HANK BUNKER’S CAT RANCH PROVES UNSUCCESSFUL
No matter the times – whether they be in a recession, depression or bountiful – there are always entrepreneurs charged with optimism seeking their fame and fortune. Hank Bunker was such a man. The following tale was published in the August 23, 1923 edition of The Bancroft Times.
On Wednesday morning, August 15, 1923, the reporter of The Bancroft Times was awakened from his slumbers by the most unearthly mewing and wailing. Making his way into the street he stepped into a moving mess of bob tailed black cats, numbering it appeared up into the hundreds. The trees, the fences and the ground were literally covered with the feline quadrupeds which seemed to be making their way southward as thick as caterpillars on a current bush.
Making his way up the street with difficulty through the dark moving mass he encountered Jim McCaw and asking that worthy citizen what the meaning of it all might be he was greeted with the merriest peal of relieved laughter.
“So you have seen them too,” says Jim. “Well, I feel better now since I have found out it was no dream after all. I thought I had em sure.”
Jim advised the reporter to consult the village constable but on going to that official’s residence he found him with his head covered up in the bed clothes in the most object terror and suggested he go to the Reeve or one of the councilors for information. Our reporter then proceeded to the residence of one of the village council who, on being questioned as to the cause of this strange black cat phenomenon, flew into a rage and cursed cats of all kinds in general. He said that this country was pestered with wild cats and now the mention of bob tailed black cats seemed to fairly drive him wild. His language was so strong that our reporter, having had a Christian mother, fled in dismay to the home of the Editor who advised him to proceed forthwith to Buck Hill to find out what had gone wrong with Hank Bunker’s black cat farm. He said he figured that by so doing the mystery might be solved. This the reporter immediately did and here is a full explanation of the strange occurrence as near as could be ascertained from those most intimately concerned.
It seems that Mr. Hank Bunker, after his tragic political career had ended, proceeded to organize a company with headquarters at Buck Hill for the purpose of raising bob tailed, black cats which were to be sold to the fur buyers as black martins. The profits to be made were shown to be enormous and it was estimated that by purchasing a thousand cats that in six months there would easily be ten thousand cats which, when sold at twenty dollars each, would bring when skinned two hundred thousand dollars, which would mean an annual receipt of nearly half a million dollars.
The local subscriptions were few as the Bird’s Creek and Bancroft people, as has been shown by the irate and profane village councilor’s conduct, were rather fed up on cat schemes, so Mr. Bunker immediately proceeded to the States and laid his plans before a bunch of millionaires who arrived at Buck Hill (now known as Bob Cat Centre) on Tuesday afternoon August 14th.
The sight was an inspiring one at the cat ranch. The whole area had been fenced and the cats were there one thousand strong, climbing the trees or eating the squirrels which Old Red Jock, the head squirrel catcher and his assistants had supplied. There seemed to be no flaw in the whole prospectus- the millionaires were there with the money- their lawyers were there- and the cat experts were finishing their inspection. Hank Bunker was in his glory and the speakers were about to begin. Everybody was waiting for the official cat skinner to skin the first cat, as a sort of send off.
At this moment the head cat expert from the States whispered something to the head millionaire, then the head millionaire whispered something to the other millionaires. Those near could hear each trying to get the other to break the news to Mr. Bunker. Hank got done from the stump where he had been addressing the citizens and approaching his financial brokers from across the line, says “ gentlemen- you have seen for yourselves- what do you think of the greatest money making scheme ever launched in North Hastings?”
The head millionaire’s voice was husky with emotion. He looked at his friends, he looked at the people, he looked at the cats- then turning to Hank he said, his words sounding hollow in the stillness, “ Mr. Bunker,” says he, “every blessed bob tailed black feline is a Tom Cat.”
The audience faded away like magic- Old Red Jock, the head squirrel catcher, opened the gates and let out the cats. The millionaires jumped in their car and hiked her for parts unknown.
Hank Bunker hasn’t been seen since.