells would ring. And here this boat comes chugging upriver.
      Del: Sounds like your dad was kind of a jack-of-all-trades.
      Jim: Well, he was just a darned good banker, and learned that while he was up in Canada. As I said before, the only trouble was he was too easy on his own partners. He went in with some attorneys on the bank, and what Leese didn't get they got. Dad didn't pay any attention to the people he was working with when he should have been.
      Some of the local fellers got into trouble. He had to take over the butcher shop in Toledo. He had a bit of trouble with one of the sawmills and he had to take it over.
      Del: So in reality, his partners kind of embezzled the bank's money?
      Jim: Something like that. C. P. Moore, when he was alive, showed Pearl and me their original books for the Lincoln County Bank and how they kept track of their records in those days.
      For instance, there were still a bunch of Wades in Toledo then. There was Len and Frank and a bunch of cousins, too. One would write a draft to some place in Portland and all it said was "Wade." Now how in the dickens did Dad know which Wade to honor? By golly he seemed to know. C. P. Moore and I laughed about that.
      Del: When did old C. P. Moore come onto the scene?
      Jim: I didn't know C. P. Moore until I moved to Philomath.
      Del: I remember he was always a good friend of my dad's. He came out to our place and went crawfishing once.
      Jim: C. P. Moore is a good banker; a shrewd banker. I can't complain. He never did anything dishonest per se.
      I've got a story about old C. P. Moore. There was a dairy cattleman in Lincoln County who tried to feed his cattle in the spring of the year. He talked me into buying a little feed on credit and said he'd pay me when the cows came fresh in March or April. I waited until three or four weeks after that and dropped down to his place and inquired, "Have those cows come fresh yet?" He answered, "I haven't got any cows now." "What do you mean?" "Well, I got so hard up, I went down and talked to C. P. Moore and took out a mortgage on the cows, and he came up the other day and took them!"
      Jim: Hell, I fed them doggone things through the winter for him and old C. P. Moore took the cattle! I didn't like that but C. P. and I are still good friends. He was down in Waldport when I was there.
      Del: What did Toledo amount to when your dad had the bank and water works?
      Jim: Just a typical small town. There were fishermen on the wharf trying to peddle their fish for two to four bits for a nice big salmon. You'd see them come up with buckets of clams and they'd do anything to sell them. But, I've also seen it when they'd get good money for them.
      Any kid could go to work at any kind of job he wanted, like in the mills. My best pal, Beal Gaither, got a job there in a Toledo mill. It was pulling the cable back down to bring the logs up. They told him not to cut across the lower deck where the logs were—to go around. He was a kid in high school and wouldn't listen and was always sneaking across. Well, one time he sneaked once too often and a log broke loose above there and that was the last of him. Beal was Terrance Gaither's older brother
      The old-timers in Toledo couldn't tell which were the Gaither boys and which were the Scarth boys when we were small. We were always together. My brother Lance was the oldest, then Beal, then me and then Terrance. Lance and Terrance were pals, and Beal and I were pals.
      When Beal was killed, I made the statement that I'd never work in the woods or the sawmills for as long as I lived. I finally broke down and worked in Roy Scott's planer mill in Philomath for about two months helping him out after I had to get out of the feed mill because of my breathing. He begged me. I have always had a healthy fear of sawmills. But then, when I was working for Shell Oil Company I used to go in and out of those logging camps on those logging trains and they were more dangerous than any sawmill.
      Del: Do you remember anything about Guy Roberts?
      Jim: Guy Roberts came in just about the time I left—just before WWI. Guy was quite an operator. I understand some people took digs at him, but from what I know, he was a pretty square shooter.
      Del: Did he know the sawmill business before coming to Toledo?
      Jim: I think he had quite a little bit of experience in Alpine.
      Del: Did you ever hear he was a great womanizer? That's what I've heard throughout my lifetime—that every little old woman in the county knew Guy Roberts.
      Jim: No, I never heard that about him, but it doesn't meant it's not true.
      Del: Do you know any Siletz Indian stories?
      Jim: You bet. There was a saloon right across from the Lincoln County Bank in Toledo. One time a buck [sic] by the name of Spencer Scott got quite a bit of money and he brought it my dad's bank. Dad asked him if he wanted some. He said, "Oh, maybe I'd take some." So Dad gave him a few dollars and he left. It wasn't long before Dad saw the door of the saloon fly open and this Indian. Pretty soon Scott came in and said he wanted all of his money. Dad said, "Are you sure you want all of it?" He said, "Yeah, I want all of my money." Dad said, "I can't tell you no, but are you sure you want it?" "Yes," he said, "I want my money." Dad agreed and got a sack and gave him a handful of small change. It was 2:45pm. and he locked the door of the bank. Dad told me it was the first and only time he locked the bank before 3pm. But it wasn't long before Scott was shaking the door trying to get in. Dad went out and Scott said, "I want some more of that money." Dad told him, "I'm sorry, but it's in the vault and the time clock's on and there's no way it can be opened before 9am tomorrow morning. But your money's there if you really want all of it."
      Later on, he saw Spencer Scott and his squaw on the street and he went over to him and said, "I want you to come over to the bank a few minutes." They kinda hesitated a minute. Dad encouraged them, "No, you come on over." So they went over and Dad took them to the back room and got the books. "Now, let's decide what we're going to do about your money." "I got no money. White man got me drunk and got all my money." Dad said, "No, that's not true. Here's what they got," and he showed them what had been drawn out. Then he said, "Here's the rest of your money." They were very, very grateful. That went on for a good many years. Dad was notified that Scott had left him a piece of land when he died between Whale Cove and Depoe Bay right on the ocean. But Dad decided it wasn’t worth paying the taxes on it, so he refused to take title to it.