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 He was consistent, too. When the miners’ unions severed their connection with the Court, he ceased to hold office, and left the mines, and when I last saw him was a successful bridge contractor in the Nelson district.

I had not been in Denniston very long when there arrived there, direct from the Victorian mining town of Rutherglen, a young man of about 22 years of age, who was destined afterwards to play a big and courageous part in N.Z. history—P. C. Webb —“Paddy” to thousands of his fellows in this Dominion.

My first recollection of “Paddy” in 1907 was that of a square-built young chap, always late for work, rushing across the Denniston plateau, the backs of his trousers legs worn through at the bottom for a distance of about nine inches, and vigorously flapping, as he hastened on his way, a coat that appeared to have been “snatched from the burning,” so fire-scarred was it; and a hat so well ventilated that hairs protruded from every angle—except the top.

An enthusiastic Socialist, then as now, Pat preached his philosophy at all times. His capacity for argument appeared—and I believe was—unlimited. Certainly in a single-handed contest he was unbeatable. He had but recently read Spencer’s philosophical works, and used to insist, with right forefinger prodding the palm of his left hand, that “we must proceed from the simple to the complex.” From mine manager to trucker, Paddy argued with them all.

We formed a Branch of the N.Z. Socialist Party. I wrote out the notice and attached it to the Notice Board. Whatever else this little organisation may