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 the faces of visitors, who, seeing Bob for the first time, wearing a look of most profound disappointment. This was the Bob Ross whose writings they had read—a keen sense of disillusionment could be detected in their manner. Bob would chat with them for a time, and they would leave with all doubt of the editor’s fighting capacity removed from their minds.

Of the ups and downs of the paper I do not intend to deal with at the present time. There were periods when we wondered whether the current issue would be our last. Time after time we grazed the rocks, but lost nothing more than a bit of paint. On one occasion I well remember the owner of the building we were occupying was, quite naturally, demanding his rent. There was no money to pay it. There was a very serious little conclave in the editor’s office between Ross, Semple, and myself. The outlook was as black as it could possibly be. The end seemed to be, not in sight, but right here. We discussed the situation at length—it appeared hopeless. Suddenly Semple jumped to his feet, and said: “I’ll go and buy the building.” Away he went, and came back with the information that the owner was agreeable to sell, and that he would forego the rent owing, and that he (Semple) had agreed that the Federation would purchase it. ‘“ [sic]We’ll have to find the money somewhere,” he said. “We have a couple of weeks in which to do it.” Bob found the money, a deposit was paid on the building, and we breathed freely again.

How much the paper really owes to Semple has never been made public. He borrowed money from his personal friends, with no other security than his word of honour; he pleaded with the unions to put