Myrtle was carrying her niece to the child’s home after nightfall, with
a half-full moon lighting the way. Myrtle said, “Oh, Donna, you must
not cry—don’t you see the pretty moon?” Donna stopped her whimpering and
after a moment, said, “I can see half of it, Aunt Myrtle.”
GRAPES — RIPENED ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
In the preceding article I mentioned an illegal contract literally
shoved down my throat. The purpose of this article is to shed further
light on that incident—and to show how it got me pulled into court, as
star witness. And then too, as a whole, the article gives a “bird’s
eye” view of a small town pulling for the good of the town—according to
selfish individual tastes.
There is no malice in this writing, no sore spots. But there are some
blunt facts. To leave them out, or gloss over the bluntness, would
destroy the comedy — then the writing would have no point. There are
some “humdinger” situations in it—and I don’t aim to lose them. But,
believe me, there is no chip on my shoulder. When one approaches the
cross-roads where he can go no farther, when his interests are all
centered around the stark grim business of clinging to life, he wants
nothing so much as tranquil waters on which to drift leisurely down the
remaining days of his existence. I repeat, this article is not meant to
be critical.
Starting out with the grain trade in Wetmore, I will say Michael Worthy
had been a shipper before I got into the business. He owned and operated
a small grain elevator connected with the flour mill originally built
by Merritt & Gettys, and later owned by Doug Bailey, G. A. Russell, and
Littleton M. Wells, on the south side of the railroad. After the mill
and elevator were destroyed by fire in the eighties, Mr. Worthy built a
small combined crib and grain house, with a long high driveway, on the
location of the present Continental Grain Company’s elevator, west of
the depot, north of the tracks. There had been a minor accident on that
high driveway, and Mr. Worthy had abandoned use of it. This reduced him
to the status of a track buyer.
In the meantime I had bought the Grant Means corn crib—capacity ten
thousand bushels—on the north side of the tracks, east of the depot,
and filled it with ear-corn, for speculation. When I moved that corn,
I saved some money by shipping it myself. And that’s how I got into the
grain business, as a side line, in competition with Mr. Worthy.
About this time, the Kansas Grain Dealers Association was born. The
Association did not recognize track buyers. In fact, its members fought
them whenever they came in competition with the elevators. Just how my
competitor, with his inoperative dump, got into the Association in the
first place was, of course, his own business. I didn’t care to join
the Association—probably couldn’t have got in anyway, as I had no blind
dump.
But I was shipping to a house in Atchison that had been forced into the
Association to hold its business. I think Mr. Baker had come in only on
one foot, however. Anyway, he was sending me sealed bids, and buying my
corn against an Association rule which said he must not do that. It took
Mr. Worthy nigh onto two years to find this out. And then, of course, it
was his duty to report the matter to the Association.
I had a friend in the Mo. Pacific Agent, and whenever I would bill out a
car of corn, Ed Murray would give me the waybill which ordinarily would
have been placed in a box by the door on the outside of the depot for
the trainman to pick up along with the car. I watched for trains, and in
event the car had not been taken out, I would put the waybill in the box
after I was sure Michael would not snoop.
Mr. Worthy was a devout Methodist, a religiously just man who would not
knowingly do a wrong—a wrong according to his lights. He attended prayer
meeting every Thursday night. His home was a half mile south of town.
On a Thursday I had two loaded cars on track. That Michael had something
unusual on his mind this day there could be no doubt. He had stopped by
to chat a bit with me while the cars were being loaded. He handled coal
in connection with his lumber business, owned coal-bins close by, and
had the grace to putter around them a bit before leaving the scene.
I hung around on the fringe of the depot that night until Mr. Worthy
drove by, as always, in his one-horse buggy, with lantern hanging on
the dashboard. I allowed time for him to drive to his home, and a little
extra—then dropped my waybills in the box. And that was the night when I
should have stood vigil until the wee hours.
Michael snooped. Two A. M.
On the fifth morning after that shipment I got a telegram from Atchison
telling me, much as a friend might ask a criminal to come in and give
himself up, to go to the Josephine hotel in Holton that day and join the
Grain Dealers Association.
Also, there was a circus billed for Holton that day.
