“Joseph Bunker and I have been friends from boyhood. We always lived
near each other and grew up together. We never quarrelled as most
boys will. The families of both of us were in well-to-do condition.
The war came and reduced us to poverty. I forgot to tell you that we
were natives of and then living in Virginia. After the war I learned
the trade of a machinist, while Mr. Bunker wandered North to try his
luck. He succeeded pretty well, I have reason to believe, far better
than I have. The incident I have to relate occurred just before he
left for the North. Joseph’s father died. There are a number of
people in Virginia who, as perhaps you know, have a peculiar custom
as regards the treatment of their dead. Before burial, in order to
guard against the terrible possibility of burying their friends alive
while seeming to be dead, they run a dagger through the heart. The
Bunker family, as well as mine, had always adhered to this custom.
Joseph Bunker, however, was an exception to the general rule. He
believed the custom to be as unnecessary as it was revolting. He
chose to accept the word of the doctors that his father was really
dead, and did not believe there was any possibility or probability of
his being in a trance. He refused to allow his father’s remains to be
mutilated, as he called it. It was winter time when his father died.
It was an unusually severe winter, and to dig a grave was out of the
question. So the body was deposited in the receiving vault to wait
for spring. In the spring a grave was dug and everything made ready
for the burial. Just previous to the interment, Joseph expressed a
desire to look once more upon the face of his dead parent. The casket
was opened, and a most horrifying sight met the gaze of those who
stood around. The corpse, as it was believed to be, had evidently
come to life, and in the struggle to get out of the casket, the
lid of which had been only too securely fastened down, Mr. Bunker
had torn his hair out by the handfuls, and had torn to shreds the
interior furnishings of his narrow prison. Strong man though he was,
Joseph Bunker fainted away and did not recover consciousness until
the body of his father had been buried. He and I alone remained by
the grave side when the others had gone. We then and there made a
solemn vow that the survivor should perform for the dead man--what
the doctor should call the dead man--the office which my companion
had neglected to perform in the case of his father. Shortly
afterwards, as I have said, Joseph Bunker went North. A week ago I
wandered into this neighborhood, partly in search of work and partly
to pay a visit to my old friend. I had his address, for we had
always been in communication with each other. In nearly all of his
letters of late, he referred to the fact that his health was failing
and that he wished I could make it convenient to be present at his
death. My visit to his house found him suffering from the effects of
a recent shock of apoplexy. He told me he didn’t think he had long to
live. He spoke in truth. He died that very night, a few minutes after
midnight. His last words were: ‘Don’t forget our vow, old friend.’ I
hadn’t forgotten, but I put off doing the unwelcome work until I was
certain my old friend was dead. I waited five hours, then I fulfilled
my vow. I was afraid to be found with the dead body. People would not
believe my story, I feared. So I struck off and got away as far from
the place as possible; guilty of no crime, yet fearing punishment at
the hands of those who would perhaps not believe my story.”
A Freight Car Adventure.
The freight cars of the B. & R. Railroad were being systematically
robbed. During one month in 1891, the railroad company lost over
$5,000 in this way. It was impossible to catch the thieves. On several
occasions the conductor, engineer and brakeman had been shot at, and
narrowly escaped death. The thieves used to board the train either
before it left the freight yard, or during one of its numerous stops
along the road, and hold the train until they had secured what they
wanted, thrown it off, usually in a lonely spot far from dwellings,
and made their escape. On numerous occasions a posse of police were
secreted on the trains, but these nights (the robberies occurred always
at night) the thieves failed to put in an appearance, evidently having
learned that pains had been taken to give them a warm reception. I
suspected something more than the railroad officials seemed to suspect,
and when I was told to do my best to bring the thieves to justice, I
laid my plans accordingly. I sought leave from the conductor to ride on
his train in disguise.
“I can’t allow you to do so without permission from headquarters,”
declared the conductor.
“But I want to try to capture the thieves who have been robbing this
company’s trains and shooting at you, and I haven’t time to get the
necessary permission,” I protested.
The conductor still refused to let me ride.
