THE P----N COMPANY
The P----n Company is a big palace, dining and sleeping car company that
most American people know a great deal about. I had long desired to have
a run on one of the magnificent sleepers that operated out of Chicago to
every part of North America, that I might have an opportunity to see the
country and make money at the same time, and from Monday to Friday I had
nothing to do but report at one of the three P----n offices in my effort
to get such a position. One office where I was particularly attentive,
operated cars on four roads, so I called on this office about twice a
week, but a long, slim chief clerk whose chair guarded the entrance to
the Superintendent's office would drawl out lazily: "We don't need any
men today." I had been to the office a number of times before I left
Eaton and had heard his drawl so often that I grew nervous whenever he
looked at me. That district employed over a thousand porters and there
was no doubt that they hired them every day. One day I was telling my
troubles to a friendly porter whom I later learned to be George Cole
(former husband of the present wife of Bert Williams, the comedian). He
advised me to see Mr. Miltzow, the Superintendent.
"But I can never see him" I said despairingly, "for that long imbecile
of a clerk."
"Jump him some day when he is on the way from luncheon, talk fast, tell
him how you have been trying all summer to 'get on', the old man" he
said, referring to the superintendent, "likes big, stout youngsters like
you, so try it." The next day I watched him from the street and when he
started to descend the long stairway to his office, I gathered my
courage and stepped to his side. I told him how I had fairly haunted his
office, only to be turned away regularly by the same words; that I would
like a position if he would at any time need any men. He went into his
office, leaving me standing at the railing, where I held my grounds in
defiance of the chief clerk's insolent stare. After a few minutes he
looked up and called out "Come in here, you." As I stood before him he
looked me over searchingly and inquired as to whether I had any
references.
"No Sir," I answered quickly, "but I can get them." I was beside myself
with nervous excitement and watched him eagerly for fear he might turn
me away at the physicological moment, and that I would fail to get what
I had wanted so long.
"Well," he said in a decisive tone, "get good references, showing what
you have been doing for the last five years, bring them around and I'll
talk to you."
"Thank you Sir," I blurted out and with hopes soaring I hurried out and
down the steps. Going to my room, I wrote for references to people in
M--pls who had known me all my life. Of course they sent me the best of
letters, which I took immediately to Mr. Miltzow's office. After looking
them over carelessly he handed them to his secretary asking me whether
I was able to buy a uniform. When I answered in the affirmative he gave
me a letter to the company's tailor, and one to the instructor, who the
next day gave me my first lessons in a car called the "school" in a
nearby railroad yard placed there for that purpose. I learned all that
was required in a day, although he had some pupils who had been with him
five days before I started and who graduated with me. I now thought I
was a full-fledged porter and was given an order for equipment, combs,
brushes, etc., a letter from the instructor to the man that signed out
the runs, a very apt appearing young man with a gift for remembering
names and faces, who instructed me to report on the morrow. The thought
of my first trip the next day, perhaps to some distant city I had never
seen, caused me to lie awake the greater part of the night.
When I went into the porter's room the next day, or "down in the hole,"
as the basement was called, and looked into the place, I found it
crowded with men, and mostly old men at that and I felt sure it would be
a long time before I was sent out. However, I soon learned that the most
of them were "emergency men" or emergies, men who had been discharged
and who appeared regularly in hopes of getting a car that could not be
supplied with a regular man.
There was one by the name of Knight, a pitiable and forlorn character in
whose breast "hope sprang eternal," who came to the "hole" every day,
and in an entire year he had made one lone trip. He lived by "mooching"
a dime, quarter or fifty cents from first one porter then another and
by helping some porters make down beds in cars that went out on midnight
trains. It was said that he had been discharged on account of too strict
adherence to duty. Every member of a train crew, whether porter,
brakeman or conductor, must carry a book of rules; more as a matter of
form than to show to passengers as Knight had done. A trainman should,
and does, depend more on his judgment than on any set of rules, and
permits the rule to be stretched now and then to fit circumstances.
Knight, however, courted his rule book and when a passenger requested
some service that the rules prohibited, such for instance as an extra
pillow to a berth, and if the passenger insisted or showed
dissatisfaction Knight would get his book of rules, turn to the chapter
which dwelt on the subject and read it aloud to the already disgruntled
passenger, thereby making more or less of a nuisance to the traveling
public.
But I am digressing. Fred, the "sign-out-clerk" came along and the many
voices indulging in loud and raucous conversation so characteristic of
porters off duty, gave way to respectful silence. He looked favorably on
the regular men but seemed to pass up the emergies as he entered. The
poor fellows didn't expect to be sent out but it seemed to fascinate
them to hear the clerk assign the regular men their cars to some distant
cities in his cheerful language such as: "Hello! Brooks, where did you
come from?--From San Antonio? Well take the car 'Litchfield' to Oakland;
leaves on Number Three at eleven o'clock to-night over the B. & R.N.;
have the car all ready, eight lowers made down." And from one to the
other he would go, signing one to go east and another west. Respectfully
silent and attentive the men's eyes would follow him as he moved on,
each and every man eager to know where he would be sent.
Finally he got to me. He had an excellent memory and seemed to know all
men by name. "Well Devereaux," he said, "do you think that you can run a
car?"
"Yes Sir!" I answered quickly. He fumbled his pencil thoughtfully while
I waited nervously then went on:
"And you feel quite capable of running a car, do you?"
"Yes Sir" I replied with emphasis, "I learned thoroughly yesterday."
"Well," he spoke as one who has weighed the matter and is not quite
certain but willing to risk, and taking his pad and pencil he wrote,
speaking at the same time, "You go out to the Ft. Wayne yards and get on
the car 'Altata', goes extra to Washington D.C. at three o'clock; put
away the linen, put out combs, brushes and have the car in order when
the train backs down."
"Yes Sir," and I hurried out of the room, up the steps and onto the
street where I could give vent to my elation. To Washington, first of
all places. O Glory! and I fairly flew out to Sixteenth street where the
P.F. & W. passenger yards were located. Here not less than seven hundred
passenger and and P----n cars are cleaned and put in readiness for each
trip daily, and standing among them I found the Altata. O wonderful
name! She was a brand new observation car just out of the shops. I dared
not believe my eyes, and felt that there must be some mistake; surely
the company didn't expect to send me out with such a fine car on my
first trip. But I should have known better, for among the many thousands
of P----n cars with their picturesque names, there was not another
"Altata." I looked around the yards and finally inquired of a cleaner as
to where the Altata was. "Right there," he said, pointing to the car I
had been looking at and I boarded her nervously; found the linen and
lockers but was at a loss to know how and where to start getting the car
in order. I was more than confused and what I had learned so quickly the
day before had vanished like smoke. I was afraid too, that if I didn't
have the car in order I'd be taken off when the train backed down and
become an "emergie" myself. This shocked me so it brought me to my
senses and I got busy putting the linen somewhere and when the train
stopped in the shed the car, as well as myself, was fairly presentable
and ready to receive.
Then came the rush of passengers with all their attending requests for
attention. "Ah Poiter, put my grip in Thoiteen," and "Ah Poiter, will
you raise my window and put in a deflector?" Holy Smitherines! I rushed
back and forth like a lost calf, trying to recall what a deflector was,
and I couldn't distinguish thoiteen from three. Then--"Ah, Poiter, will
you tell me when we get to Valparaiso?" called a little blonde lady,
"You see, I have a son who is attending the Univoisity theah--now Poiter
don't forget please" she asked winsomely.
"Oh! No, Maam," I assured her confidently that I never forgot anything.
My confusion became so intense had I gotten off the car I'd probably not
have known which way to get on again.
The clerk seemed to sense my embarrassment and helped me seat the
passengers in their proper places, as well as to answer the numerous
questions directed at me. The G.A.R. encampment was on in Washington and
the rush was greater than usual on that account. By the time the train
reached Valparaiso I had gotten somewhat accustomed to the situation and
recalled my promise to the little blonde lady and filled it. She had
been asleep and it was raining to beat-the-band. With a sigh she looked
out of the window and then turned on her side and fell asleep again. At
Pittsburg I was chagrined to be turned back and sent over the P.H. & D.
to Chicago.
At Columbus, Ohio, we took on a colored preacher who had a ticket for an
upper berth over a Southerner who had the lower. The Southern gentleman
in that "holier than thou" attitude made a vigorous kick to the
conductor to have the colored "Sky-pilot," as he termed him, removed. I
heard the conductor tell him gently but firmly, that he couldn't do it.
Then after a few characteristic haughty remarks the Southerner went
forward to the chair car and sat up all night. When I got the shoes
shined and lavatory ready for the morning rush I slipped into the
Southerner's berth and had a good snooze. However, longer than it should
have been, for the conductor found me the next morning as the train was
pulling into Chicago. He threatened to report me but when I told him
that it was my first trip out, that I hadn't had any sleep the night
before and none the night before that on account of my restlessness in
anticipation of the trip, he relented and helped me to make up the beds.
I barely got to my room before I was called to go out again. This time
going through to Washington. The P.F. & W. tracks pass right through
Washington's "black belt" and it might be interesting to the reader to
know that Washington has more colored people than any other American
city. I had never seen so many colored people. In fact, the entire
population seemed to be negroes. There was an old lady from South Dakota
on my car who seemed surprised at the many colored people and after
looking quite intently for some time she touched me on the sleeve,
whispering, "Porter, aren't there anything but colored people here?" I
replied that it seemed so.
At the station a near-mob of colored boys huddled before the steps and I
thought they would fairly take the passengers off their feet by the way
they crowded around them. However, they were harmless and only wanted to
earn a dime by carrying grips. Two of them got a jui jitsu grip on that
of the old lady from South Dakota, and to say that she became frightened
would be putting it mildly. Just then a policeman came along and the
boys scattered like flies and the old lady seemed much relieved. Having
since taken up my abode in that state myself, and knowing that there
were but few negroes inhabiting it, I have often wondered since how she
must have felt on that memorable trip of hers, as well as mine.
After working some four months on various and irregular runs that took
me to all the important cities of the United States east of the
Mississippi River, I was put on a regular run to Portland, Oregon. This
was along in February and about the same time that I banked my first one
hundred dollars. If my former bank account had stirred my ambition and
become an incentive to economy and a life of modest habits, the larger
one put everything foolish and impractical entirely out of my mind, and
economy, modesty and frugality became fixed habits of my life.
At a point in Wyoming on my run to Portland my car left the main line
and went over another through Idaho and Oregon. From there no berth
tickets were sold by the station agents and the conductors collected the
cash fares, and had for many years mixed the company's money with their
own. I soon found myself in the mire along with the conductors. "Getting
in" was easy and tips were good for a hundred dollars a month and
sometimes more. "Good Conductors," a name applied to "color blind" cons,
were worth seventy-five, and with the twenty-five dollar salary from the
company, I averaged two hundred dollars a month for eighteen months.
There is something fascinating about railroading, and few men really
tire of it. In fact, most men, like myself, rather enjoy it. I never
tired of hearing the t-clack of the trucks and the general roar of the
train as it thundered over streams and crossings throughout the days and
nights across the continent to the Pacific coast. The scenery never
grew old, as it was quite varied between Chicago and North Platte.
During the summer it is one large garden farm, dotted with numerous
cities, thriving hamlets and towns, fine country homes so characteristic
of the great middle west, and is always pleasing to the eye.
Between North Platte and Julesburg, Colorado, is the heart of the
semi-arid region, where the yearly rainfall is insufficient to mature
crops, but where the short buffalo grass feeds the rancher's herds
winter and summer. As the car continues westward, climbing higher and
higher as it approaches the Rockies, the air becomes quite rare. At
Cheyenne the air is so light it blows a gale almost steadily, and the
eye can discern objects for miles away while the ear cannot hear sounds
over twenty rods. I shall not soon forget how I was wont to gaze at the
herds of cattle ten to thirty miles away grazing peacefully on the great
Laramie plains to the south, while beyond that lay the great American
Rockies, their ragged peaks towering above in great sepulchral forms,
filling me alternately with a feeling of romance or adventure, depending
somewhat on whether it was a story of the "Roundup," or some other
article typical of the west, I was reading.
Nearing the Continental divide the car pulls into Rawlins, which is
about the highest, driest and most uninviting place on the line. From
here the stage lines radiate for a hundred miles to the north and south.
Near here is Medicine Bow, where Owen Wister lays the beginning scenes
of the "Virginian"; and beyond lies Rock Springs, the home of the famous
coal that bears its name and which commands the highest price of any
bituminous coal. The coal lies in wide veins, the shafts run
horizontally and there are no deep shafts as there are in the coal
fields of Illinois and other Central states.
From here the train descends a gentle slope to Green River, Wyoming, a
division point in the U.P. South on the D. & R.G. is Green River, Utah.
Arriving at Granger one feels as though he had arrived at the jumping
off place of creation. Like most all desert stations it contains nothing
of interest and time becomes a bore. Here the traffic is divided and the
O.S.L. takes the Portland and Butte section into Idaho where the scenery
suddenly begins to get brighter. Indeed, the country seems to take on a
beautiful and cheerful appearance; civilization and beautiful farms take
the place of the wilderness, sage brush and skulking coyotes. Thanks to
the irrigation ditch.
After crossing the picturesque American Falls of Snake River, the train
soon arrives at Minidoka. This is the seat of the great Minidoka
project, in which the United States Government has taken such an active
interest and constructed a canal over seventy miles in length. This has
converted about a quarter of a million acres of Idaho's volcanic ash
soil into productive lands that bloom as the rose. It was the beautiful
valley of the Snake River, with its indescribable scenery and its many
beautiful little cities, that attracted my attention and looked as
though it had a promising future. I had contemplated investing in some
of its lands and locating, if I should happen to be compelled by stress
of circumstances to change my occupation. This came to pass shortly
thereafter.
The end came after a trip between Granger and Portland, in company with
a shrewd Irish conductor by the name of Wright, who not only "knocked
down" the company's money, but drank a good deal more whiskey than was
good for him. On this last trip, when Wright took charge of the car at
Granger, he began telling about his newly acquired "dear little wifey."
Also confiding to me that he had quit drinking and was going to quit
"knocking down"--after that trip. Oh, yes! Wright was always going to
dispense with all things dishonest and dishonorable--at some future
date. Another bad thing about Wright was that he would steal, not only
from the company, but from the porter as well, by virtue of the rule
that required the porter to take a duplicate receipt from the conductor
for each and every passenger riding on his car, whether the passenger
has a ticket or pays cash fare. These receipts are forwarded to the
Auditor of the company at the end of each run.
Wright's method of stealing from the porter was not to turn over any
duplicates or receipts until arriving at the terminus. Then he would
choose a time when the porter was very busy brushing the passengers'
clothes and getting the tips, and would then have no time to count up or
tell just how many people had ridden. I had received information from
others concerning him and was cautioned to watch. So on our first trip I
quietly checked up all the passengers as they got on and where they got
off, as well as the berth or seat they occupied. Arriving at Granger
going east he gave me the wink and taking me into the smoking room he
proceeded to give me the duplicates and divide the spoils. He gave me
six dollars, saying he had cut such and such a passenger's fare and that
was my part. I summed up and the amount "knocked down" was thirty-one
dollars. I showed him my figures and at the same time told him to hand
over nine-fifty more. How he did rage and swear about the
responsibilities being all on him, that he did all the collecting and
the "dirty work" in connection therewith, that the company didn't fire
the porter. He said before he would concede to my demands he would turn
all the money in to the company and report me for insolence. I sat
calmly through it all and when he had exhausted his vituperations I
calmly said "nine-fifty, please." I had no fear of his doing any of the
things threatened for I had dealt with grafting conductors long enough
to know that when they determined on keeping a fare they weren't likely
to turn in their portion to spite the porter, and Wright was no
exception.
But getting back to the last trip. An old lady had given me a quart of
Old Crow Whiskey bottled in bond. There had been perhaps a half pint
taken out. I thanked her profusely and put it in the locker, and since
Wright found that he could not keep any of my share of the "knocked
down" fares he was running straight--that is with me, and we were quite
friendly, so I told him of the gift and where to find it if he wanted a
"smile." In one end of the P----n where the drawing room cuts off the
main portion of the car, and at the beginning of the curved aisle and
opposite to the drawing room, is the locker. When its door is open it
completely closes the aisle, thus hiding a person from view behind it.
Before long I saw Wright open the door and a little later could hear him
ease the bottle down after taking a drink.
When we got to Portland, Wright was feeling "about right" and the bottle
was empty. As he divided the money with me he cried: "Let her run on
three wheels." It was the last time he divided any of the company's
money with a porter. When he stepped into the office at the end of that
trip he was told that they "had a message from Ager" the assistant
general superintendent, concerning him. Every employee knew that a
message from this individual meant "off goes the bean." I never saw
Wright afterwards, for they "got" me too that trip.
The little Irish conductor, who was considered the shrewdest of the
shrewd, had run a long time and "knocked down" a great amount of the
company's money but the system of "spotting" eventually got him as it
does the best of them.
I now had two thousand, three hundred and forty dollars in the bank. The
odd forty I drew out, and left the remainder on deposit, packed my trunk
and bid farewell to Armour Avenue and Chicago's Black Belt with its beer
cans, drunken men and women, and turned my face westward with the spirit
of Horace Greeley before and his words "Go west, young man, and grow up
with the country" ringing in my ears. So westward I journeyed to the
land of raw material, which my dreams had pictured to me as the land of
real beginning, and where I was soon to learn more than a mere observer
ever could by living in the realm of a great city.