I found Michael Worthy and Secretary E. J. Smiley at the hotel waiting
for me. There was much stir about the hotel, as if a general meeting was
in progress. Mr. Smiley told me that he and Mr. Worthy had a tentative
contract drafted, and that I might take my girl to the circus—then I
was to drop by the hotel and sign up for membership in the Association,
which would cost me $12 a year, in quarterly payments. I was going
to take my girl to the circus anyway. Harvey Lynn and Anna Bates, and
Myrtle Mercer, were in the hotel parlor waiting for me. We had planned
this even before I got that telegram. I had complimentary tickets, and
we could not afford to miss the circus to parley over a contract. We
four circus lovers had gone to Holton with a livery team, in an open
spring wagon.
After the circus, Mr. Smiley asked me if I had any objections to the
contract? I told him that inasmuch as I was being pushed in with scant
knowledge of what it was all about, and that in deference to my friends
in Atchison who were urging me to get in PDQ, that I would sign on the
dotted line—and trust to luck. It seemed to be Mr. Worthy’s field day,
and he would have had his own way, anyhow. It looked as if it might
rain, and I did not want to waste time quibbling over the matter. If
need be, I would gladly forego shipping altogether for the life of the
contract—which was six months, with renewal privilege — rather than get
my friends in trouble.
When I had signed the paper, Mr. Smiley shook his head, negatively,
grinned, and said in undertone so that Michael couldn’t hear, “He’ll not
want to renew it.” I pondered this for many days, and don’t know that I
ever did hit upon the right solution. There certainly was nothing in
the contract to alert me on that point. Had Mr. Smiley known what I had
decided to do in the matter before I got home that day, he would have
been justified in making that prediction.
Well, it rained. It rained “pitchforks.” And, in that open wagon, there
were two mighty sloppy girls, and as many sloppy boys—and, to make
matters worse, the creek was over the Netawaka bridge. Held up here, I
took the opportunity to scrutinize the $3.00 package I had so recently
purchased, practically “sight unseen,” and see what they had really done
to me.
The contract gave Mr. Worthy two-thirds of the business, and I was
to have the other third. If either of us got more than the allotted
proportion, he must pay the other one cent a bushel for the excess. We
would buy now at a price supplied us from day to day by an anonymous
somebody having no permanent address. No matter where located, any
member receiving house that we might choose, would confirm our sales. It
was September, and the old corn was about all gone. Mr. Worthy had 1200
bushels contracted from Herb Wessel, and I had 3000 bushels coming in
from Charley Hannah. By agreement, these lots were not to be counted on
the contract.
Harvey Lynn was Assistant Cashier of the Wetmore State Bank, and should
have been able to decipher any funny business—but he could see no just
reason why Mr. Worthy should be given twice as much as me. Certainly not
on account of that old dump.
Anna Bates said, “Why, that old dump, nobody would risk their horses
on that rickety high driveway. I’ve heard lots of farmers say they
wouldn’t.” Mr. and Mrs. O. Bates were operating the north side
restaurant, and as waitress Anna had a good opportunity to hear the corn
haulers express themselves.
Myrtle Mercer said, “I know what I’d do. You could let Mr. Worthy have
it all, and then go down to his lumber office once a month, and collect.
That would give you a third interest in his grain business—just for
grapes. That ought to hold him.”
Harvey said, “John, I believe Myrtle’s got something there. You can’t
fight with your hands tied.”
“But,” I said, “that clause saying I must buy everything offered, at a
designated price, will keep my hands tied.”
Myrtle said, “Think, think, think! Let’s pray that there shall be a way
around that. It’s not fair to let Mr. Worthy do all the thinking. It’s
only for corn shipped. And you always fill your cribs every winter
anyway.”
She was all for the grapes.
As of the moment, Myrtle’s estimate of one-third was correct — but, like
a struggling corporation doubling its capital with the induction of new
blood, our new set-up raised the buyer’s margin from one cent to two
cents a bushel; thus reducing the little man’s share to one-sixth of the
gross, with all the expense of handling and shipper’s losses falling on
the promoter. And the losses—mostly on account of wet snow-ridden corn
being carelessly scooped off the ground into the sheller—were unusually
heavy that winter. But Michael, being the man he was, took his medicine
without a whimper.