“I must and shall ride on your train to-night,” I said. “To-morrow
night I shall be a good many miles away and I must carry out my orders
to-night.”
“I have my orders, too, to carry out,” declared the conductor.
“I shall ride, nevertheless,” was my parting shot.
I did not ride. I had no intention of doing so. There was nothing taken
from that train that night.
On the following night I secreted myself in the train, disguised as a
tramp. I lay in hiding in an empty hay car. At the various stopping
places, I took careful note of what occurred. Nothing suspicious
happened until we got about two miles beyond C----. Here the train
slowed up, although there was no station anywhere in sight. From my
post of observation I saw everything that occurred. The conductor
and some of the brakemen broke open the door of a car in which, as I
afterward learned, there was a big consignment of tobacco and cigars. A
large quantity of this was thrown out. Pretty soon one of the brakemen
left his fellows and started rapidly away from the train. Hastily
slipping from my place of concealment, I hurried after him. I had not
taken half a dozen steps when a pistol shot whistled past my head. I
stopped short, drew my revolver and prepared to open fire upon those
in my rear. Just as I turned I saw the conductor take off his hat,
and, holding it in his hand, deliberately fire his revolver at it. On
the morrow, he would doubtless tell a harrowing tale of adventure with
train robbers, and show visible proof of his own narrow escape from
death. I was immediately taken in charge by the train crew, and, it
being part of my plan, I made no resistance. We had not gone many miles
when the conductor came to me and magnanimously offered me my freedom
and promised not to turn me over to the authorities, if I would go
quietly about my business.
“Why do you hold me prisoner?” I demanded.
“For complicity in robbing this train,” replied the conductor, coolly.
“Your accomplice got away.”
“Yours, you mean,” I remarked.
“Who’ll believe that story?”
The conductor did not suspect my identity. He put me off the train. If
he had known whom I was, my life would probably not have been worth ten
cents.
I hurried to the nearest station, hunted up the telegraph operator, and
when the robbed train reached the end of its run, there were several
policemen on hand to put the conductor and his accomplices under arrest.
* * * * *
For another lot of choice detective stories see No. 11 of Multum in
Parvo Library.
Two Ghosts.
The following extraordinary story came under my observation some years
ago:
Tom Johnson and Jack Spencer were close friends. One evening in
Johnson’s room they played cards and Spencer won every cent Johnson
had. Spencer was visiting his friend at the time, and retired to
sleep with him. Sometime after midnight Spencer awoke feeling very
uncomfortable. There was a strange silence in the room. Johnson,
usually a loud snorer, was sleeping as quietly and peacefully as a
baby. Was he really sleeping or was he dead? This question flashed
across Spencer’s mind. He leaned toward his friend to ascertain whether
he was breathing. He was not. He felt for his heart. It was not
beating. He raised his friend’s head from the pillow. It dropped back,
heavy as lead. The limbs were stiff. The _rigor mortis_ had already
come upon the body.
“Johnson must have committed suicide,” thought Spencer aghast. “It’s
all on account of his losing so much money at cards. Now that it
has been impressed upon me, I recall his strange remark on saying
good-night. It was, ‘Well, if I should die to-night, good-bye, old
fellow.’ And he seemed quite despondent. I also saw him drink something
out of a small phial, poison, no doubt. What shall I do? I have been
indirectly the cause of his committing suicide. I won all his money at
cards--money which he no doubt had intended to devote to some special
purpose. How can I face his mother under such circumstances? I can not
and shall not. I’ll get out of the way for a few days, until I recover
from the shock of this terrible affair.”
Another impulse came to him and he proceeded to set upon it. He took
nearly all the money from his pocket and put it on the table, where the
friends of the dead man would be sure to find it. He also placed near
it a note, inscribed as follows: “Please use this money to defray the
funeral expenses. Spencer.”
Then he quietly left the house, and he took the first train from the
city. He eagerly scanned the evening papers next day, for news of the
finding of the dead body of Johnson. There was nothing to that effect,
but instead he read the following item concerning himself: