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Eminently sociable, full of talk, full of detail and incident, the ex-chief factor could never be happy without a crowd around him. Despite his detractors, he made friends with all the new-comers, stopped to talk with the men that strode the streets in moccasins and leather pantaloons whipping up their black oxen, and, indeed, the old gentleman was quite a gallant in brushing up his beaver and starting out, cane in hand, to call on the ladies. His stately form might be seen in any door, always joking, running his ringers through his hair, and inquiring after the children.

McLoughlin noted the shabby hats of the early legislators. In his own genial manner he presented each with a tall white hat, "bell-crowned and peculiar." "I would see every honorable gentleman well roofed in," he said. Then he handed to each a long-stemmed pipe with ornamented bowl. "And "(says a survivor), "the majestic law-makers meandered along the riverside whiffing the calumet of peace, while jealous Americans scowled and said, * See corporate influence/ and hated McLoughlin worse than ever."

To the end he never lost his love of dress and dancing; decked in white kids and white vest, like a gentleman of the old school, he adorned the parlor of many a gay assembly. One night he knocked at an immigrant neighbor's door with a lantern in his hand. "I am going to the party," he said. "I want you to see me." Laughingly he held up the lantern from point to point, exhibiting his ruffles and carefully combed locks, his narrow-tailed coat and satin vest. "Will I do?"

"Ah, yes, you will do," said the laughing pioneer mother as the good old doctor trudged away with his lantern and a new pair of dancing-pumps under his arm.