We all fall down at times,
Though we have nerve and grit;
You're worth a bet, but don't forget--
To lay down means to quit.
"Columbus, Ohio, is a long ways out west and I don't hope tu ever git tu
see you all agin but I hope you won't fergit me, kase I'll never fergit
you. I'd go with you all but I'm 'bliged tu keep my promise. I hope my
married life will turn out all right but you kan't never guess whar
you're goin' tu land when yu sail on the sea of matermony.
"They say the reason men don't practis what they preach is bekase they
need the money. Well, if he practices what he preaches, he'll be a good
pervider and that's all I'll ask of him.
"I hope John will do better when you git settled in Columbus an' I know
he will. Alfred's mos' a man grown an' he'll be a big help to his pap if
ye'll jes' take him right. I jes' told John day afore yisterday--I ses,
ses I--'Alfurd's no child enny more and you ought not tu treat him like
a boy.' I want you all to write me and tell me how yu like it. I s'pose
when yu git out in Ohio you'll all git the ager. Uncle Wilse's folks did
and they shook thar teeth loose. They moved to Tuscarrarus County.
Newcomerstown was thar post office. They wrote us they wanted to kum
back home afore they was there a month.
"It's bad fur ole peepul to change their hums. Hits all right fur young
folks kase they're not settled an' they soon fergit the old love fur the
new, but I hope you'll like hit. John says the railroads kum into
Columbus from both ways an' the cars are comin' an' goin' all the time.
If you live close tu the depot you won't sleep much kase you hain't used
tu hit."
Lin's fears were not realized. Alfred's home was far from the depot. It
was in the South End, in fact, the South End was Columbus in those days.
Those who guided the destinies of railroads were as wise in those days
as these of the present. The site of Coony Born's father's brewery was
selected as the most desirable location for a passenger depot. The good
people of Columbus (the South End) were more jealous of their rights
than the people of today when a railroad is supposed to be encroaching
upon them; therefore when it was proposed to locate a depot where the
noise would disturb their slumbers and their setting hens, the
opposition of not the few, but many, was aroused. To locate the depot in
their midst was an invasion of their rights. Not only would it disturb
the quietude of their homes but it would be a menace to their business
inasmuch as it would attract undesirable strangers. The business men of
the South End had their regular customers and did not care to take
chances with strangers. They admitted a depot was a necessity--a sort of
nuisance--to be tolerated, but not approved.
Railroad people of those days were as inconsistent as those of today.
They were spiteful. They built a depot outside the city limits, as near
the line of demarcation as possible.
North Public Lane, now Naghten Street, was the north city limits. The
South End had won. They celebrated their victory over the railroads by a
public demonstration. Hessenauer's Garden was crowded. The principal
speaker, in eloquent Low Dutch, congratulated the citizens on the
preservation of their rights--and slumbers. He highly complimented them
over the fact that they had forced the railroads to locate their depot
as far from the South End as the law and the city limits would permit.
The new depot was connected with the city by a cinder path, nor could
the city compel the builders of the new depot to lay a sidewalk. The
depot people claimed the land thereunder would revert to the city.
Therefore, in the rainy seasons incoming travelers carried such
quantities of the cinder walk on their feet that the sidewalks of High
Street appeared to strangers in mourning for the sad mistake of those
who platted the town in confining the city forever to one street.
Every incoming locomotive deposited its ashes on the cinder path. The
city could not remove the ashes as rapidly as they accumulated. The task
was abandoned and to this day no continuous efforts are made to keep the
streets of Columbus clean. Like the good fraus of the South End cleaning
house, the streets are cleaned once a year--near election time.
There was no population north of Naghten Street until after the erection
of the depot. It is true there were a few North of Ireland folks living
in the old Todd Barracks, and many of their descendants to this day can
be found on Neil Avenue; yet they had no political power at that time;
in fact the South End people, with that supreme indifference which
characterizes those who have possession by right of inheritance, did not
even note the invasion of the city by the Yankees and Puritans from
Worthington and Westerville. It was not until Pat Egan was elected
coroner that the residents of the South End realized a candidate of
theirs could be laid out by a foreigner.
It was in those days that Alfred was introduced to Columbus. They were
the good old days, when all thrifty people made their kraut on All
Hallowe'en and the celebration of Schiller's birthday was only
overshadowed by that of Washington's; when the first woods were away out
in the country and quail shooting good anywhere this side of Alum Creek.
The State Fair grounds (Franklin Park) were in the city.
The State House, the Court House, Born's Brewery, the City Hall, and
Hessenauer's Garden, all in the South End, were all the public
improvements the city could boast of. Others were not desired.
Those days only live in the memory of the good people who enjoyed
them--the good old days when every lawn in the South End was a social
center on Sundays; where every tree shaded a happy, contented gathering
whose songs of the Fatherland were in harmony with the laws of the land,
touching a responsive chord in the breasts of those who not only enjoyed
the benefits and blessings of the best and most liberal government on
earth, but appreciated them.
The statesmen of those days, the men who made laws and upheld them,
chosen as rulers by a majority of their fellow citizens, were respected
by all. It was not necessary for an official to stand guard between the
rabble and the administration. Office holders stood upon the dignity of
their offices. Demagogues had not instilled in the minds of the ignorant
that to be governed was to be oppressed. Those unfitted by nature and
education to administer public affairs did not aspire to do so nor to
embarrass those who were competent.
In the good old days of Columbus, in the days of "Rise Up" William
Allen, Allen W. Thurman, Sunset Cox and others, that fact that has been
recognized in republic, kingdom and empire, namely: That that government
is least popular that is most open to public access and interference.
The office holders of those days were strong and self-reliant. They
formulated and promulgated their policies. They had faith in themselves.
The voters had faith in them and faith is as necessary in politics as in
religion.
The glories of the South End began to wane. South End people in the
simplicity of their minds felt they were entitled to their customs,
liberties and enjoyments.
Sober and law abiding, they only asked to be permitted to live in their
own way as they had always lived. But the interlopers objected. The
Yankees interfered in private and public affairs, legislation was
distorted, and still more aggravating, the descendants of the Puritans
demanded that at all public celebrations pumpkin pie and sweet cider be
substituted for lager beer, head and limburger cheese.
A German lends dignity to any business or calling he may engage in.
Honest and industrious, he succeeds in his undertakings. In the old days
all that was required to establish a paying business in the South End
was a keg of beer, a picture of Prince Bismarck and a urinal. Patronized
by his neighbors, his place was always quiet and orderly. But little
whiskey was consumed, hence there was but little drunkenness.
When William Wall invited George Schoedinger into John Corrodi's, George
called for beer. Wall, with a shrug of his shoulders to evidence his
disgust, said: "Oh, shucks! Beer! Beer! Take whiskey, mon, beer's too
damn bulky." As there was no prohibition territory in those days there
was no bottled beer. Whether keg beer was too bulky or not relished,
brewery wagons seldom invaded the sections wherein the interlopers
dwelt. The grocery wagons of George Wheeler and Wm. Taylor were often in
evidence. Both of these groceries in the North End did a thriving jug
and bottle trade. The Germans bought and imbibed their beer openly. The
grocery wagons were a cloak to the secretiveness of those whom they
served, therefore those who patronized the grocery wagons were greatly
grieved and rudely shocked at the sight of the beer wagons and the
knowledge that their fellow citizens drank beer in their homes or on
their lawns.
This became an issue in politics and religion. Many went to church
seeking consolation and were forced to listen to political speeches.
Preachers forgot their calling; instead of preaching love, they
advocated hatred. The German saloon, being lowly and harmless, must go.
In their stead came the mirrored bar with its greater influence for the
spread of intemperance but clothed with more respectability outwardly.
Public officials were embarrassed, cajoled and threatened. The
malcontent, the meddler, the demagogue, had injected their baneful
innovations into the political life of Columbus.
It is related the Indians would not live as the Puritan fathers desired
they should. They would not accept the dogmas and beliefs of the whites.
At Thanksgiving time, a period of fasting and prayer, the Puritan
fathers held a business meeting and these resolutions were adopted:
First, resolved, that the earth and the fullness thereof belong to God.
Second, that God gave the earth to his chosen people.
Third, that we are those.
They then adjourned, went out and slew every redskin in sight.
Politically, the same fate was meted out to the peaceful citizens of the
South End. The sceptre had passed from the hands of the sturdy old
burghers of the South End. In their stead came a crop of office holders
who, striving for personal popularity, catering to the meddler and
busybody--a class who had no business of their own, but ever ready to
attend to that of others. From a willing-to-be governed and peaceful
city, discontent and confusion came. Every tinker, tailor or candle
stick maker, every busybody in the city took it upon themselves,
although without training, ability or experience, to advise how the city
should be governed.
In the new order of things, representatives were elected noted only for
their talking talents, the consequence of which was that every official
considered that he was entitled to talk and talk on every subject
whether he understood it or not.
There was a custom among the warriors of Rome that when one fell in
battle, each soldier in his command cast a shovelful of earth on the
corpse. Thus a mighty mound was formed.
And so it was in the new order of things in Columbus. When a question of
moment came, every official endeavored to shower his eloquence upon it
until it was buried under a mass of words. The busybodies who so greatly
interfered with public matters were from the grocery wagon sections and
were addicted to chewing cloves. Those from the West Side chewed
tobacco. All ate peanuts. Special appropriations were requested by John
Ward, city hall janitor, to remove the peanut hulls after each talk
fest. And thus it was that peanut politics and peanut politicians came
to be known in Columbus. Peanut politics like all infections, spread
until the whole political system became affected. If the depot had been
located in the South End there would be no North End today.
Do you remember the North End before the depot was located there? Do you
remember Wesley Chapel on the site of the present Wesley and Nicholas
block. Worship was never disturbed by the hum of business. In the North
End in those days there was Tom Marshall's Red Bird Saloon, Jack Moore's
barber shop, and that old frame building, Hickory Alley and High Street,
No. 180, a floor space of twenty-five by forty feet. They turned out one
hundred and fifty buggies a year. Later, as the Columbus Buggy Company,
a buggy every eight minutes was the output. That was the beginning of
the largest concern of its kind in the world.
The Columbus Buggy Company and Doctor Hartman, the foremost citizen of
Columbus, have done more to bring fame and business to Columbus than all
other concerns combined. Their advertising matter, the most expensive
ever used, is distributed to all parts of the world; hence, the man
abroad hailing from Columbus is not compelled to carry a map to verify
his statement that Columbus is on it.
The Columbus of that day had more street railways than the Columbus of
today. In fact, every man that had a pull had a street of his own.
Columbus has more streets than any city in the world, comparatively. It
is true some of them are not as long as the names they bear, yet they
are on the town plat. Probably it was this ambition to own a street that
influenced others to own street railways. We always spoke of "Old Man"
Miller owning the two-horse High Street line. Luther Donaldson owned the
one-horse line on State Street. Doctor Hawkes owned the one-horse line
on West Broad Street. Doctor Hawkes owned several stage lines diverging
from Columbus. He was the most serious of men. Alfred was in his employ.
His duties called him to towns on the various stage routes. Hunting was
good anywhere in those days. Alfred was provided with a rickety buggy
and a spavined horse. He provided himself with a shot gun and a dog.
[Illustration: The First Home of The Columbus Buggy Co.]
Returning from Mt. Sterling one raw autumn day, the game had been
plentiful. The old Doctor met Alfred near where the Hawkes Hospital (now
Mt. Carmel) stands. The Doctor driving a nettled horse, hurriedly
advised Alfred that business of importance demanded he return to
Washington C. H. There was a fine bag of game under the seat in the
buggy, also a double barreled shot gun and a hunting suit. How to
explain their presence to the Doctor was perplexing, although he had not
neglected the business entrusted to him; in fact, he was an hour ahead
of the time. Alfred feared the Doctor would be displeased.
The Doctor, quickly alighting, ordered Alfred into his rig.
"Doctor, I have a bunch of quail under the seat. Just let me get my gun
out and you can have the quail if you want them; if not, send them out
to father's." The old Doctor knitted his brow but said nothing. However,
the quail were sent to the father's house.
Another day, starting on a trip to the country, the Doctor standing on
the steps of the office, looked at Alfred and asked if he had forgotten
anything.
"No, sir, nothing. I have everything I usually take with me."
"Where's your gun?" asked the Doctor.
"Out home," replied Alfred. "Now Doctor, I have done a little hunting
but I always start early and I never neglect your business."
The Doctor muttered something about hunting being a frivolous sport and
it should not be engaged in on your employer's time.
He never permitted anyone to waste time. The Hawkes' farm, embracing all
the land on the West Side near where the Mt. Carmel Hospital is now
located, was covered with stones. It was a fad of the Doctor's to pass
an afternoon on the farm, gathering stones.
Preparing to leave for Aetna one morning, Alfred called at the office to
receive instructions. It was late when the old gentleman put in an
appearance. He had had a bad night and desired Alfred to accompany him
to the farm.
Arriving at the farm, it was not long until he had Alfred picking up
stones. The greater part of the day was thus spent. Alfred's back ached.
He thought it the most peculiar fad a sane man ever indulged in. The
Doctor was as deeply interested as though engaged in some great
undertaking. A dozen boulders were placed in the buggy, as heavy a load
as the old vehicle would stand up under. Driving to a point where the
Doctor had quite a pile, the stones were unloaded and another load
collected.
Rabbits were numerous. The next visit to the farm Alfred carried his
gun. It was but a few moments until a cotton-tail jumped up in the path
of the buggy. Alfred killed the rabbit. It was not long until four of
the big-eared bunnies were dead on the buggy floor. The old Doctor began
to show interest in the sport. When Alfred made a move to lay away his
gun, the Doctor requested that he continue the hunt. Nor was it long
until he advised Alfred that he would accompany him to Mt. Sterling and
requested that the gun and dog be taken along. The Doctor without
expressing himself as being at all interested, followed Alfred in the
field. The only interest he seemed to take in the sport was when the
hunter missed; then, knitting his brows, he would follow the birds with
his eyes as they flew away.
Dr. Hawkes was the most unimpressionable of men. He had no conception of
humor. He rarely smiled and never laughed outright. He assured Alfred
that he would employ a man who had been in the penitentiary in
preference to one who had traveled with a circus. The prejudiced old
doctor was not aware that Alfred formerly followed the "red wagons."
A contract had been entered into to convey a number of young school
girls to their homes in the country. The driver failed to report. An
hour passed. The old doctor was greatly worried. The team was the best
in the barn and more than anxious to answer to the driver's command.
Alfred climbed to the seat. Old Miles, the barn boss, was in doubt as to
entrusting the horses to a driver who was not familiar with them.
"Hol' on, boy. Everybody kan't handle dis team."
"Turn them loose, Miles, I'm on my way," Alfred shouting "All-aboard."
The Doctor looked on in doubt. Gazing up at Alfred he began questioning
him as to where he had learned to drive four horses.
"Oh, when I was with a circus," replied Alfred. "I reined six better
ones than these."
"You have a precious load. I'm really afraid to trust them to you. It
would be an awful thing if you should not be able to handle the team.
I'll send old Joe with you."
"It's not necessary," Alfred replied.
The young ladies aboard, the whip cracked, they were off; around the
State House square, up High Street on a lively trot. The old Doctor
stood on the corner with as near a smile on his face as Alfred ever
noticed.
In the evening he complimented Alfred meagerly on his proficiency as a
whip. Alfred laughingly reminded him that they did not teach you stage
driving over at the "pen". Uncle Henry, a blacksmith who shod the
Doctor's stage horses, asserted the reason the Doctor preferred those
from the "pen" was that he could hire them cheaper.
James Clahane was facetiously dubbed "The Duke of Middletown" by his
friends, and that meant everybody who was intimate with the good-natured
Irishman.
There must be something ennobling in the blacksmith calling. It not only
strengthens the muscles but the nature of a man.
When Doctor Hawkes projected the horse car line on West Broad Street, he
solicited Clahane to buy stock. The old blacksmith had his hard-earned
savings invested in West Broad Street building lots. The Doctor argued
the street car line would not only pay handsome dividends but greatly
enhance the value of abutting property. Clahane, very much against his
judgment, invested considerable money in the street car line. The cars
were not operated a month until Clahane questioned the Doctor as to when
the road would strike a dividend. It was considered a good joke by all,
save the Doctor.
Burglars cracked the street car safe, securing over four hundred dollars
of the company's money. The news spread quickly. Clahane, minus coat,
with plug hat in hand, (it was a hot morning), approached the office.
Several gentlemen, including the Doctor, stood on the steps viewing the
wreck within. Clahane, while yet the width of Broad Street away, shouted
at the top of his voice: "Egad, Dhoctur, yese hev got yere divident." If
the old Doctor realized the humor of this dig he never evidenced it.
The world declared the Doctor cold and uncharitable, but Alfred never
enters Mt. Carmel Hospital that he does not lift his hat in reverence as
he halts in front of the marble bust that so faithfully portrays the
serious face of Doctor Hawkes.
In those days Heitman was Mayor, Sam Thompson Chief of Police, Lott
Smith was the 'Squire of the town, and 'Squire Doney in the township.
Chief Heinmiller ran the Fire Department and ran it right. Oliver Evans
had the exclusive oyster trade of the city, handling it personally with
a one horse wagon. The postoffice was near the Neil House. The canal
boats unloaded at Broad Street, and Columbus had a Fourth of July
celebration every year.
Alfred was one of a committee of young men laboring, to demonstrate to
the world that the birth of this nation was an event, and incidently, to
attract attention to a section of the city that had been overlooked in
the way of street improvements. The large vacant field opposite the
Blind Asylum was selected as the proper location for the Fourth of July
celebration. The fact that the brass band, lately organized by the
officers of the Blind Asylum, would be available for the exercises, had
great weight with the committee, in selecting the location. Parsons
Avenue, then East Public Lane, was the muddiest street in the city.
Those who drove their cows home via East Public Lane will verify this
statement.
The city council had been appealed to personally and by petition.
Finally, to partially appease public outcry, a very narrow sidewalk was
constructed from Friend, now Main Street, to Mound, one short square.
This very narrow sidewalk aroused those of the neighborhood as never
before, excepting when the pound was established and citizens prevented
pasturing their live stock on the public streets.
Among the attractions of the Fourth of July celebration were Lon
Worthington, tight-rope walker; Billy Wyatt, in fire-eating exercises; a
greased pig; Ed DeLany, who was to read the Declaration of Independence
and Alfred a burlesque oration.
There was universal dissatisfaction over the narrow sidewalk and many
independent citizens refused to walk upon it. They waded in mud to their
knees, and proudly boasted of their independence as citizens. Even
ladies refused to use the sidewalk, asserting it was so narrow two
persons could not pass without embracing.
There was an old soldier who bore the scars of numerous battles and was
looking for more. On the glorious Fourth, to more strongly emphasize his
disdain for the narrow sidewalk, he rigged himself out in the uniform he
had worn throughout the war. Although it was excessively hot he wore not
only his fatigue uniform but his heavy blue double-caped overcoat. He
paraded up and down along the side of the detested sidewalk, never
stepping foot upon it. When his feet became too heavy with mud he
scraped it off on the edge of the walk as he cursed the city council. He
consigned them to----, where there are no Fourth of Julys or sidewalks.
Strains of music foretold the coming of the grand parade, headed by the
Blind Band, marching in the middle of the street, their movement guided
by a Drum Major blessed with the sight of one eye. On they came, four
abreast, taking up the narrow street from field fence line to narrow
sidewalk line. From the opposite direction came the Son of Mars. He was
large enough to be the father of that mythical warrior. The four slide
trombone players leading the van were rapidly nearing the violent
soldier who was taking up as much street as the four musicians; in fact,
after his last visit to Ed Turner's saloon, the old soldier actually
required the full width of the street. As the band and soldiers neared
each other, it was evident there would be a collision. On the old "vet"
marched, oblivious of everything on earth excepting the sidewalk. People
yelled at him. One man who knew something of military tactics shouted
"Halt!" The old veteran shouting back, to go to where he had consigned
the city council and their sidewalk. "Get out of the way; let the band
by!" Waving his mace as an emblem of authority, Jack Nagle, the
policeman, ran towards the old soldier. "Get out of the way! Get out of
the street! Get on the sidewalk! Can't you walk on the sidewalk?" "Walk
on the sidewalk," shouted the old soldier, "Walk on the sidewalk? Huh,
what in hell do you take me for, the tight-rope walker?"
The Fourth of July celebration was successful. In obtaining street
improvements, East Public Lane was paved with brick twenty years
afterwards, thus Alfred gained a reputation as a politician.
Years later, George J. Karb, a candidate for sheriff, requested Alfred
and several of his friends to make a tour of the northern part of the
county in his interest--a section noted for its piety and
respectability. There were Mayor George Pagels and Bill Parks and Jewett
of Worthington, Fred Butler of Dublin, Tom Hanson of Linworth, and
numerous other deacons and elders to be seen. Karb requested that Alfred
select the right people to accompany him. W. E. Joseph, Charley Wheeler
and Gig Osborn, made up the committee that was to present the merits of
the candidate for sheriff to the voters of the Linwood and Plain City
section. Karb was furious when he learned that Fred Atcherson had
volunteered to carry the party in his big Packard machine. He swore they
would lose him more votes than he could ever hope to regain; an
automobile was the detestation of every farmer. To complete the campaign
organization the committee decided to wear the largest goggles, caps and
automobile coats procurable. The first farmer's team they met shied off
the road, upsetting the wagon, breaking the tongue and crushing one
wheel. The committee gave the farmer an order on Fred Immel to repair
the wagon if possible, otherwise deliver a new wagon to the bearer,
charging same to George J. Karb.
This experience cautioned the party to be more careful. Another farmer's
team approaching, they halted by the roadside a hundred yards from the
passing point. Do what he would the farmer could not urge his team by
the automobile. Charley Wheeler became impatient and sarcastic. "What's
the matter? You going to hold us here all day? Didn't your crow-baits
ever see a gas wagon before?"
"Yes, my team has seed gas wagons and gas houses afore," sneered the
farmer, "but they hain't used to a hull pack of skeer crows in one
crowd. When we put a skeer crow in a corn field, one's all we make. Some
damned fools make a dozen and put 'em all in one automobile. If you'll
all get out and hide, my team will go by your ole benzine tank."
Hot and dusty, the party halted in front of a hotel. The village was
larger and more prosperous than any yet visited.
A number of men were threshing grain a few hundred yards away, the steam
threshing machine attracting farmers from all the country about. One a
peculiar man, more refined appearing than the others, had once been a
college professor; overstudy had partially unbalanced his reason. He was
versed in the classics. He took an especial interest in Alfred.
Bill Joseph is the luckiest man that ever tapped a slot machine. When
traveling he often steps off the train while it halts at a depot and
pulls his expenses out of a slot machine. On this day he was unusually
lucky. The hotel had a varied assortment of drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot
devices. Joe tapped them in a row. The hotel people looked upon him with
suspicion. But when he carried the winnings into the bar, ordering the
hotel man to slake the thirsts of the threshers, they were sort of
reconciled. The old college professor, unlike the others, demanded
something stronger than beer. His neighbors, who evidently had him in
charge, endeavored to persuade him to go home.
[Illustration: On the Crowd Cheered]
"Wait! Hold a minute. I want to talk to this man Field. He is a
scientific man. His father laid the Atlantic cable. His family is noted
the world over. I want to talk to him. The Field family are noted
scientists."
One of those who seemed most intimate with the professor was an old
soldier, very deaf.
"What did you say his name was?" he inquired.
"Field," replied the professor. "F-i-e-l-d."
"Field," repeated the old soldier. "Field. Well, I want nuthin' to do
with _him_. Field was my captain's name in the army, an' he was the
damnedest beat I ever knowed."
The old professor stuck to Alfred quoting Latin. He quoted a striking
climax from one of Bryan's speeches, a quotation Bryan has been using in
his Chautauqua lectures and political speeches for years. The old
professor observed Claudius evolved this idea years ago. Alfred had no
idea of who Claudius was, or how long ago he lived. However, when he
located him four hundred years back, the old professor said "Huh, four
hundred years ago? H-ll! Four thousand years." Alfred did not delve into
the classics further.
Alfred presented the claims of Geo. Karb for the office of Sheriff and
concluded his talk by inviting all to call on Karb when they happened in
Columbus. "And when election day comes around, I hope you will all see
your way clear to cast your votes for him, even though you are opposed
to him politically. We must not adhere too strictly to our political
prejudices in selecting officers to look after our personal affairs. And
that's what a sheriff should do, and that's what Geo. Karb will do.
Therefore, I ask you to cast your votes for Geo. J. Karb for sheriff of
Franklin County."
The crowd cheered.
The old professor took it upon himself to reply. First, he thanked all
for the honor they did his community by visiting them. "We have too few
scientists visit us and I hope Mr. Field will come again when he can
enlighten us on many scientific matters of which we are in doubt. As to
his candidate for Sheriff of Franklin County, we know he is deserving or
Mr. Field and the eminent gentlemen would not commend him. And I know
that every voter here would be glad to vote for Mr. Karb if we lived in
Franklin County."
The facts are, the committee in their zeal, were electioneering in
Milford Center, Union County.
Joe was pryed off the slot machines and a solemn compact entered into
that the part of the electioneering tour over the Franklin County line
be forever held and guarded as a sealed book.