+Strange Occurrences.+
"_Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more,
For olden times and holier shore,
God's love and blessing then and there,
Are now and here and everywhere._"
"I must tell you of several most wonderful occurrences which have taken
place since 1913," continued the old lady looking at some papers which
she held in her hand.
"It was deemed necessary, about the year 1951 to increase the water
supply for the City of Portland and it was ascertained that the
conditions at Mount Hood forbade looking to that place for a greater
supply and it was decided to utilize the, as yet, great and untouched
abundance of water offered by Mount St. Helens, and three years later
the pipe line was completed, and water from beautiful St. Helens was
turned into the new and immense reservoirs constructed for the ever
increasing population.
"It was fortunate for the city that this new supply was projected and
consummated just at this time for it was but a year later that Mt. Hood,
which had been 'groaning' for some time began to belch forth from its
intestines a mass of smoke and lava which bared the mountain of snow and
caused much consternation among our people. The volcano continued active
for several weeks, at intervals, finally entirely subsiding and it has
been on its good behavior now for 25 years. Repairs were made to the
pipe line and Portland, today, is getting a portion of its water supply
from Mt. Hood as of yore.
"The radical changes in the methods of railroading have caused a new
era in locomotion and rolling stock. Steam gave way to gasoline and that
energy to electricity which held sway for a long time only to be
replaced by a newer power, which is not as yet given out to the public.
"The O. W. R. & N. Company now occupy a building of their own, 20
stories high, and I notice the names of Cotton, Sutherland, O'Brien,
Campbell, Buckley, Klippel, are still on the official list, all of whom
are descendants of the officials who served the company earlier in the
century.
"The old Wells, Fargo & Company's building still stands and that express
company occupies the entire structure with no rooms to spare.
"The Hasty Messenger & Express Company, founded in 1899, is celebrating
its 100th anniversary, its manager being Napoleon Traverso, whose
progenitor was connected with the company in 1910.
"There has been a wonderful improvement in the present-day typewriters.
As I mentioned earlier in my story, there is now a universal language
with but 8,000 words. Of this number about 1,000 is all sufficient for
an ordinary person and the genius of the inventor has reduced to
a combination these 1,000 words in such a manner, that it is possible
for a good operator to copy a sermon, or lecture, with ease, on the
typewriter, from the most rapid talking orator.
"The sphere of usefulness of the phonograph has widened and it is now
'A thing of joy forever.' It seems that this splendid instrument is now
gifted with almost human intelligence. Take for instance, an item cut
from a daily paper and paste it on the cylinder, or disc, and without
further preparation, a voice will read off the item to you in a plain,
clear tone. Paste on the disc, the 'Index of today's news' from your
morning paper and start it going and the items are read off to you
correctly and in good voice. Do you wonder then that I call this a great
age?" and a pleased smile came to the old lady's countenance.
"Many splendid brains have been working to better the methods and
increase the value and usage of the telephone, and one must 'hit the
ball and hit it all the time' to be able to hold an official position
with a telephone company. The result of these efforts have put the
telephone to varied uses. You can now, not only talk to a person over a
wire, but you can actually see them, life size and just as they are,
exactly as if you were talking to them face to face.
"Telephones are everywhere, but there are no longer any 'Centrals' and
no more 'Number, please,' is heard, that system becoming unpopular about
1925. Public telephones are established on each street corner, where one
may call up, talk to and see the person who answers the phone.
"Much telephoning is now being done by wireless and that branch of the
service has developed greatly and is used to communicate with aerial
vehicles. This service has been perfected, many former objectionable
features being eliminated or overcome.
"I am about to relate an occurrence which is by far the most wonderful I
have yet told and it is a phenomena which startled the world, making the
superstitious quake, and bringing alarm to many nervous people.
"You know that it was in 1912 that the ill-fated Captain Scott planted
the flag at the South Pole, losing his valuable life in the 'get away.'
"Ice was forming at the South Pole, each year encroaching more and more
towards the north and some alleged scientific men predicted that the
time would surely come when the ice deposit at the South Pole would
become so great and the weight so heavy, that it would result in
throwing the earth off its present axis, probably tipping up old Mother
Earth and reversing the positions of the Equator and the Poles.
"As the century rolled on this doctrine became much talked about and
many extravagant speculations were made as to the exact time when the
catastrophe would take place, the most advantageous country to emigrate
to in order to insure safety, and business generally was much disturbed.
It was difficult to sell or hypothecate any real estate, and money and
jewels were considered of doubtful value. Continued cold weather, far
into the summer months, was the usual occurrence for several years and
devastating rains fell upon the earth. Street preaching was the order of
the day, and at every corner an earnest man or woman held an interested
crowd discussing the Last Day, which they assured the listeners was near
at hand. Many people gave away their entire worldly possessions and
essayed to get their soul ready for its eternal flight. As the days
passed by the excitement increased, and aerial voyages to the South Pole
were planned and executed by thousands of people in their air machines.
In former days it was a fad to take a trip around the world
latitudinally, but now all these tourists wanted to go the other way of
the stuff, and make the journey longitudinally, crossing the Frigid,
Temperate and Torrid zones, North and South poles, and the journey was
completed, by some, in less than 20 days. The reports given out by these
travelers were not encouraging and much distress of mind was manifest.
"One day a report came that the South Pole was in process of eruption
and that the ice was beginning to move. This announcement spread dismay
on all sides, many now accepting the evil prognostications as being
true, and the excitement was intense. The street preaching became more
general but this merely increased the agitation. One preacher, a
benevolent looking gentleman, who was very much at ease during all this
disturbing period, seemed to be able to quiet the fears of the people by
simply stating that God was present everywhere, and he would sing a hymn
with that title. His singing and talks were very comforting to many who
listened to his words and they patiently waited for what was to come.
"The eruptions continued and every day or two more volcanoes appeared,
throwing up steam and lava, breaking up and displacing the ice which now
began to move Northward. The huge mass was reported to look very
threatening and the many photographs taken of the phenomena only
produced more excitement. For days this situation continued, and now the
ice was fast disappearing at the South Pole and it was also melting in
the ocean as it proceeded north to the fiftieth degree. Disastrous
storms ensued and the Western hemisphere was deluged, but the ice was
melting rapidly under the fire of a dozen active volcanoes. Reports from
the South Pole were growing more encouraging and people were again
taking heart when, one day, the Department of the Interior announced
that all danger was over. Then there was rejoicing, the like of which
never before shook the earth.
"Of course, the return to common sense was marked by many humorous
occurrences. The people who showed the most trepidation and who gave
away all their earthly possessions, played the Indian act and wanted
their presents back. Many said they were glad to begin all over again to
accumulate worldly goods and the person who was thanked the most was he
who had preached of the Omnipresence of God.
"A wonderful lesson had been taught everybody and that epoch marked the
beginning of a truer brotherhood among mankind."
The old lady paused, and, heaving a sigh, exclaimed, "And, now my story
is done. I have tried to illustrate the utter uselessness of borrowing
trouble and being apprehensive without reason. I would like to have you
tell your readers that it is my advice to heed the words of the poet
prophet, 'Rest in the Lord, and He will give thee thy heart's desire.'
"What is my name, you ask?" here the old lady sighed again.
"I cannot tell you now, but some day you will know. I hope I have
fulfilled my mission and accomplished some good.
"In leaving you I would like you to remember:
"_That all of good the past hath had,
Remains to make our own time glad,
Our common daily life divine,
And every land a Palestine._"
And my queer little visitor disappeared.
+End of Part I.+
+Part II.+
+Other Sketches+
THE BAD MAN FROM BODIE.
It was not a prepossessing face that entered Jack Hamlin's office one
morning in Bodie, California.
"I say, young fellow, my name is Jim Slack, and I want ter talk ter
you."
"All right, go ahead, and I'll try and be a cheerful listener,"
responded Jack.
"I'm looking for a pardner and it struck me that you'd be the right
feller for the job," and the visitor tried to smile a persuasive smile,
but the attempt was a failure. The scar which began at his ear and
extended down to his throat was unbecoming, and his right ear which
looked as if a bite had been taken from it gave his head a one-sided
appearance. His eyes possessed a shifty, uncertain look, his beard was
of a reddish hue and two weeks' growth. His clothes were ragged,
ill-fitting and dirty.
Fastidious Jack Hamlin took his visitor in at a glance and laughed.
"So, you'd like me for a partner, would you?"
"Yes, I heard as how you were a spikilator like, and I want ter give yer
a chance ter git rich quick." He continued, "I am the owner of some of
the most valyable claims in the Lundy deestrict; I own the Sheepherder,
the Dutchman, the Julia Lundy and some other valyable prospects. I want
yer to grub stake me and one-half of all I own is yers." Here the
visitor gave Jack a furtive side glance, but presently looked away.
"So, I have the pleasure of talking to the honorable James Slack of whom
I have heard so much and I am further honored by being invited to become
his partner, for the mere pittance of a grub stake?" And Jack laughed a
merry laugh which did not please Slack. "You are the man that has
several scalps already attached to your belt and you'd probably like to
add mine to the collection, eh?"
Jim Slack winced under these insinuations, but he was hungry and he
diplomatically kept his temper.
"Those were all accidents and they never could prove it different,"
sullenly replied Slack. "I did not come here to be joshed, but ter give
yer a chance ter get rich quick."
"Very kind, indeed; here, take this and go and get a square meal, I
think you'll enjoy that," and Jack tossed a gold piece to his caller.
"Come again and we'll talk the matter over," and Jack returned to his
work.
Jim Slack was probably the worst character in Mono county. He had been
suspected of stage robbery, but so clever was his disguise that he could
not be convicted. It was known that he had killed three men, an
Irishman, a German, and a Chinaman, but he managed to save his neck
through some legal quibble. When he was drinking, he would become almost
a demon and assail friend or foe, if thwarted.
Jack Hamlin had made several thousand dollars about this time in mining
speculations, and the money troubled him. He was never cut out to be an
accumulator and money burnt a hole in his pocket.
"I believe I'll take a chance with you," he said, when Slack returned,
"but I want a straight out and out deal. Go over and have Tom Stephens
draw up the papers and I'll arrange the credit for you at the store."
No time was lost by Slack in obeying orders, and the next morning he
started for his mines in the high Sierras with an outfit, the like of
which he never before enjoyed. He swore everlasting fealty to Hamlin,
but the latter waived all this "cheap talk," as he called it, telling
Slack he expected to hear good reports from him.
Two months passed by, and a visit was projected by his new partner to
Slack's mines. The latter came down from his eyrie, the twain meeting at
Lundy, a little camp at the base of the mountain.
In drawing up the contract, Jim Slack had agreed to cut out liquor, and
much stress was placed upon this part of the agreement.
It was quite late in the evening when Jack and his comrade started up
the mountain for the mines. The location was far above the timber belt
and in a spot of almost everlasting snow.
It was too dark to make any inspection of the mines that evening and a
log fire was speedily burning for the weather was very cold on this July
evening.
The bed was uninviting, composed mostly of wild beasts' skins, the odor
of which was strong and lingering.
To Jack's surprise the first act of his host was to produce a whiskey
bottle which he placed to his mouth, taking a long swig, offering the
same to Hamlin.
"No, thank you," said Jack, "I don't like your brand."
"Good shot, that leaves the more for me," and the miner took another big
swig.
Quiet reigned for a few minutes, when suddenly, with a demoniacal yell,
Slack drew his gun and aiming it at one of the windows, emptied the six
shots in as many seconds, crying out, "I got him then, didn't you see
him? It was Paddy Mann, whom they say I killed last year. There, I saw
him tumble over the cliff," and the now thoroughly drunken man shrieked
with laughter.
Another libation was indulged in, and looking at the other window Slack
shuddered, exclaiming, "Ah, there is the Dutchman after me; what does he
want? Let me take a pop at him," and again was the revolver emptied into
the window, provoking much maudlin merriment from the gunner.
Hamlin laid quietly in bed all this time, feeling a sense of more
security by so doing, but on the alert with his own gun if it became
necessary to defend himself.
The bottle was again produced and the liquor went gurgling down Slack's
throat. "That was Hans Schmidt that I finished. What was he doing around
here, do you suppose?"
"Hold on, hold on," he shrieked, "here comes Ah Lim, the Chinaman, I can
see him dodging behind the rocks; let me go out and pepper him."
Six shots again rang out in the air, and throwing himself on the
ill-smelling bed, Slack pulled one of the skins over his head to shut
out the gruesome sight his imagination had conjured up.
"That Chinaman ought to know better 'n to come round this yere cabin. I
told him so, but he, too, has fallen over the slide and I'll never be
bothered by him. They been coming purty thick tonight, but I've done a
good job, and now I'll have another drink."
The big bottle was nearly emptied and Slack again threw himself on the
bed, apparently oblivious of Jack's presence.
After a few moments of quiet, the drunken man fell into a stupor,
snoring heavily. Hamlin saw his chance to escape, but he realized that
he was taking desperate chances. Were he to inadvertantly awaken the
sleeper, he might be number four.
Patiently waiting till the sleeper gave evidence of being soundly at
rest, he made for the door, which he quickly opened and passed out,
hastening with all speed for the friendly timber a quarter of a mile
away.
The night was clear, the moon shining brightly, like it does in the
lofty Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Jack had reached the timber belt,
when an awful shriek rang out upon the air, followed immediately by six
rapidly fired shots. Looking backward, the tall form of Jim Slack could
be seen coming down the snowy trail, and Jack accelerated his own speed.
Again and again did the pursuer empty his revolver at the fleeing
Hamlin, who could not hold his distance against this man of the
mountains.
The forest was growing thicker, and Jack saw his only chance for escape
was to hide from his pursuer, so dodged quickly behind a huge fir tree,
just as a sharp bend was made in the road.
With bated breath he waited the coming of his pursuer who passed by
three minutes later, gun in hand and shrieking and cursing like a demon.
Jack watched him, following him as closely as he dared, till the little
camp of Lundy was reached.
Slack pursued his way to the hotel bar room, which was crowded with the
usual habitues.
It will always remain a mystery as to how the affair happened, but it is
said that Jim Slack opened fire on his old enemy, Ed Clancy, who
retreated, only to reappear in the rear, where he poured a volley into
Slack. The latter fell, and, standing over the dying man, Clancy emptied
his second gun into the prostrate body.
The magistrate of the camp was a witness of the killing, and promptly
exonerated Clancy from any blame.
The following telegram was put on the wires immediately for the San
Francisco papers.
"James Slack, widely known as the 'Bad man from Bodie,' was killed in a
pistol fight tonight by Edward Clancy. The killing was justifiable.
Slack has relatives in San Francisco."
About noon on the following day a message was received by the postmaster
of Lundy reading:
"San Francisco, California, July 15.
"Please take care of James Slack's body till my arrival. I come on first
train.
Signed, His Mother."
Four days later, the lumbering stage coach drew up in front of the
hotel, and a little, old lady alighted. She was modestly attired and
possessed a sweet, gentle face.
"I am Mrs. Slack, the mother of James Slack, the man who was killed a
few days ago. Where will I find his remains?"
Every hat was doffed as the old lady passed out into the back room where
laid all there was of James Slack.
There were no tears in her eyes as she stooped down and kissed the dead
man on the forehead.
"My poor little Jimmie," she murmured, "my poor little Jimmie."
It was decided to bury the remains at Lundy and a grave had already been
dug for that purpose, over which some heartless fellow had placed a head
board, bearing the following inscription:
"Jim Slack, the toughest cuss in all Mono diggin's."
"This here don't go, I tell yer," said big Bill Hall, the hotel man,
"and this is what I'll do with sich a board," and seizing it threw it
over the Geiger grade, where it went clankety, clankety, clankety, down
2,000 feet to the creek below.
"Who can sing a hymn in this here crowd?" enquired Bill.
"I used ter know a couple of hymns when I went to Sunday School,"
ventured Dick Byzicks, and one or two others owned up that they, too,
knew a hymn or two and the volunteers stepped to the side of the woods
to rehearse.
It was an unusually quiet day in Lundy. The bar room was closed, the
first time in its history. Heads were uncovered as the little cortege
proceeded slowly from the hotel to the newly made grave. Jack Hamlin
walked with the little mother. A quartette of pretty fair voices sang
"Rock of Ages," and "Nearer My God to Thee." Hamlin read a few passages
from the only Bible in camp and the body was laid at rest.
A representative from the May Lundy mine, whose stockholders lived in
Calais, Maine, called on Mrs. Slack, offering her $10,000 for her son's
prospects, and after a little negotiation, the deal, was consummated,
Jack Hamlin generously waiving his partnership rights in favor of Mrs.
Slack.
A little marble monument marks the last resting place of Jim Slack,
which bears the following legend and no mark of disrespect has ever been
shown the grave:
"Sacred to the memory of James Slack, who died July 15th, A. D. 18--.
Erected by his mother, who always loved her son."
HE NEVER CAME BACK.
While the writer was on a long journey recently he was often entertained
by his old friends at their commercial clubs or other hospitable resorts
and an evening of genuine enjoyment was always sure to ensue.
At Ashland, Oregon, Frank Routledge, the genial manager of the Western
Union Telegraph Company tendered a smoker, at which were present some 30
telegraph and ex-telegraph men, all glad to get together for an evening.
Story telling was in order, and as most of the guests present had
traveled a good deal in their time, the tales told covered every known
topic.
"I'd like to know something about 'Bogy,'" exclaimed George Eubanks, an
erstwhile telegraph man and now a banker of Ashland. "I have heard so
much about 'Bogy's' great ability, but have never heard it corroborated.
Can anyone present tell me if it is really so that he could copy 50
words behind, all night?"
"Bogy" was a character whose real name was Henry Bogardus, and he was
one of those itinerant operators who are never content to remain in any
one place more than a week. He made annual pilgrimages to the Pacific,
and in his peregrinations would become acquainted with most every
railroad operator on the roads that he traversed. "Bogy" had a way of
convincing these humble knights of the key that he was a most
extraordinary operator which impression assisted him materially in
evading the inter-state commerce bill.
It was up to the writer to tell a story about "Bogy," as he had seen him
later than any of the rest of the assemblage.
About the year 1893, "Bogy" arrived in Portland, and straightway
appealed to the telegraph manager for a loan of $1, which was speedily
forthcoming, for nobody could refuse "Bogy."
An hour or so later, he repaired to the operating room, where he sat
down to the Walla Walla wire, proceeding to get off business on the
double quick.
"Who sent for you and what's your name?" queried the chief operator.
"Oh, that's all right, young fellow, I'm Bogy, and I refer you to our
manager," and the imperturbable artist proceeded sending to Walla Walla.
The manager informed the chief that "Bogy" was all right, that if he did
no good he would do no harm, and to let him continue his work.
"Bogy" worked all day and evening and clear up into the night, only
stopping when there was nothing left for him to do.
The soft side of a bench was a tempting bed for this weary traveler,
and, as he liked to sleep near the tick of the telegraph instruments,
permission was granted him to take the bench into the battery room.
Several days slipped by, "Bogy" working night and day. He certainly
enjoyed working; it was a pastime with him.
Saturday came, and with it the usual pay-day and "Bogy" received his
emoluments with the rest of the men.
"I want you on at 6 P. M. tonight," said the chief operator, "you will
take the Associated Press news tonight."
"I'll be here when the clock strikes 6 and I'm going to show you
something in the line of telegraphing the like of which has never been
performed here before," and "Bogy" assumed a very important air.
He was on hand promptly and sat down to the San Francisco wire, where
Billy Williamson was displaying his musical Morse. It was coming very
fast, but beautiful as an opera to listen to.
Picking up the manifold sheets, he discovered the carbons were not
straight and he began to adjust them, San Francisco sending right along.
"I say," began the night chief, "when are you going to start in to copy?
You are now 100 words behind."
"Cease from annoying me, I often copy 300 and 400 words behind. Now,
just wait till I locate my stylus and I'll show you what no other man
can do," and "Bogy" began a search for the missing article.
Williamson had now sent two full sheets and the night chief was very
nervous fearing an unlooked for denouement, but "Bogy" was impassive.
The missing stylus was at last found and "he" squared himself for his
grand feat, much to the relief of the very much excited night chief.
Fully 400 words had now been sent but "Bogy" looked wise.
"I say, my boy," addressing the night chief, "I'm going out for a few
minutes, but let him send just the same. I'll keep it all in my head
till I get back, and when I return you will see something in the way of
telegraphing that you never dreamed of before."
Saying this, "Bogy" went out into the dark and--never returned.
WHERE DID YOU GET THAT OIL?
The firm of Kelly, Dunne & Co. were doing business a quarter of a
century ago, and the junior member of that concern, David M. Dunne, was
very popular. He made friends and treated them right and they were
staunch and loyal.
The Portland Ice Company bought a great deal of oil from Mr. Dunne, and
notwithstanding all kinds of inducements, no one else could sell oil to
the ice company.
The foreman of the ice plant swore by the Kelly, Dunne & Co. product and
would treat with much brusquesness any drummer who had the hardihood to
come to him to dispose of oil. He had full charge of the works and was
held strictly accountable for the welfare of the plant.
Dr. Charlie Plummer, who was manager for a competitive house, had tried
in vain to introduce his wares but the erratic foreman was unswerving in
his loyalty to Dunne.
A bright young man, named Tony Neppach, a crack salesman, was employed
by Plummer and it was Tony's duties to crack all the hard nuts.
"I want you to go to the Portland Ice Company and sell them some oil,"
said Plummer to Neppach one day.
"You will see that I will do it," responded Tony and off he put.
"Don't come around here with your oil, I don't want it and I don't want
to talk to you on the subject. I am satisfied and that's all there is to
it," vociferously declared the foreman.
"Yes, but you are talking to an oil man now and my oil is far superior
to the stuff you have been using," replied the placid Tony.
Much talk ensued, Tony protesting that the foreman could not tell the
difference between the oil he was using and the product he was
endeavoring to sell and offered to set up the cigars for the crowd if he
could tell the difference, but if he failed to tell, then the foreman
was to give him an order for a barrel of oil. It was the noon hour and
some 50 men were witnessing the sale.
When the offer was accepted, Tony turned his back to the foreman and
produced a bottle of oil from his coat pocket, poured a little in each
hand which he showed the foreman, ejaculating, "Now, tell me which is
your oil and which is mine."
The foreman hesitated, looking at one hand and then the other, finally
touching Tony's left hand, triumphantly remarked, "Why, that is my oil."
A laugh followed this from the men who saw how the oil had been
manipulated and Tony told him that he had his oil in both hands.
Neppach received an order for a barrel which greatly pleased his
employer.
Two weeks passed by and Tony, who had been up the Valley on a business
trip, thought he would drop in at the Portland Ice Company before
reporting to his house.
Entering the machine room with a jaunty, nonchalant air, he began
singing in a high pitched voice, "How did you like my oil? How did you
like my oil?" this to the tune of "Where did you get that hat?"
The ice plant was in a complete state of chaos, pipes being torn out and
some 25 men were engaged in still further tearing out the piping. The
foreman was up on a high ladder assisting in the demolishing when he
espied Tony.
"There he is, there he is," he yelled and he slid down the ladder,
approaching the drummer with a formidable looking monkey wrench. His
language was strong, full of epithets and he swung the monkey wrench
menacingly.
Tony picked up a huge rock to defend himself, retreating backwards to
the door, where he beat his way to the store to ascertain the cause of
all this turbulent demonstration.
"Oh, that's so, you have been away and did not hear about it," said the
undisturbed Plummer. "You see, one of the boys made a mistake and sent
them the wrong oil, in fact, it was some oil which contained a good deal
of lard oil, and when they turned in the cold water into the pipes it
cooled off the lard and put them out of business."
The ice company lost that summer's output and litigation ensued, which
helped to popularize Dave Dunne's wares and Tony in disgust jumped his
job.
It was not long after this that Neppach was engaged by Nicolai Bros. as
manager of their planing mill and he was given full charge of the whole
business.
Nicolai Bros. owned some land down around Slabtown, a piece of which
they leased to a Swede, who ran a saloon on the premises.
The Swede's lease for three years was about to expire and as he was
doing a good business he became desirous to lease it for five years
longer. When he applied to the firm, he was referred to Mr. Neppach as
the proper person to negotiate with.
Tony saw him coming and determined to have a little fun.
Assuming a very severe air, he asked the Swede whose beer he sold, the
latter explaining that he had made a reputation with San Francisco beer.
"That settles it," exclaimed Tony, "you can't lease from us unless you
use the home product." Some important business at this juncture engaged
Neppach's attention, the Swede departed, and the incident was
temporarily forgotten.
A month later, the Swede called to pay his rent and announced that he
was now selling Weinhard's beer and was ready for the lease.
Tony produced a blank form and began filling it out. He dwelt at length
in the preamble over the great superiority of Weinhard's beer over every
known competitor, and in each sentence would have something to say about
the "Celebrated Weinhard's lager beer." He incorporated in the lease a
promise from the Swede that he never would drink, or allow any of his
friends to drink any beverage, excepting the world famous Weinhard's
beer. Never before or since has there been such an elaborate lease made
up and the funny part is that the whole matter was a huge joke.
A month elapsed and Mr. Weinhard noticed his new customer. He had been
seeking, without avail, the Swede's patronage, but here he was now,
giving good orders without any solicitation.
Mr. Weinhard determined to ascertain the reason for this change of
heart. The Swede informed him that he was obliged to patronize him in
order to retain his lease.
"Would you mind letting me see that lease?" queried Mr. Weinhard.
There being no objections the lease was sent to him for his perusal.
No one will ever be able to tell what passed through the brewer's mind
as he read the uncommon document, but he went to the telephone and
called up Nicolai Brothers.
"I want to speak to Mr. Tony Neppach."
"That's me," said the merry Tony.
"This is Henry Weinhard and I am putting up a building on the corner of
Fourth and Alder Streets and I want to tell you that you can have all
the mill work there, without price. Goodbye," and he hung up the phone.
Thus did Tony Neppach have his little joke, and his firm reaped an
unlooked for reward for the same.
A GRAPEVINE TELEGRAPH LINE.
It was the Fourth of July, 1876, and the City of St. Louis was
celebrating the occasion in the good old way, which is rapidly becoming
merely a matter of history.
The Atlantic & Pacific Telegraph Company had recently opened an office
in the Missouri metropolis, but the facilities were, indeed, very
meagre, consisting of but one wire to Chicago, which went along the
highways and byways the entire distance. The telegraph company did a
good business, the wire being crowded to its fullest capacity day and
night.
The advent of the new telegraph company had brought into existence a new
daily paper, the Morning Chronicle, which came to fill a long felt want.
The Chronicle could be supplied with press dispatches, a matter of vital
moment in the introduction of a new journal, even in those days.
On the afternoon of the "glorious Fourth" some bucolic individual with
more enthusiasm than good sense, shot off several insulators near Alton,
breaking the wire, and as the linemen were off duty celebrating the day
the telegraph company was put out of business pending repairs.
The writer was the night operator for this company at St. Louis at this
time, and while regretting the unfortunate break and loss to the
company, it looked like there was a chance for a holiday.
The Chronicle was informed of the situation, and the telegraph editor,
who was also city editor and writer of heavy editorials, came to the
telegraph office to discuss some way of obtaining some press dispatches.
"You can't expect to get any dispatches without a wire, and there is
absolutely no use hoping to get one tonight," was the report made to the
editor, who was very much chagrined. He said he was up against it and he
could not get out a paper unless he had some telegraph news, and what
was he to do? He declined allowing the office to be closed up till the
regular time, hoping against hope that the wire might come up.
It seemed cruel to keep a person from enjoying himself on the occasion
of the nation's Independence day, but there was nothing to do but to
remain on duty. Every half hour the editor would drop in to ascertain
the prospect and it was really pitiful to observe how disappointed he
was.
It grew on till 8 o'clock, with no change in the condition of the wire.
Hank Cowan, an interesting character, a fine operator, but given to
drink, stepped into the office to borrow four bits.
"Come, Hank, I'll make it a dollar if you'll give me a lift for an
hour."
"All right," replied Hank, "tell me what to do for I need a dollar
pretty badly tonight."
Connection was made from the manager's private office to the Chicago
table and I began calling St. Louis.
"Take that fellow, Hank," was the next order, and Cowan sat down at the
wire.
I was doing the manipulating at the key in the manager's office and
said, "Here, you are, I've a bunch of press reports for you."
"Go ahead," said Cowan and I immediately began sending a lot of
fictitious news.
The first item was from London and purported to be a dispatch from
Queen Victoria to President Grant, felicitating the United States on its
100th anniversary. This was followed by one of similar import from the
Czar of Russia and the Emperor of Germany. A graphic description of the
day's doings in New York City was next put on the 25-foot wire, Hank
Cowan copying it in a big round hand. News from the nation's Capitol
came next making an interesting budget. An imaginary steamboat explosion
on the Mississippi River came next in order and then a report of a
battle in some one of the Central American States, but as they are
fighting down there all the time, not much chance was taken in making up
this story.
A report from Chicago of the day's proceedings followed, a big fire in
the lumber regions of Michigan, and then the West was supposed to be
turned on. Omaha reported some Indian depredations in the Sioux country,
a big strike in the Comstock mines at Virginia City, loss of a steamer
at sea came from Victoria, B. C., and an account of one of Denis
Kearney's sandlot speeches to his constituency in San Francisco was
given, when the editor came in.
He looked over the "news" with a gleeful eye and thanked me again and
again and before I could realize it, walked away with the "stuff."
I gasped as I thought what had happened, for it had been my intention to
merely have some fun with Cowan and make him work for his $1.00. I told
Hank that it was me and not Chicago that had been sending to him and
asked his advice about confessing the situation to the editor.
"No, let him print it, it's good stuff and no one in St. Louis will know
the difference," was the advice I got from Cowan and as he was much
older and experienced than me, his advice was accepted.
There was no more news sent over the "short line" after this and we
locked up the office shortly after.
I was impatient to get a copy of the St. Louis Chronicle the next
morning, and there were all my dispatches, only more so, for the
intelligent editor had freely padded them showing that he, too, was
quite fertile in his imagination.
Not only were the dispatches printed, but editorial comment was made on
the Queen's alleged telegram to President Grant, a scathing rebuke was
given Denis Kearney and his followers, attention being particularly
called to the item from San Francisco, in "our dispatches."
I was a little fidgety for a few days but as time went by and no mention
was made of the hoax, I began to take more courage and laugh about it.
A month later, I resigned to come West and 'fessed up to the manager
the Fourth of July joke. When the enormity of the hoax dawned on him,
he laughed loud and hearty, declaring it was the most daring,
venturesome and awful joke he had ever heard. I was freely forgiven for
the part I enacted, but the story was not told to the paper.
This incident occurred many years ago, and in a recent visit to St.
Louis, I looked up this enterprising editor, who had grown rich in the
business.
He remembered the Fourth of July, 1876, and all the circumstances, but
when I related the story, he laughed so heartily that he declared that
10 years had been added to his life.
It would be impossible in this day and generation to successfully carry
out such a joke as is just related, press dispatches being scrutinized
for the "bogus" with as much zeal by the diligent telegraph editor as he
would a bunch of dollar bills in quest of counterfeits. And so it
happened again that "All is well that ends well."
ALONG THE SHORE.
About a dozen years ago, B. A. Worthington was appointed superintendent
for the Pacific Coast division of the Southern Pacific Railroad, with
headquarters at San Francisco.
In falling heir to this position, Mr. Worthington also acquired the
private car of his predecessor, which had been named the "Texas." It was
agreed, however, that the name of the car should be changed, as the
former superintendent wanted to give that cognomen to his new car down
South.
There was a very wealthy railroad man, in the East, who used to pay a
member of his family $1,000 a year, in return for which this member
would find appropriate appellations for each new Pullman car turned out
at the shops.
Not feeling justified in invoking the aid of such an expensive person,
the new superintendent decided to select a name, and as the State of
California contains many poetical names to draw from, the time card for
the Pacific division was consulted.
Such names as "Santa Maria," "Santa Margarita," etc., were canvassed and
rejected, and the little city of "Orilla" seemed to proffer its name.
By reference to a Spanish dictionary, it was ascertained that the
meaning of the word "Orilla" was defined, "Along the shore," and as the
name was poetical enough and as his line of railroad ran along the
shore of the Pacific Ocean, he determined to name the car, "Orilla."
This was a flattering tribute to the town of Orilla, and on the first
appearance of Mr. Worthington's car in that little city, the populace
showed their appreciation by deluging the car with flowers.
The "Orilla" had been refitted throughout and was very beautiful, and
all the employes of the road hailed its coming, for they liked to see it
and the popular superintendent, but there are contrary spirits the whole
world over.
One night the superintendent, with his private car, was coming North,
attached to the San Francisco flyer, and stopped for a few minutes at
San Luis Obispo, where the car inspector came around with his hammer to
test the wheels of each car. Another functionary was also on duty to
take the number or names of each car.
"Look yere, Chimmie, wot is dis?" and he began spelling out
"O R I L L A." "Begorrah, that's a moighty funny name."
"Yes, dat's de old man's private snap" (Mr. Worthington was 35 years old
at this time), "and he calls it 'Orilla'," was the other's rejoinder.
"'Orilla?' 'Orilla?' begorrah and it should have a 'G' in front of it
and I'm going to put one there."
A can of black paint was produced and quite a decent looking letter "G"
was prefixed to the car's appellation, completely changing its euphony.
The two worthies laughed at their alleged witticism and the "Gorilla"
went Northward.
From his window in the middle of the car that evening, Mr. Worthington
was a witness of the whole occurrence, but wisely kept silent. He
realized if he made a demonstration, the employes would have a laugh on
him and jokes travel fast with men employed on a railroad.
Arriving in San Francisco, Mr. Worthington had the car put up
immediately in the shops and ordered the name erased and the less
poetic name of "Surf" substituted. Of course, surf goes along the shore,
so virtually the title was not changed.
The jokers at San Luis Obispo had no joke after all, and probably will
never know, unless they read this story, how it happened that B. A.
Worthington so quickly changed the name of his private car.
Illustration: End of Chapter 14.
SHOWING OFF.
Some six or seven years ago, there lived in Portland, a rather notorious
young chap, named Otto Prag. He was a messenger boy, private detective,
playwright, actor, candidate for councilman, friend to the newsboys,
etc.
About 1907, he went to Spokane, where he pursued his various callings,
adding that of candidate for United States Senator to the rest of his
business qualifications. He, however, found himself "crushed" in his
vaunting ambition and he took up the collection of bad debts to gain a
livelihood.
Notwithstanding the fact that Arthur Green and Harry Murphy had
immortalized the name of Otto Prag in the columns of the Oregonian, the
young man prevailed upon the Washington Legislature to allow him to
adopt the name of Arthur Prague, in lieu of his former family cognomen.
Arthur Prague, as he is known now in Spokane became a benedict some
three years ago and is now the proud father of a very lively boy. This
diminutive little chap is very interesting, and possessing a mercurial
nature, makes the fact patent that he is in existence.
The writer was recently in Spokane for a few days, and ran across the
young man of varied occupations.
"I want you to come out to my house and see my baby and my piano and
take dinner with me and my wife," said the ex-playwright. "You will
have a nice time and I'll feed you well, you must come."
Yielding to these importunities, a day was set and an automobile took
us to the Pragues.
Introductions to the family speedily followed, and the baby, Webster by
name, came in for a large share of attention. He was dandled and tossed
in the air till he fairly shrieked with joy.
"Come, let me show you my $550 piano and my $250 phonograph. And here's
dinner, too, and I'll tell you what I have for you to eat today. There
is two kinds of soup, oyster and consomme, then there are three
sirloin steaks, some ham and boulogne sausage, a dozen hard boiled
eggs, tea, coffee and milk, there is three kinds of pie, mince, lemon
and custard, two kinds of cake, some canned strawberries and peaches,
two kinds of cheese, mashed potatoes, pickles, chow chow, apple sauce
and ice cream and it is all on the table to save time."
The table was set for eight persons, but there were only four of us to
partake of this banquet, including the baby. Every available bit of
space on the table was covered and there was enough edibles in sight to
feed 20 hungry laborers.
Arthur sat at the head of the table, his young hopeful on his right and
the writer at the foot, the little wife flitting around to add a little
more to her already elaborate dinner.
"I say, Hazel, I want to have our guest hear our $550 piano, please play
us some rag time while we eat."
There was no use protesting and the dutiful spouse sat down to the piano
and began to play, when the telephone rang and the young papa went out
to answer it.
Little wee Webster set up a yell, but the mother was so bent on her
rag time piece that she did not notice him.
Involuntarily the writer's hands went up into the air, as if describing
the tossing up with which he had been indulging the child. This was
invitation enough for the youngster, who started for the other end of
the table regardless of any seeming obstacles in the way. He bounded out
of his high chair, plunking his fat little fists into the consomme, one
foot kicking over the custard pie. Tea, coffee and milk were brushed
ruthlessly aside, the dozen hard boiled eggs met an ignominious fate on
the floor and the apple sauce and canned berries were tipped over.
Halting for a moment in the middle of the table where he squatted in the
center of three sirloin steaks, he proceeded to his journey's end,
creating havoc and destruction in his wake. Everything seemed to be a
target for the youngsters efforts, and just as he was about to spring in
triumph into his guest's arms, both parents arrived on the scene of such
wanton destruction. The boy had done a complete job and the tempting
viands of a few moments before became immediate "candidates" for the
little barrel furnished by the garbage man.
Recriminations between the "newly-weds" and apologies for Master
Webster's rudeness were in order, but the occurrence was so humorous
that the whilom guest is still enjoying the memories of the untouched
dinner with the Prague family.
"KNIFIN' DE DOUGH."
In the earlier days of Oregon the State Fair at Salem was the great
event of the Fall's doings, and countryman and merchant alike
contributed by their presence to make the fair a success. It was a week
when the old pioneer, who lived in the Grand Ronde Valley would expect
to meet his former neighbor in the East, who, perchance, located in
Yamhill County and, railroads being scarce, old Bob and Florrie would
be hitched to the prairie schooner that bore them across the plains
years before, to participate in the annual gathering in September at
Salem.
More people came from Portland in those days than at present,
notwithstanding the increased population.
There were no bridges across the Willamette at Portland, and ferry boats
handled with ease all the travel between the East and the West Sides.
Two brothers were the proprietors of one of these ferry boats, and the
husbands and fathers of the two families indulgently gave over the
proceeds of one day's collection to their wives and children to spend
as they wished in a day's outing at Salem. Thursday was the day
generally selected and every member of both families excepting the
husbands took the early train for the State Fair.
On one of these occasions, along about 1882 or '83, the members of both
families were a little slow in getting started, and Capt. Robinson
brought the previous day's collections, a good sized canvass bag full of
silver and some gold pieces also, to the train, where he handed it to
the mothers for distribution among the flock.
"How will we proceed to divide the money," was asked.
"Why, open up the bag and take out a dollar and I'll do the same." Which
plan was agreed upon.
"Here's four bits for you and here's four bits for me. Now, here's a
dollar for you and here's a dollar for me, and here is two bits for you
and here's two bits for me." Just then one of the youngsters pulled on
his mother's skirts, and down tumbled the coin, necessitating a new
division.
The money was put back into the bag and the same system started over
again, only to be found impracticable.
Several gold pieces gleamed in the bag, one being a double "sawbuck," as
Dixie fantastically described it. There appeared to be no end to the
disputes arising, when Conductor Stroud was appealed to for some of his
wisdom in aiding a settlement.
The conductor had a merry twinkle in his eye when he suggested that he
would be fair to both sides, but they must agree not to appeal from his
method of adjustment, which was readily consented to.
Taking the bag in his hands, Mr. Stroud tied up the opening, then
beginning in the middle he worked one-half of the coins as nearly as
could be guessed to each end which left a place in the middle of the
bag, around which he securely tied a string, thus making two
compartments in the bag.
"Now, we will toss up a copper and see who has first choice."
This was harmoniously done and producing a huge pocket knife, the bag
was cut in two at the point where the string was tied.
"This is what I call 'Knifin' de dough,'" laughed the jolly conductor.
Each one of the bairns was allowed to slip his or her hand in the bag
and take out all it would hold.
"I wish I had a hand like a ham," cried Gordon.
"Yes, and I picked out the double eagle," triumphantly exclaimed Miss
Dixie, and all were made happy.
Semi-annual dividends by our streetcar systems usually bring gladness to
the already bloated stockholder, but they never can experience the
exquisite joy that these two families had in "Knifin' de dough" on their
annual pilgrimage to the State Fair.
Illustration: End of Chapter 16.
A MUSICAL ABORIGINE.
The train from the East, bearing a long string of loaded coaches, had
stopped at Wallula for dinner and amid the din of the sounding gong in
the hand of a burly negro, the passengers alighted to partake of the
Willis' bill of fare. This was an important hour in the day for the
little band of Umatilla Indians who gathered around the station to sell
their curios to the tenderfoot passenger.
The captain of these remnants of a once mighty nation was Hawkeye, a
fine specimen of the Indian genus homo. Hawkeye leaned on the corner of
the station dressed in a becoming Indian garb, looking every inch a
warrior.
Some of the passengers were walking up and down the platform, among them
being a man from Boston accompanied by his 19-year-old daughter, who was
a most enthusiastic observer of the country they were passing through
and the people whom they met.
Hawkeye soon took her notice, and after scanning him critically, she
cried out, "Oh, see, papa, the noble redman of the woods. How grand he
does look! What nobility is expressed in his countenance and what
grandeur there is in his mein. What a life of adventure has been his
and how, if he could but talk, how he could tell us of the enemies he
slew in battle and how he chased the grizzly bear to his den and the
panther to his lair."
The Indian was taking in all this flowery oratory, and expectorating a
huge mouthful of tobacco juice, he ejaculated, "Ugh, if white squaw give
Hawkeye four bits, Hawkeye will sing 'Everybody's Doing It.'"
"THE GENTLEMAN OF HAVRE."
The little city of Bodie, California, was known during its ephemeral
existence as being one of the most lawless and riotous places in the
country; but James J. Hill, erstwhile president of the Great Northern
Railroad is alleged to have declared that the town of Havre, Montana,
on his line of road, was the toughest, wildest and the least law-abiding
place in the whole country and there was not a person in the town who
was possessed of any higher ambition than to carouse and indulge in all
kinds of forbidden vice.
It was to this place that Eddie F. Wach, then 17 years old, was sent to
fill the position of night operator for the Great Northern road.
Eddie had been messenger in the Chicago office and had readily acquired
a practical knowledge of the business and it was a great day in his
existence when he secured the position as night operator at Havre.
The boy's introduction to this delectable office was not such an one as
to enthuse a good young man.
Beer bottles, whiskey bottles, cigarette and cigar butts, stale tobacco
smoke and other equally demoralizing objects met young Wach's attention
on his arrival at the Havre office, and he was besought on all sides to
"join the club." The young man's refusal to partake of any of these
alleged "refreshments" startled all and he became a target for all the
jibes and jeers of the depot habitues and the rounders about the little
city.
Young Wach took all this unpleasant demonstration in a kindly and good
humored manner, never saying or doing anything to antagonize the men
around him. He selected a respectable and quiet boarding place where he
would retire when off duty. When pay day arrived he would figure out his
monthly expenses, sending all the money left over to his parents in
Chicago. By his unobtrusive kindness, and genial disposition, he found
favor in the eyes of the men of whom it had been so frequently said that
there was no good in them.
Promotion came to young Wach and a few months later he was appointed
manager of the office. A new spirit was soon made manifest in the Havre
office and all the evidences of riotousness speedily disappeared and the
room assumed a businesslike air.
For more than three years Eddie Wach continued at this post of duty
elevating his fellow men by his example, never yielding to temptation
which at times fairly shrieked with disappointment in not being able to
make him a convert to the "Havre Club" principles. Every month the major
part of his salary would be sent to Chicago and the young man would
spend his spare moments in study.
A few days before he was to leave Havre, young Wach received a call from
Mr. Broadwater, one of the most influential citizens of the town and the
state. Mr. Broadwater, although known to Wach in a business way, had
never spoken to him till this day.
"I want to tell you," began Mr. Broadwater, "that I have been watching
you for the past three years and I have never seen you do anything
unbecoming a gentleman and I have seen you sorely tried. I don't know of
anyone else like you in our city and I want to tell you that I consider
you the only gentleman in Havre. In leaving us I want you to bear away
with you that distinction together with our best wishes."
Thus it was that E. F. Wach won the hearts and respect of the citizens
of that little frontier town and now as he looks back from his present
official position in Chicago he occasionally thinks of the time when he
was called "The Gentleman of Havre."
ON THE WING.
The late Col. M. D. Crain was a man of decided personality and made warm
and lasting friends. His practical jokes and queer sayings will be
related as long as there is an old timer alive to tell the story.
The Colonel was a stickler for technicalities and was ready to immolate
himself to his own theories.
He was in early days manager of the Bloomington, Ill., office. He was
also operator and messenger.
Operator Crain would occasionally want to draw some money and he wanted
to do it in the right way. So Operator Crain would write a note as
follows to Manager Crain:
M. D. Crain, Manager.
I need $20 very badly today; may I draw the same?
Signed, M. D. Crain, Operator.
Then Manager Crain would reply:
To M. D. Crain, Operator.
Yes, Mark, you certainly can draw $20, as you deserve it.
Signed, M. D. Crain, Manager.
After this formula had been gone through and properly signed and filed,
the Colonel would draw the money, but not before.
* * * *
In the 70's there was an operator named Robert C. Hayes, who worked in
Cincinnati, St. Louis, Chicago and Omaha. "Bob," as he was called, was
a great operator and was in demand in emergency cases and it was no
wonder that Charles Selden selected him as one of those to assist during
the national convention held in Cincinnati in 1876.
The convention had been in progress for several days and everybody was
tired and worn out with expectancy.
One afternoon Hayes, Tom Dudley and Bob Irwin were allowed 30 minutes
for luncheon. Upon their return, the doors of the convention hall opened
and a mass of excited men rushed out, yelling, "Hayes!" "Hayes!"
"Hayes!" "Bob" Hayes immediately left his comrades and flew down the
street.
"What's the matter?" cried Tom Dudley after the fleeing man.
"Oh, hush! hush!" cried back the fleeting Hayes, "don't you hear my
creditors yelling after me."
It seems the convention had just nominated Rutherford B. Hayes for the
presidency and that alone was the cause of the tumult.
Robt. C. Hayes now holds a prominent position with the Burlington road
in Omaha and his friends still tell this story on him.
* * * *
George Lawton, affectionately known to the telegraph fraternity as "Old
Farmer" Lawton, is a familiar figure in the Denver office where he holds
the position of assistant manager.
"Farmer" Lawton has worked in Denver, lo, these many years. He loves to
reminisce and his stories are good.
Back in the 70's the "Farmer" used to copy press from "Nip" Jones, at
Cheyenne, for the Denver papers. "Nip" was a fast but erratic sender,
his speed varying according to his mood.
"Farmer" Lawton had been "breaking" a good deal one night, when Jones
petulantly remarked: "I say, 'Farmer,' how is it that some nights you
take me all right and other nights you break every little while?"
"Farmer" Lawton's artless reply was, "Why, don't you see, 'Nip,' you
send faster some nights than you do others."
* * * *
When Mr. A. B. Cowan was chief operator of the Chicago office he found
himself, on an occasion, needing some help in the printer's room and he
engaged a young Jewess, named Henrietta, to work as automatic operator.
The newcomer proved to be very trustworthy, full of snap, energetic and
intelligent.
Noticing her excellent work and needing still more help, Mr. Cowan asked
the young Jewess if she knew of any more girls of her race that would
like to go to work.
"Oh, yes," replied Henrietta, "I know many," and in a few days there was
quite a sprinkling of young women of the Semitic race in the office.
Passing into the elevator one day Mr. Cowan overheard a couple of
Jewesses in close conversation.
"How is it," asked one, "that so many of our kind of people get jobs
here?"
"Ah, don't you know?" was the reply. "Well, I'll tell you. Don't you
know A. B. Cohen (Cowan), chief operator?"
HE KNEW A GOOD THING.
Some years ago a fine looking, elderly gentleman could be seen
hob-nobbing with such old timers on Front Street as Wm. Wadhams,
Sylvester Farrell, Thomas Guinean and others of that generation, and he
was always attentively listened to. There was so much of benevolence and
philanthropy in his countenance that one involuntarily took a second
look at him.
His name was Jim Winters, and he lived on a little farm down the river,
where he did a little cultivation of the soil, but spent much of his
time acting as a fire warden, protecting the forests from careless
hunters.
One day Winters appeared in Portland and announced that he was going to
quit the country and would make California his future home, and much
regret was expressed by his friends over his decision.
Jim Winters went to California, locating in the Sacramento Valley, near
the little town of Vacaville, where he bought a small piece of land, and
proceeded to put it in a state of cultivation.
Although practically a farmer on a small scale, Jim Winters went about
doing all the good he could, alleviating suffering and want as much as
laid in his power. He was present at the sick bedside of friend or
stranger, and Chinaman, Japanese or negro were, alike, his brothers, and
would receive his care, if sick or in distress.
He did not have much to go on, but what he possessed was freely given,
and Winters made many friends in that little community.
There was a Bible in the Winter's cabin and some curious friend, in
looking it over, discovered that Jim's birthday was the 10th of
September, and it was deemed that the proper thing to do to celebrate
such an event would be to supply his larder and other wants by donations
from among the friends he had made in the valley.
Everybody seemed to have an offering to make and varied were the
presents tendered.
There was a smoking jacket from Mrs. Jones whose husband he had nursed
during his last illness without compensation, there was a pair of
slippers from Mrs. Smith, as a recognition of services rendered her
father, a box of cigars from Wing Fat, a Chinaman to whom Winters had
been kind, tea and coffee from Harra Alodsta, the young Japanese who had
been nursed through the smallpox, and many others who came with presents
until the little cabin was full to running over.
The company gathered to pay their respects, and as each package was open
for inspection, some merriment was caused by the curious presents which
sometimes were offered. For instance, James Ladd tendered a present of a
Boston bull pup, Mrs. Thompson gave a present of two small kittens, but
it was not till a modest looking package offered by George Stroud was
received that everybody was agog with expectancy.
The package was wrapped up in true express style, indicating the donor
was an adept in the art of proper wrapping.
"What's in it?" was asked on all sides and many conjectures were made.
"Looks like a package of music," said one.
"It might be a new Bible, for it is paper and weighs heavy," ejaculated
another, but all were disappointed.
When the package was opened a lot of old papers tumbled out, in a more
or less state of dissolution, some whole and some quite dilapidated.
Everybody laughed, but seemed to regard the joke as a little untimely.
"Hold on here, my friends," cried Winters, "this is no joke. I say this
is not a joke. Why, my friends, these here papers are Oregonians, and I
have not seen a copy of the Oregonian for nigh onto 15 years. Yes, my
friends, I appreciate all your presents, but these Oregonians are more
precious than anything else."
It therefore was apparent that Jim Winters showed where his heart was,
for "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."
Illustration: End of Chapter 20.
INADEQUATE CUSPIDORS.
The Chicago office of the Western Union Telegraph Company (in 1877) had
been noted for the manliness of its employes, who realized that they
were men and women, and for this reason entitled to the consideration of
the local as well as the general officials.
It became necessary, sometimes, to have this fact impressed on the minds
of those immediately in charge, who relegated to themselves authority
not vested in them.
It was considered the wise thing to hire a hall, and there to meet once
a week to discuss the situation, and to determine upon the most
businesslike manner of procedure to meet the exigencies of any case in
hand.
Platt's hall, on the south side, was selected for this purpose, and
every Sunday, a meeting was held, to discuss the complaints and
grievances of the employes assembled.
Wm. J. Lloyd was the presiding officer on these occasions, and he was a
glorious worker in the cause.
Much good resulted from this "getting together" and it was found to be a
simple matter to adjust the grievances, once they were uncovered and
aired.
There was present at one of these meetings, B. E. Sunny, who was night
manager for the Atlantic & Pacific Telegraph Company. This company never
had any trouble with their employes, and if one were disposed to do
half-way right, he would not be censured or reprimanded by his
superiors, and the office was very pleasant to work in.
"I notice we have Mr. Sunny, of the A. & P. with us today," remarked
President Lloyd. "We would like to hear from him, and if he has any
grievance against his company, we would like to have him state the
nature of it and we promise to try and adjust the difficulty."
Mr. Sunny protested that he came to attend the meeting merely as an
on-looker, and knew of nothing that he could enter a complaint against.
The president demurred at this statement, saying he could not conceive
of such an earthly paradise as a telegraph office where all were
satisfied and where there were no grievances.
"Well, come to think of it, there is a grievance we have that should be
remedied," said Sunny. "I have spoken to the manager and superintendent,
but with no avail, and the evil still continues. Our cuspidors in use at
our office are not much larger than a tea cup and wholly inadequate to
take care of the expectorations of a liberal user of the weed, and I
have asked for larger utensils to accommodate these copious
expectorations, but no relief has as yet come and I think it will
require executive action to force the issue."
"The matter is referred to the Grievance Committee with request that it
be adjusted at once," said President Lloyd, and the meeting was
adjourned.
It is related that more elaborate cuspidors graced the Atlantic &
Pacific operating room a few days later, indicating the efficacy of
determined organization.
NO JOBS, BUT VACANCIES.
The following story has been told and re-told years ago, in most every
large telegraph office in the country, but has never appeared in print.
The incident is quaint and worthy of a place in the literature of the
telegraph.
Jake Tallman was a well known itinerant knight of the key and in the
course of his meanderings found himself one summer day in the City of
New Orleans. Tallman was a fine operator and a good, companionable
fellow, but, as the boys used to say, it was as hard to enter the
kingdom of heaven as it was to obtain a position in the New Orleans
office. Considerable diplomacy was therefore necessary to ascertain
the entering wedge.
There happened to be a vacancy in the office about the time of Tallman's
arrival and his old friend, Dick Babbitt, determined to assist in
placing him.
David Flannery was the superintendent and he was a "Fine old Irish
gintleman, one of the rare old kind."
Babbitt related to his friend that it would be a good stunt to go to
church the following Sunday and take a seat in Mr. Flannery's pew and
by some means attract that gentleman's attention to his presence. This
would serve to pave the way to an introduction the following day when he
could plead his cause.
Acting on the suggestion, Tallman sallied to church a little ahead of
the other worshippers, and asked for, and was escorted to the Flannery
pew.
A few minutes later the superintendent came leisurely up the aisle and
took his seat along side of his expectant employe.
Tallman was not familiar with the order of procedure in churches, but
carefully watching others and following their example he was able to
pass off as one of the most devout. In the course of the services, he
handed Mr. Flannery a book, who glanced at it and put it aside, giving
the irrepressible Jake a stony glare which would seem to say that the
young man did not know his business, and Tallman felt rebuked but not
intimidated.
The following morning Tallman called at Mr. Flannery's office and after
the regular morning salutations had passed between them, he said:
"Mr. Flannery, I saw you at church yesterday."
"Oh, you are the young man that sat in my pew and tried to show me some
courtesies," replied the affable superintendent.
Believing that he had created a good impression Tallman grew bolder,
and said that he believed in going to church on Sunday and related an
imaginary conversation in Omaha several years before. Flannery appeared
interested and finally asked what service he could be to his visitor.
"Well, I tell you, Mr. Flannery, I am an operator and I am looking for a
job and I understand you have a job here at the present time."
Mr. Flannery placed his spectacles on the end of his nose and giving the
applicant a very severe look, which was intended as a reprimand,
ejaculated in an icy tone:
"Young man, I want yees to know, that my operators are all gintlemen. We
don't have 'jobs' here, but we sometimes have vacancies."
PHENOMENAL TELEGRAPHING.
It was in the Nation's centennial year that the writer was employed by
the Western Union Company, at St. Louis, and worked, what was called in
those days, the "Long Horn" wire to Texas.
The hours of labor were from 5 P. M. till lines were cleared up,
generally before midnight, and all bent their best efforts in keeping
business moving.
An adjournment to Sprague & Butler's rotisserie after the evening's work
was performed, where a substantial spread was in readiness, was next in
order, and here it was that "shop talk" was indulged in and a good time
was sure to follow.
Fred B. Moxon was the pride of the office. He was still in his teens,
but a master of his chosen profession. He worked the New Orleans wire,
opposite the renowned Bert Ayres, the finest operator in the world, and
the amount of business handled on that wire was marvelously great. Ayres
and Moxon would get down to their work as if they had not a second to
spare, but the effort was easy for them and neither suffered from
nervous prostration.
One night there happened to be unusually heavy business on the New
Orleans wire, but just at 11:55 P. M., Moxon sent his last message,
remarking, "I'm off now, good night."
"Wait a second," said Ayres, "our N. Y. wire is down and we have about
100 messages to go there and you'll have to relay 'em."
Visions of a deferred lunch and a weary walk to his room on Targee
Street, all alone, flitted across Mox's mind, but he had lots of
friends, who were ready to help out with their services.
"I've got a scheme," cried Moxon, and the services of Sid Fairchild were
secured.
"I'd like to have you cut the N. O. wire in on four different local
setts," which was speedily done.
Moxon secured the aid of Charlie Day, Thomas P. Wheeler and the writer,
who took their respective seats at the quartette table.
"I say, Bert, tell me just how many you have on hand," asked the St.
Louis man.
"There are precisely 120, and they are all night messages, all from New
Orleans and all are destined for New York."
"All right, you need not say 'night message,' omit the place from, date,
all punctuations, 'sig' and cut 'em to the bone," came from St. Louis,
"and mind you, hurry up," taunted Moxon.
This was probably the first time in his life that Albert Ayres was
requested to "hurry up," he being used to hear the opposite, "to slow
up," and his black eyes snapped in anticipation of the fun he was about
to have.
His key flew open and a fire of dots and dashes ensued, which to a
layman might sound like shot poured into a tin horn.
The reputation of the whole office seemed to be at stake, and all
gathered around to see, what was rightly thought would be an
unparalleled feat of rapid transmission.
Moxon took the first message, Day the second, Wheeler the third, while
the writer handled the fourth, each rotating in this manner, filling in
dates, destinations, etc., awaiting his turn to copy the next message.
The excitement was intense when it was announced that 12 messages had
been received in five minutes.
There were no breaks, or interruptions, and at 12:55 A. M., precisely
55 minutes from the starting time, the 120 messages were received and
were en route to New York, accomplishing, probably, the most unequalled
feat of fast sending ever attempted.
The matter was kept an office secret and Moxon received much credit. It
never leaked out how his tact secured ready co-operation and enabled him
to cope with a difficult situation.
HIS OLD KENTUCKY HOME.
While traveling recently through the South, the writer was marooned for
several hours near Horse Cave, in Kentucky. The Cumberland River was
very high, swamping the darkies' cabins en route, compelling the colored
people to take refuge on their roofs, where they waited "fo' de ribber
to go down."
The negroes accepted the situation very cheerfully, many playing their
banjoes and singing olden time melodies and making light of their
predicament.
Almost involuntarily, I began humming "My Old Kentucky Home" and my
thoughts were of the "yellow fields o' corn," when a voice behind me
inquired, "Do you like that song?" I assured him that the tune was all
right, but the words were a trifle silly.
"Well, I don't think so," he remarked, "the words and air are both very
sweet to me, and if you'll make room for me, I'll tell you how that song
compelled me to make a trip of 2,000 miles."
Space was given him and he began his narrative.
"It was five years ago that I was induced to go west by the alluring
advertisements of the railroad company, who related how easy it was to
speedily get rich in Colorado.
"I started with my outfit and a couple of weeks later located at Cripple
Creek, then a prosperous mining camp.
"Well, stranger, I didn't like it there in the mountains, I couldn't get
used to the country and the people, and the climate was so different
from 'Old Kaintuck.' Why, it was just as liable to snow on the 4th of
July as it was on the 1st of January.
"It was very lonesome for me and I longed to be home again with my dear
old friends, and I determined to remain at home if I ever got back. You
have no idea what homesickness is until you have had the actual
experience.
"About 11 o'clock one night, I was passing a saloon near my home when
I heard a phonograph playing 'Kentucky Home.'
"I entered the place and asked the bartender to change a silver dollar
into nickels, which he did.
"I sat down by the phonograph and played that piece over and over and
over again, till my nickels were gone, then I changed another dollar
which went the same way.
"I was, by this time, completely saturated with 'My Old Kentucky Home'
and the longing to return came so strong that I straightway went to my
hotel, packed my trunk, paid my bill, purchased a ticket for Louisville
and took the 4 A. M. train for Denver, from whence I departed for home
and here's where I'm going to live and die, in spite of all inducements
to show me some more favored clime.
"Yes, I love 'Kaintuck' and I love that old song you hum," and the
stranger was singing his favorite air when the train pulled into Horse
Cave.
Illustration: End of Chapter 24.
THE OFFICE AT SPIRIT LAKE.
Mr. Hugh McPhee, the superintendent of the Western Union Telegraph
Company at Los Angeles, Cal., was night operator at Spirit Lake on the
trans-continental line in his early boyhood days. Every operator that
worked for the trans-continental line knows Spirit Lake because each one
of them served an apprenticeship at that station.
The O'Shaughnessys kept a boarding house at Spirit Lake, the only house
at this dismal place, but because young McPhee insisted upon wearing a
"boiled" shirt and white collar, he found himself debarred from putting
his feet under the O'Shaughnessy table. The young man, however, was
full of resources and determined to do his own cooking and sleep in the
office.
The first station east of Spirit Lake was then called Hades and the
station west was named Satan. McPhee would get his milk and eggs from
Hades and his staple groceries and meats from Satan. The names of these
stations have long since been changed to something more euphonious.
The fact that there was an operator in Spirit Lake office at night
induced the belated trainmen to call upon him repeatedly for orders
helping them over the road and presently McPhee found he was working as
much at night as he was during the day. An appeal to the superintendent
was made and a few days later the train stopped at Spirit Lake and a
tall young man, very dudishly dressed, stepped into the office.
"My name is Archibald Merriman and I am to be night operator at this
station," began the young man. "Where can I find a boarding house?"
Young McPhee told him that he would have to take "pot luck," that there
was no hotel or boarding house, but that he could share his commissary.
This did not seem to greatly enthuse Merriman, who stated that he did
not know how to cook or make a bed. He was from Nova Scotia and he
thought that if he could go back there he would never return.
He worked for five nights and one morning he was missing and nothing was
ever heard of him afterwards.
An old Indian called "Big Thunder," but better known as "Medicine John,"
was a frequent visitor to this lonely depot and he suggested that the
"Evil Spirits" in the lake might have kidnapped the night operator and
thrown him into the lake, and inasmuch as no claim was ever made for the
five days' work performed by Merriman, a matter so very unusual to the
telegraph company, one is lead to believe that the old Indian was
correct.
Big Thunder had purchased from Merriman a big brass watch and chain,
which he carried on the outside of his coat. The Indian had also fallen
heir to Merriman's plug hat which is still historical in Spirit Lake.
When Big Thunder was asked the time, he would gravely open the watch,
gaze for a minute at the hands and give out the information "Just half
an hour." Were he asked a hundred times a day, he would never deviate
from his reply, "Just half an hour."
Spirit Lake is now a great summer resort. The O'Shaughnessy hovel has
made way for a very pretentious hotel, "Big Thunder" no longer gives out
the correct time to enquirers and the spirit of progress is marching on.
THE INDIANS WERE TOO LOYAL.
There are but few oases in the great Arizona desert, and that part of
our glorious country offers few allurements to the American youth. Hence
it was a surprise to the friends of young Clarence Vincent when he took
his departure from the fleshpots of San Francisco to take up his line of
march to Maricopa Wells, where he accepted the position as manager for
the telegraph company at that point.
Besides the white inhabitants of Maricopa, which numbered twelve men and
one woman, there were a goodly number of Indians who, following a
migratory inclination, made the Wells a starting, as well as a
finishing point, in their junketings on box cars and flat cars
throughout the territory of Arizona.
These native sons and daughters were ardent admirers of the telegraph
and sometimes of the operator of the telegraph, and male and female
would cluster around the tiny office, watching young Clarence as he sat
at work at his key.
Many of these aboriginies were interesting characters, and as the weeks
glided by, Vincent acquired enough of the Indian tongue to make himself
intelligible to the pretty maidens of the cactus territory. These shy
maidens were not unlike their white sisters, and a little flattery was
gratifying to their vanity, and when Vincent in his Indian monosyllabic
dialect told Miss Mahala that her new pink blanket was very becoming,
and when he assured Mahala's cousin, Cahecha, that the blue ribbons in
her hair made her look like a queen, he entirely won their hearts.
During the two years and more that Clarence Vincent tarried at Maricopa
Wells, he made the acquaintance of pretty nearly the entire Indian tribe
in that section and when he left to accept the managership of the
Phoenix office he was given a genuine Indian farewell.
A year or so later Clarence Vincent had become one of the leading
citizens in Arizona's metropolis; he had renounced the frontier garb
worn by the denizens of the Wells, and donned in its stead a faultless
tailor-made suit, and he was quite a Beau Brummel in Phoenix society,
where he was thought the "proper caper" by the young ladies.
The Indians of Maricopa Wells still took advantage of the indulgence of
the railroad company and pursued their migratory practices. One day
Clarence Vincent started for lunch and noticed at a nearby fruit and
confectionery store a crowd of some twenty-five Indians, mostly squaws
with papooses swung over their backs and some young Indian maidens. He
passed them by without giving them any attention, but not so the
Indians; they had recognized in him the telegraph operator of Maricopa
Wells, and with many guttural "Ugh, Ugh, Ugh's" they followed him down
the street single file to his favorite restaurant, where they stood on
guard on the outside, varying their watch by pressing their noses to the
window panes in true Indian style.
Young Vincent was greatly chagrined with so much attention and
consideration from his former playmates of the oasis, but he was
reluctant to introduce these simple children to the select society in
which he moved, and he compromised the matter by buying them one and
all, a box of bon bons at the nearest confectionery store.
This incident occurred many years ago, but Mr. Vincent, now the
dignified and courteous manager of the Western Union Telegraph Company,
of Oakland, Cal., loves to linger over the memory of the happy days he
spent in Arizona.
A GOVERNOR FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES TOOK THE BULL BY THE HORNS.
It was ten minutes past the midnight hour; the last train for the night
had pulled out, and J. Frank Howell, the night operator at Tin Cup,
Ariz., began preparations for a little rest.
It was in the month of August, and the full harvest moon beamed down
through the clear atmosphere resplendent and as bright almost as the
midday sun. Glancing out towards the south trail Howell could see a
horseman coming at full speed towards the lonely station. A few minutes
later an active, fine looking man hurried in.
"I have a very important telegram to send to the Governor. I must get an
answer in half an hour or an innocent man perishes. Come, do all you can
and as quickly as you can!"
The speaker was Lee Henniger, the sheriff of Dos Cabezas. He had ridden
forty miles since nine o'clock over the sandy desert to Tin Cup hoping
to obtain a reprieve for Bob Beecher, who was under sentence to die at
daybreak for murder.
A few hours previous a dying Mexican had confessed to the murder of
which Beecher was to suffer. Frank Howell spent five minutes in vain to
raise "Px." He knew that the night operator there was taking press
reports and could not hear him. Being, however, full of resources he
called up the St. Louis office and sent the following message: "Chief
operator, San Francisco: Have Phoenix answer on local quickly, a man's
life is in jeopardy." Signed, "Howell, Tin Cup."
It was with great joy that he heard an answering tick, tick from "Px"
a few minutes later, and the following telegram was put on the wire:
"Governor Smithers, Phoenix: Information just elicited that proves that
Beecher condemned to be executed at daybreak this morning is innocent.
Please wire reprieve, not a minute can be lost." Signed, "Lee Henniger,
sheriff."
The operator at "Px," Paul G. Tompkins, realized the importance of the
message and standing San Francisco off for a few minutes hastened to
deliver the telegram.
Arriving at the Governor's house, instead of finding the mansion dark
and everybody asleep he was surprised to observe a big crowd of ladies
and gentlemen seated on the veranda, while strains of popular music from
the ball room filled the air. Tompkins quickly asked for the Governor
on important business and he noticed that there seemed to be some
hesitancy in sending for him. Presently a lady, the Governor's wife,
came to the door.
"Won't your business do in the morning?" was asked. Tompkins replied in
the negative and the lady withdrew, a gentleman appeared to represent
her. "The Governor has retired," said this gentleman, "and cannot be
disturbed until morning."
Tompkins inquired for the private secretary and also for the Secretary
of the Territory and ascertained that both these functionaries were out
of town.
"Can't you possibly awaken the Governor?" queried Tompkins.
"No. To tell you the truth about it, the Governor unfortunately drank a
little too much wine and Warwick whiskey and he is dead to the world;
a gatling gun would not arouse him, and he is absolutely off the face of
the earth until nine o'clock in the morning," was the information given
young Tompkins.
"Then this glorious territory is at present without a Governor, private
secretary, or Secretary of the Territory," ejaculated Tompkins. As he
wended his way back to the office, he had made up his mind what to do
and proceeded to carry out his determination.
He called up Tin Cup and sent the following telegram: "To Lee Henniger,
sheriff Dos Cabezas: The reprieve is granted to Robert Beecher for ten
days. Regular papers go forward in the morning mail." Signed, "H. Y.
Smithers, Governor, per Paul G. Tompkins, acting Governor pro tem."
Ten o'clock the next morning Paul Tompkins appeared at the capitol,
telegram in hand, which he handed the Governor, who looked a wee bit
groggy.
"Good Heavens!" said the Governor. "This telegram should have been
delivered ten hours ago, why was it not?" and the Governor grew very
much excited.
"For the reason, Governor, that you were 'under the weather' and
couldn't be wakened, and there was nobody in the city to attend to your
business," replied the placid Tompkins.
"Then the poor fellow is hanged by this time, and I am guilty of the
execution of an innocent man," and the Governor broke down completely.
"That would have been true had it not been that I took the liberty of
usurping your place for fifteen minutes," and Tompkins showed the
telegram he sent in reply.
Governor Smithers was overjoyed with Tompkins' actions and thanked him
again and again, and a few weeks later he further showed his
appreciation by appointing Paul G. Tompkins to a lucrative position in
the Territory.
Sheriff Henniger arrived in Dos Cabezas in the nick of time. The rope
was already around Beecher's neck when one of the deputies who was
standing near, spyglass in hand, recognized his chief coming down the
trail swinging aloft a paper which was proved to be the first and only
official act of Paul G. Tompkins, acting Governor pro tem.
THE SEVEN MOUNDS.
Many solicitous enquiries have been made in the last decade relative to
the whereabouts or probable fate of Aaron B. Hilliker, telegraph
operator, minstrel and story writer.
Aaron Burr Hilliker was known from New York to San Francisco prior to
the War of the Rebellion. His was an adventurous nature, and he assisted
materially in making the path to the great West easier for the next
comer. He possessed a gentle spirit and many lovable traits, which
endeared him to all his friends, who were legion. The following weird
story which came to the knowledge of the writer may establish beyond
question the passing of Aaron B. Hilliker, and his last days on earth.
A party of thirteen left Boston in May, 1888, bound for the West. It
consisted of John B. Lansing, his wife and her sister, and eight young
fellows around town, well to do and of an adventurous turn of mind, the
party being under the guidance of two middle-aged prospectors. These two
latter personages had come to Boston to organize this party for the
purpose of prospecting and developing some alleged wonderful gold mines
in Southern Nevada and California.
The members of this little party were in high spirits as they pursued
their journey to the far West; the grandeur of the scenery and the
vastness of the country filling all with awe and admiration.
Many stops were made en route on the trip, mostly in Colorado, Wyoming
and Utah. At one of the stations in Colorado Mr. Lansing and his wife
formed the acquaintance of a telegraph operator. He had passed the
middle age, but was hale and hearty. He appeared to be thoroughly
conversant with the country, and as the party numbered the unlucky
thirteen the operator was asked to join the adventurers, which he did.
It is said that his singing "The Old Oaken Bucket," which was rendered
in a most artistic manner, was one of the leading attractions that
enabled the telegraph operator to be offered a place with the party.
It was some time in July, 1888, that a caravan composed of seven wagons
drawn by a dozen horses and a yoke of oxen made their departure from
Reno, