laughingly said, “Stick around awhile—I will talk the matter over with
you when I get a moment’s time.” He told me that there were only
two Republicans in the township; that I could run the paper as an
Independent until election time, and then I would be expected to be a
good Democrat—a real old “Missouri Mossback” and no foolin’, I think
the order would have been. I judged they did not want a newspaper. They
wanted a political “organ.”
On invitation of the banker, I attended a meeting in the school house,
which was set in a natural oak grove — and met many sociable and
interesting people. In the gathering, there were a lot of pretty
girls—and all in all, it looked to me as if it would be a swell place
for a young fellow to settle down. But—while I wouldn’t know why I was a
Republican, I couldn’t pretend to be something that I was not.
A young doctor from Goff had come here to make his professional start.
He first took his old schoolmate, Ecky Hamel, to task for calling him
by his given name, demanding that he be addressed as “Doctor.” Ecky
had gravitated from country school teacher to printer and reporter, and
thought he himself was some pumpkins, too. But I don’t think this was
held against the Doctor when Ecky wrote the five-line item that touched
off the explosion—caused the Doctor to whoop-it-up for a competing
paper.
The offending item merely said that “Dr. Jermane of Holton, who had
operated on Lyman Harvey here last week for appendicitis, had died of
a like operation at Holton this week.” A Philadelphia lawyer could
have found no fault with this—but the local doctor thought it was a
reflection on his professional ability. Knowing that he had brought the
Holton doctor here to do the job, and knowing also that the local doctor
had been duly recognized in the item reporting the Harvey operation, I
thought he had no kick coming — and let it go at that. And anyway, Mr.
Harvey had also died of his operation.
The complaining doctor was a hustler, socially a good fellow, very
much on the way up in his profession, when a catastrophic repercussion
reduced him to the level of the ice-man. As attending physician, he had
brought into the world an illegitimate child whose birth was a great
embarrassment for its little mother and the maternal grandparents. And
on a subsequent call at the country home he discovered the child was
missing. I am not familiar with the details at this stage of the affair,
but rumor had it that the doctor turned sleuth and dug up the fact that
the child was buried in the back yard.
The home folks, older members of the family, contended that it had died
of natural causes—pneumonia, I believe. The doctor was wholly within
his rights when he reported the matter to the authorities—but he did not
prove an apt witness in court. Two older doctors from the north part of
the county, combined and “proved” in effect, on the witness stand that
the young doctor did not know enough about such matters to make a case.
In the ice business in a southern Kansas town the fellow made good. And
though the “injured” doctor had kept on whooping-it-up for a competing
paper until he did, with the help of some disgruntled politicians, put
me out of the newspaper business, I’m glad to say he was not one to
carry a grudge beyond the time of its actual usefulness to him. Just for
old friendship’s sake, he wrote me from the office of his artificial
ice plant—owned jointly with his brother—complimenting me on one of my
articles in W. F. Turrentine’s Spectator. This note on the background of
the doctor is given here for reasons which will appear later.
J. W. Coleman, publisher of the Effingham New Leaf, having conceived the
idea that a string of local papers along the Central Branch, would
be the motive power to land him in a fat political job, came here to
negotiate with me for the Spectator. My paper was not for sale. The
doctor and the political boys combined to persuade Mr. Coleman that a
second paper would be preferable. It would seem the MD and PB’s did not
want to crush me on the spot—or maybe it was their idea of one huge joke
to let me die a slower death. In either event, it was the wedge that
pried me loose from The Spectator. I sold to Coleman. I did not permit
this to cause me to break with the Doctor and my political friends — as
there was the outside chance that they might have been misquoted by the
over-anxious purchaser. And then, too, it was not long before I really
liked it. It afforded me time to give my full attention to other more
congenial matters — for getting married, for instance. The wife said it
was a great stroke of good luck for me.
