“All Aboard’ *

* That column of pungent
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G. E. MORTIMORE,
appears daily in...

The DAILY
COLONIST

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1903 Harbsur Rd., Victoria, B.C.

Page Six

go logging in the summer and work
as a rink rat at the old arena on
Cadboro Bay Road during the
winters.

After working for Sidney Roofing
for a time, he joined the police force
on May 2, 1927, at the instigation of
his uncle, Malcolm Blackstock, a
legendary figure on the force. His
uncle Malcolm was a squat power-
house of a man who anchored the
police tug-of-war team in Victoria
over all comers, from the B.C. main-
land and the Puget Sound cities.

Detective Dean Blackstock is Mal-
colm Blackstock’s son, and the chief’s
cousin.

Pounded Beat

Except for two years on motorcycle
duty, John Blackstock was a_ beat
policeman from the day he joined
until February, 1941, when he was
made a sergeant.

In August, 1945, he was named an
inspector—just one hour before the
announcement of V-J Day. The force
hastily organized to control too-
rowdy celebrants and vandals, but
troubles turned out to be remark-
ably few. There was an attempted
break-in at the Humboldt Street
liquor store, but little else.

He was made acting chief for a
time in 1948, after the then chief J.
A. McLellan had been put out of
action by an accident at the fire hall.
On February 1, 1949, he was named
deputy chief; on January 1, 1950,
acting chief, and on January 1, 1951,
he was confirmed as chief constable.

His career has been steady rather
than spectacular. Motor-cycle duty
was hard and uncomfortable, with no
windshields on the old Harley-David-
sons. Bitter cold was the chief hazard
then.

The foot constable’s work on the
beat was, and still is, monotonous and
exacting. But John Blackstock had
his moments—for example, the Opi-
um cases he cracked in company with
former sergeant John Ireland. A
standard method of finding an
opium “pad” or den was to sniff it
out, literally. A policeman followed

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his nose to the characteristic rotten-
sweet smell of the forbidden pipe.

But after he knew where the “pad”
was, he still had to get the evidence—
catch the smokers in the act before
they had a chance to steal away.

John Blackstock and John Ireland
clambered over the roof of the old
rice mills on Herald Street, where
there were Chinese rooms, scraped a
little paint off a blacked-out skylight
and saw all the paraphernalia
of opium smoking lying on wooden
beds below—but no smokers using it.

They had to make several trips
before they found the place occupied.
The smokers, unaware that they were
being watched through the skylight,
were in the grip of the law before
they could move.

Some Fast Work

But the police chief’s greatest
satisfaction has been in bringing hit-
and-run drivers to book. He has had
some success in it. On one occasion a
hit-and-runner knocked down and
killed an elderly man at 7 a.m. and
by 10 a.m. the car had been traced
and the driver arrested.

The chief is not a gun-happy
policeman. Only twice in his career
has he fired a pistol in anger, and
then only as a warning.

In his youth he was a skater and a
field lacrosse and football player.
Today he is a front-row hockey and
lacrosse fan—a hobby that has its
hazards. Once he was clonked on the
head by a hard-driven lacrosse ball.

His companion on moose-hunting
forays to the Cariboo is usually
garageman Bill Bridgewood. His fish-
ing cronies are Mr. Bridgewood and
Memorial Arena manager Joe Du-
kowski.

His First Moose

He bagged his first moose right
outside the cabin where he and Mr.
Bridgewood were staying, at Brossiau
Meadows, back of Deadman’s Creek.
He broke a hind leg with his first
shot. He has taken a fair amount of
kidding about that shot since. His
alibi for hitting such an odd part is

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*
CONCRETE FOR PERMANENCE

THE SHOULDER STRAP