Happily, there was a way around it. An honorable way. Michael said as
much himself. Actually, I did not ship one car of corn in the whole six
months. But I did spring the market on nearly all the 10,000 bushels of
ear-corn cribbed that winter. My crib was 16-foot tall on the high side,
with doors or openings well up toward the top, and it took more to get
the farmers to bring it to me in the ear. The extra money paid for the
shoveling was very generously interpreted by Mr. Worthy as no violation
of our contract.
Though I was the loser, a funny incident fits in here. I was bothered
some by petty stealing, but never a loss of any consequence. John
Irving, commonly called “Nigger John,” head of the only colored family
ever living in Wet-more—and, except John, a right good colored family
it was — thought it a huge joke on me. He laughed “fit to kill” when
he told me that he had climbed up to one of those high doors one night
about 10 o’clock, and then dropped down on the inside to the corn, and
was filling his sack, “when I gets me some company.” He said a white
man, (naming him) with sack in readiness, had dropped down on top of
him. He laughed, “That white man, he was sure scared most to def.”
Nigger John also told me that he and our deputy town marshal had bumped
heads in my corn crib one dark night. “But that’s eber time,” he lied.
And John was not what you might call a really bad Nigger. Other men who
helped themselves to my corn were not “white” enough to tell me about
it.
Also, someone had whittled out a hand-opening, enlarged the crack
between two boards on the back side of the crib—with a loss of two or
three bushels of corn. When I went down one evening about dusk to close
the crib, I saw a very fine old lady—a grandmother—filling her apron
with my corn. I sneaked away, praying that she had not seen me.
And again, I had given permission to a crippled man to gather up some
shattered corn around the sheller after the day’s run. When I went
down late in the evening to close the crib, I saw the man and his wife
putting ear-corn in a sack. I didn’t want to humiliate them, so I walked
unobserved around to the opposite side of the crib, and made a lot
of racket. The sacks contained no ear-corn when I got around to the
sheller—and I knew then that they would always be my friends.
Eighty-three dollars was the largest monthly check paid me on that
lop-sided contract. With the sixth and last month’s collection in hand,
I asked Mr. Worthy if he wished to renew the contract?
“Lord no,” he said, throwing up his hands. “The nice thing about this
track buying is, when a fellow knows he’s licked, he can shoulder his
scoop-shovel, go home and sleep soundly.”
But it was not so tough on Mr. Worthy as one might think. We had been
buying on a one-cent margin. Now we — or more properly he — were working
on a two-cent margin, and, barring shipping expenses and losses, he
would still be making a cent profit on the third on which he would have
to pay me one cent a bushel. It was just galling him — that’s all. He
had the old-fashioned notion that one should labor for his money.
Mr. Worthy told me later that he had made the discovery of my billing at
two o’clock that night after he had gone home from church. He laughed,
saying he had made several futile nocturnal visits to that box before
this time. It was luck more than perseverance that had rewarded him at
that late hour. A freight train that would have picked up the loads, had
it not already been loaded to capacity, passed through at 11 o’clock.
Also, he said he had believed for awhile that I was selling my corn on
the Kansas City market—and that when I would get enough of this that I
would quit. Except on a sustained rising market, the dealer shipping to
Kansas City could not compete successfully with the dealer who sold to
the receiving houses, on advance bids. And that is how the Association
was eliminating the track buyers.
I could not realize at first what tremendous advantage this lop-sided
contract would give me. On the face of the contract—no. Decidedly the
opposite. Nor was it out in the open for Michael to see. In fact, it
was by way of developments mothered by that contract. The Association
maintained a weighmaster at all member receiving houses, who would check
on member-shipper’s receipts, at 35 cents a car, if desired; but it was
not obligatory. Having had some rather unsatisfactory treatment from
other houses, I had now found a place where I could depend on getting
honest weights. I wrote F. M. Baker, telling him that while I
hardly knew yet why the urgency, I had paid for a membership in the
Association; and, as I had always had satisfactory weights from his
firm, I desired him to disregard the Association weighmaster.
He wrote me, saying he deeply appreciated my statement of confidence
in him; that he had been accused of all manner of uncomplimentary
things—stated much stronger—and that if he could ever do me a favor,
he would do it gladly. Thus was laid the foundation for a real helpful
friendship—but, handicapped by that lop-sided contract, it did not come
into being for another six months.
On the q~t, we belonged to the same poker club.
When I got a free hand, I also got the corn. We received bids from the
purchasing houses every morning, good until 9:30 a.m. Corn bought after
this time would be subject to the fluctuations of the day’s market, with
a new bid the next morning. Though I hardly know how it got started,
it became a fixed routine for the firm’s telegraph operator and buyer,
George Wolf—now Executive Vice President of the Exchange National Bank,
in Atchison—to call me up after the close of the market. If I had bought
corn that day on the basis of the morning bid, and it had dropped a
cent, or any amount, he would book it at the morning bid. And if it
had gone up he would tell me to hold it for developments the next day.
Sometimes the market would go up day after day, and I would not sell
until there was a break; and then I would get the last top bid.
That was grapes—ripened on friendship’s vine.
I spent a pleasant hour with George Wolf in his private corner of the
Exchange National, three years ago. We discussed old times. I believe
George would now vouch for all I am saying here.
I went down to Atchison one afternoon, when corn had dropped a half
cent. I had 3,000 bushels that I had bought from Jim Smith, and 10,000
bushels of the Ham Lynn corn which I had agreed to ship for his account,
at $5 a car. The corn was several years old, and a portion of the big
crib had been unroofed for one whole summer. The grade was doubtful. I
did not want to buy it outright. There was a car shortage, too, and I
wanted the shipment to take care of the grades as well as penalties,
if any, in case the shipment was not completed within the 10-day time
limit. Mr. Baker said he would take my 3,000 bushels at the morning bid,
and Mr. Lynn’s 10,000 bushels at the present market (one-half cent less)
if he would let it go at that. And in that case he would give me credit
for the half cent, amounting to $50. He said, rather gruffly, “We don’t
owe the farmer anything. There’s the phone. See what you can do with
him.” Mr. Lynn accepted the new offer. And he was mighty glad that he
did. By the time I got around to telling him all about the deal, corn
had dropped several cents. If it had gone up, I don’t believe I would
have ever told him. The Lynn shipment totaled 13,000 bushels, with only
one car off grade.
I used to take an occasional flyer on the Board of Trade—mostly, I
believe, before my good Christian friend, Albert Zabel, told me that it
was gambling. I had 7,000 bushels of corn cribbed, and Albert had 3,000
bushels cribbed on the same lots, which he wanted me to sell. Corn was
cheap then, and getting lower as the new crop promised a good yield.
A good general rain the night before had spurred our desire to sell at
once. My top bid that morning was 17 cents.
Ed Murray, agent at the depot, showed me a wire from the Orthwine people
in East St. Louis, bidding Mike Worthy 18% cents. I had shipped some
corn to the Orthwines. I wired them, offering 10,000 bushels at 18 3/4
cents, same as their bid to Mr. Worthy. Their reply was slow in coming,
and I may say that when it did come, the market was off nearly five
cents.
I had told Albert that evidently the Orthwine people were waiting for
the market to open—and that I was going to sell mine on the Board, and
asked him if I should include his in my sale? He studied a moment, then
said, “That would be gambling, wouldn’t it?”
I said, “No—not when we have the corn to fill the contract. This will be
protection against further loss. We gambled, Albert, when we bought the
corn at the ridiculously low price of eleven to sixteen cents a bushel.”
Albert said, “I don’t know about that. If it wasn’t for them weevil
in the corn, I would hold it over until next year.” We had previously
discussed this, and decided that it would not be advisable to hold it
over. He finally said, “No, I’ll not go in with you. I never gamble.”
And just think of it, the fellow was buying and shipping hogs—continuing
in the business until his finances were “not what they used to be.”
I sold 10,000 bushels anyway, on the Chicago Board — and cleaned up
three cents a bushel by the time we sold our cribbed corn at 14 cents
a bushel. “Them” weevil had us scared. But the damage was not enough to
lower the grade beyond the number three contracted.
In the old days, many of the farmers would shuck their corn early, pile
it out in the open on a grass patch or rocky knoll, and then haul it
to market after it had taken rains and snows—the more, seemingly, the
better. More than once have I gone out to the country, and shoveled
drifted snow away for lots bought on contract. It was such corn as this
that brought the weevil, which worked mostly in the damp spots. Another
trick of the old farmer was to wait for a freeze before shelling and
marketing his ground “cribbed” corn. One such car of mine, billed for
“export,” and passed by the Greenleaf-Baker firm—that is, not unloaded
in Atchison, was reported steaming when it arrived in Galveston. It had
passed inspection in Atchison.
Think I should say here—well, really it should be apparent without
saying—that our reputable farmers were not guilty of this practice. It
was usually floater-tenants, irresponsible farmers making a short stay
in the community, who devoted much time to figuring out a way to skin
someone. A fellow by the name of Groves, farming the old Adam Swerdfeger
place eight miles northwest of Wetmore, contracted to deliver to me 800
bushels of “Number Three, or better” corn at 32 cents a bushel. When
the wagons began coming, in the afternoon, I saw the corn was not up to
grade, and I held up the haulers waiting for the arrival of the seller.
In the meantime I learned from the haulers that it was corn that had
been frosted, gathered while immature, shelled while frozen, and stored
in a bin on the farm. The fellow had sent word by the last hauler in,
that there would be two more loads to follow. When they did not show
up at the proper interval, I dumped the loads (in waiting) and let
the impatient farmers go home. I knew now from the way the fellow was
holding back that I would have a tough customer to deal with—but I would
take a chance on him. I felt that I couldn’t afford to keep the haulers,
who were my friends, waiting longer. The seller came in with the two
loads between sundown and dark. I told him the corn was not up to grade.
He said,”Well, you’ve dumped it, haven’t you?” I said, “Yes, for a fact,
I have dumped thirteen loads of it—but here’s two loads I’m not going to
dump.” But I did finally dump them, on agreement with the fellow to ship
the lot separately and give him full returns. The shipment was reported
“no grade” and the price was cut six cents a bushel. I paid the man 26
cents a bushel, on the basis of our weight—and was glad to be rid of
him. Then, the next day I received an amended report on the car. It was
found to be in such bad condition that the receiving house had called
for a re-inspection—and the price was cut another eight cents a bushel.
And this was mine—all mine.
It seemed to me that nearly everything, in the old days was, in a sense,
touched with that horrible word—gamble. And I know that I really did
gamble in an attempt to grow a crop of corn on my expensively tiled
bottom seed-corn farm down the creek a mile from town, one very dry
year.
I hired all the work done, paid out $500 in good money—and got nothing
but fodder.
Another time I filled my cribs with 25 cent corn and held it for the
summer market. When I was bid 49% cents a bushel, I jokingly told Mr.
Worthy that I couldn’t figure fractions very well, and that I would
wait for even money. Fifty cents was considered a high price for corn
then—but usually when it would reach near that figure, the holders would
begin to talk one dollar corn. It was a year when the corn speculators
just didn’t know what to do, after the price began to slip.
Alpheus Kempton, over north of Netawaka near the Indian reservation,
had 5,000 bushels stored on the farm. He told me he had been watching my
cribs, and thought that maybe I had inside information of a come-back in
prospect. I too had been watching some cribs, with similar thoughts.
The Greenleaf-Baker firm had 20,000 bushels stored in two long cribs at
Farmington. As I frequently traveled the railroad—on a pass—and noticed
the corn had not been moved out, I thought that maybe, after all, I had
not erred in letting the high bids get away from me. I told Mr. Baker
that I had been watching his Farmington cribs for a reminder as to when
it would be time for me to sell mine. He laughed, saying, “I’ve sold it
(on the Board) and bought it back probably twenty times.”
Well, Alpheus and I—we held our corn over another year—and then sold it
for 301/2 cents a bushel. May I say that by this time I had brushed up
on my arithmetic. And Christian or no, who is there to say I did not
gamble that time? I still maintain that I gambled when I bought
the corn. However, there were times when I sold 25-cent corn for 70
cents—and most of it went back to the country here. The only advantage
that I could see in storing corn instead of buying it on the Board, was
the possibility of striking a local market.
And again, I bought 5,000 bushels of wheat on the Chicago Board, at 61
cents a bushel, and margined it with $100. As the market advanced, I
bought seven more five thousand bushel lots with the profits, making
40,000 bushels in all. It was a very dry time in Kansas, and wheat was
jumping three to five cents a day—and had reached a fraction under $1.00
on the Thursday before Memorial Day, which of course would be a holiday,
with no market.