I had weathered one brief, and I may say clean siege of competition,
which had proved that the town was not large enough to support two
papers. P. L. Briney, with his two daughters, Bertha and Olive, wholly
on their own—that is, without MD’s or PB’s moral support—established and
published the Enterprise for about one year. Unable to make a go of it,
Mr. Briney sold the whole outfit—exclusive of the girls, of course—to me
for $125, his first asking price.
Mr. Coleman did not last long enough here to do the political boys any
good. He got off on the wrong foot in an early issue. He attended a
recital given by Edith McConwell’s music pupils—and ridiculed it. Our
people did not like to have their kiddies ridiculed—nor their music
teacher either, who was once a kiddie here herself. However, after a few
issues by Coleman, Art Sells, also of Effingham, took charge, and gave
the people—not the politicians—a very satisfactory paper. Coleman gave
up his political aspirations, sold his two papers, and took the job of
City Editor for the Atchison Daily Globe. However, Coleman’s successor,
W. F. Turrentine, held forth twenty years longer than the fourteen years
that I had published the Spectator before giving up the ghost about five
years ago. The idle plant is still in Wetmore.
To give a clear picture of the grain situation I should explain that Mr.
Baker, of the Greenleaf-Baker grain firm, of Atchison, had asked me why
would it not be a good idea for me to build an elevator here? I told him
that I did not think there would be business enough, from year to
year, to justify me in so doing—which, I might say, was a fact
fully demonstrated in later years. I pointed out that with the large
feeding interests here; and in the north territory, particularly at
Granada, where the Achtens sometimes bought as much as one hundred
thousand bushels of corn for feeding cattle and hogs; that practically
all the south territory was in pasture land; and with two elevators at
Goff and- two at Netawaka, we could hardly expect to draw trade away
from them without making costly inducements, as we were now doing in our
track buying.
Mr. Baker said, “Well, then, I’ll build one for you. It will save you
paying a premium to get the corn, and make it more convenient for you to
handle it.”
I think the Board members did not know this at the time of organizing.
But the committee, composed of the man who had a canning factory
building to sell, and the doctor who wanted a competing newspaper with
political slant, both uncompromisingly for the Goff man, and two other
men who had a tendency to view things in their proper light, met with a
representative of the Greenleaf-Baker firm in ‘the opera house here.
The spokesman for the committee told Frank Crowell, Mr. Baker’s
brother-in-law, and member of the firm, that they preferred to locate
their man Reckeway, because it would bring another family to town and
consequently make a bit more business for the local merchants. Mr.
Crowell told them that we would like to have their friendship and
co-operation—but, regardless of whether or not they located Mr.
Reckeway, that his firm positively would build the elevator as planned.
The two silent members on the committee packed power enough only to
delay action.
As it is now all water over the dam, with not even a trickle of
cankerous aftermath, it is not my purpose to show up the old Board of
Trade boys in a critical light—but it was evident that they were not
being guided by the Golden Rule. They knew the Greenleaf-Baker people
were going to build an elevator, when they located their man. They knew
also that in normal crop years there would hardly be business enough
here to sustain one elevator. As a sort of excuse for them pulling for
the Goff man, the spokesman said to me, “You know, if we don’t get our
man located this year, we may never get an elevator. We have never had
a corn crop like this before, and we may never have another one.” It was
not strictly a Christian act—and I suspect they never had any regrets
for having turned the trick. It was apparently their way of building up
the town—and, incidentally, securing a buyer for an old canning factory
building.
The Canning Company, a local organization, having failed to bring in the
expected returns, and having accumulated debts in excess of its ability
to pay, had liquidated, the building going to the highest bidder, one
Theodore Wolfley by name—uncle of Editor Theodore Wolfley. Then, later,
it was planned by the holders of the worthless canning factory stock—and
others—to try to recoup their losses by the establishment of a cheese
factory, with an eye on the old building as a prospective site. It
was then that the present owner hopped out and bought the old canning
factory building, hoping to turn a neat profit. But the cheese factory
promotion fell by the wayside. It was then patent to the purchaser
that he had over-played his hand. Knowing these facts, one can better
understand his sudden anxiety for an elevator—for the good of the town.
Their prospect, W. M. Reckeway, who had been operating the Denton
elevator at Goff, likely misunderstanding the Committee, gave out an
interview in the Goff Advance, saying that they had bargained for the
Worthy dump, and that it was his intention to build a modern up-to-date
elevator in Wetmore, but J. T. Bristow had slipped in and bought it away
from them—the inference being that the good people of Wetmore who had
longed for an elevator for lo these many years, would now have to take
what they could get—something less than would have been the case had
Bristow behaved himself.
Had this been true—the way I look upon such matters — it would have been
both shrewd and legitimate business on my part, though it would have
left an ominous smirch on Mr. Worthy. But it was far from the truth. The
Board Committee had not bargained for the Worthy dump.
As has been pointed out, the Greenleaf-Baker Grain Company had already
planned to build an elevator here for my convenience, as a shipper—but
of course the company was not in the market for the old canning factory
building. My Company, as well as their prospect—not the Committee —
wanted a better location. Mr. Baker instructed me to buy the Worthy
dump, solely for the location.
Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not even suspect
that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter of fact,
the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, at
any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, “I’ve
given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for $200, good until
noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. Now don’t wait
until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee went to Mr. Worthy after
one o’clock, asking for an extension of the option. That old canning
factory was still in the way. And the owner did not exactly pat me
on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he learned that I had
bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s reaction to this—but
I do know that, though we continued on friendly terms—we never had any
clashes — he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, with political
slant.
Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, converted the old canning
factory building into an elevator in time for the fall business. The
people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an erroneous notion that
an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer, and
while the reverse is true, they had located their man with this belief.
Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in fact he put me completely
out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I could get for it. How
come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old canning factory. They
were wrong of course.
It may be a little early to bring this in—but Mr. Reckeway was making
some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he had brought in, but he
could not count on a repeater in this line, for he had already been told
by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour in his general store at
substantially higher prices—to cut it out. It was made plain to the
fellow that he had not been brought here to compete With the home
merchants.
I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and why Mr. Heckeway bid up
the price on corn—but this seems the opportune time to slip in a line
about the entry of a business which led all competition. And lo, the man
was from Goff, the town which had furnished me a competitor in the
grain business, and a politically minded doctor who wanted a competing
paper—and ironically enough, the town whose advertising merchants, C. C.
Abbott, John Wendell, and George Bickel, were the thorns that had been
pricking the Board of Trade boys’ sensitive hides.
Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man whose advertisements in my
paper had given so much concern at the Board of Trade’s first meeting,
and was the cause for that elaborate write-up, had moved in on them with
a complete new stock of general merchandise, locating in the old Stowell
brick building, the present Catholic recreation hall.
Now, let ‘em kick!
The energetic efforts of the dominating member of the Board Committee
to close a deal for the sale of that old canning factory building had,
unwittingly of course, also paved the way for the entry of some live
competition for himself.
Mr. Abbott became my best advertiser. Legitimate, too. He paid, in
trade, three to five cents a bushel premium for ear-corn, and turned it
to me at the market price. Also, there was a general come-down of prices
in the other stores. Now was I, or was I not, working for the best
interests of the town?
Evidently Mr. Reckeway had a threefold purpose in bidding up the
price of corn. He wanted to build up a reputation, wanted to crush
competition, and at the same time discourage the Greenleaf-Baker people
in their plans to build an elevator here. The word got around that I was
going to try to operate the Worthy dump “as is.” It would have not been
fruitful for them to let Reckeway know the truth at this stage of their
dickerings—hence the circulated report that I had bought the Worthy
dump, aiming to operate it myself.
Nor did Mr. Reckeway know that the order for the lumber in special
lengths had been given to a mill in Arkansas the day after I had bought
the Worthy dump, when he betook himself to Atchison in an effort to
dissuade the Greenleaf-Baker firm from building, pointing out that he
had the grain business corralled here; that I was now a “dead duck,”
without standing in my own community. Mr. Baker was not impressed by Mr.
R.’s pleadings.
Mr. Reckeway had been shrewd enough — or lucky enough—to sell, in early
fall, a sizable quantity of December corn at a price above the settled
market. He had been sloughing off his profits to the farmers to create
atmosphere—and to stop me. Many of his old Goff customers were now
bringing their corn to him in Wetmore, a high testimonial of his
popularity—and a welcome morsel for the aggressive half of the BT
Committee to peddle in support of their earlier expressed contention
that an elevator man could actually pay more for corn—even, so to speak,
pull rabbits out of a hat.
Had Mr. Reckeway made it win, it would have been good business. As it
was, I’m not shrewd enough to say whether it was good business or bad
business. The one certainty is that he did not make the goal he was
shooting for.
Owing to delay in getting the lumber, the Baker elevator did not
open for business until January 5. Reckeway had now quit playing for
atmosphere. Then, we both got more corn than we could conveniently
handle, as a car shortage had developed, which slowed down shipments.
We had a little bad luck the very first day the Baker elevator was
opened for business. We were getting corn from three shelters, about
4,000 bushels that day—and some of the wagons came in after dark. Elmer
Brockman, the builder, was looking after the elevator end of the first
day’s run. I weighed a wagon, told the driver to wait for Elmer to
signal him in with his lantern.
Something had gone wrong, and Elmer had taken his lantern and stepped
out of the driveway. Mr. farmer, after pulling up and stopping, decided
that he didn’t need a lantern to guide him—and he drove on in and got
one horse part way in the open dump. The horse lost patches of hair in
two or three places, but was not otherwise injured. The next day the
fellow came back and wanted to sell me the horse for $100. The old plug
was worth only about $40. I didn’t want to buy the horse at any
price, and I didn’t want the man to go away dissatisfied. And I
suspicioned—correctly—that some of my competitor’s supporters might be
back of the fellow. I suggested that I send Milt Cole, the liveryman,
out to the farm to examine the horse—and that I would pay him whatever
amount that the two of them might decide would be just. Mr. Cole said
$40 would be a big plenty—and I paid it. Then, about a week later the
farmer, pleased with his high-handed stroke of luck, had the nerve to
tell me that I was an easy mark, that the horse was as good as ever, and
that I had virtually thrown away forty dollars.
Now, this man was on a farm owned by an Illinois man—a Mr. Smith, who
had entrusted me with the rental of the place. The farmer had contracted
to pay cash rent, with a clause in the contract stating that in case of
drought, or for any cause lowering the normal yield, that a substantial
reduction would be allowed. Mr. Smith was a firm believer in the old
principle of “live and let live.” But he soon found out that it wouldn’t
work so well here. And anyway, it was mostly his sister’s idea—she
having an interest in the land.
The tenant had asked for a reduction. Well, Mr. Smith came to my
printing office one day, borrowed my shotgun, pulled on new overalls,
and went out to his farm to hunt a bit. He found the tenant at the
house, asked for and received permission to hunt. Mr. Smith said
truthfully he had just got in from Minnesota, and casually asked about
crops in general here. The tenant said they had been good, and he
bragged a little about how well he himself had done that year. Mr.
Smith’s sister lived in Minneapolis, and he had gone around that way
to get her to yield a point on that stiff “live and let live” idea of
hers—and to discuss plans for selling the farm. I sold it for them,
later.
Might say here that another tenant the previous year had asked for, and
received a reduction. The man had sold his corn. He patted his pants
pocket, and told me, “I’ve got the money all in here. They’ll have to
settle my way, or not at all.” He was entitled to a reduction and I
was sure Mr. Smith would do the right thing. And he did. I said to
the tenant, “If you should lose that money we would have no chance to
collect anything. Put your money back in the bank where it will be safe.
If anything comes up, I’ll notify you in time for you to get it out
before attempting to force a collection.” He said, “On your word, I’ll
do that. Can’t sleep very well with the money in my britches, anyway.”
This man was Albert W. Dixon. Don’t care to name the other fellow.
This rather unusual incident got “noised” around, and the tenant:—the
farmer with the “crippled” horse—being what he was, thought he might
just as well do a little more gouging. Mr. Smith said to me, “Make that
fellow pay in full—and get rid of him.”
Still Mr. Reckeway was not satisfied. Having failed in his efforts to
block the building of the west elevator, he now began a play to get
control of it. And, finally, he did get it. During a grain dealers
meeting at the Byram hotel in Atchison, Frank Crowell told me that my
competitor was still after my “goat”—that Mr. Reckeway had just renewed
his offer to give them all his shipments, if he could get control of the
west elevator.
I said, “For heaven’s sake, let him have it—if it means anything to
you?” Please note that Mr. Crowell and Mr. Baker were my sponsors. They
would not let me down.
Reckeway closed the west elevator.
When the new crop began to come in, I resumed track buying. I could have
forgiven Mr. Reckeway for trying to squeeze me out—but now I would have
to show him how badly he had been misled by his promoters, when he told
the Greenleaf-Baker people that I was a “dead duck.”
We now had a new man in the depot. Agent Larkin was a fine Christian
gentleman, an active church man. Also, he had a wife, and a pretty
daughter who was a popular elocutionist—and a flock of 200 chickens. He
did not impress me as a man who could be influenced or bought for a
few kernels of corn. However, when he asked permission to scrape up the
waste around the car we had just loaded, it gave me an idea. I was not
expecting any favors from this agent — but I wanted to forestall the
efforts of my competitor in demanding a division of cars on a comparable
basis of his grand-elegant physical representation. When the boys would
spill too little corn while loading the cars, I often climbed into the
car and kicked out an extra bushel, sometimes more, before reporting the
car ready for sealing—and of course I wouldn’t object to Agent Larkin
gathering up the spilled corn, for his 200 chickens. I was getting an
equal division of cars, and that was all I could reasonably expect—more,
in fact, than seemed equitable to my competitor, with his investment
in an owned elevator and his shrewdly acquired control of the
Greenleaf-Baker elevator.
The idea that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the
track buyer was all wrong. An elevator is a convenience to the shipper,
and helpful to a community — but don’t forget for one moment that the
grain producer must pay for it all. When track buying, I usually kept
two men at the car, one inside the car and one to help the haulers
shovel off their loads. I paid them 15 cents an hour. Tom and Juber
Gibbons were horses to work then—but don’t look at ‘em now! And in long
hauls, I would take the drivers to dinner at the Wetmore hotel, and feed
their teams at Cole’s livery barn. The haulers, who were the seller’s
neighbors, would complain about having to shovel the corn—but they, in
turn, would bring me their corn for these extra helps, and extra money.
One farmer who sold me 3,000 bushels said, “My neighbors will kick like
the devil about having to shovel off their loads—but I reckon I kicked
too when I shoveled off my loads when I was hauling for them.”
On the basis of those magnificent holdings, Mr. Reckeway took his
troubles to the higher-ups. Agent Larkin called me to the depot.
Reckeway was there with a special representative of the railroad — the
“trouble shooter.” Reckeway told his side of the story—very correctly,
I must say. He owned outright an elevator, and he had control of the
Greenleaf-Baker elevator as well — and that firm was getting all his
shipments. And, as a clincher, he said, “You know the Greenleaf-Baker
people are heavy shippers over your railroad. They have elevators all
along the Central Branch.”
The special agent then asked me: “Have you any storage for grain?”
“Yes,” I replied, “a bin with capacity for two car loads of shelled
corn.”
His next question: “Did you ever have to pay demurrage for holding a car
over-time while loading?”
Again I replied, “Never.”
The special agent’s final question, the one I was hoping he would ask
me: “Where do you ship your corn?”
I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in Atchison, as always.”
Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not real anger. The agents
both laughed.
Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: “Has he told the truth
in all three instances?”
“Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner friend.
“Then, give him every other car,” said my newly found friend.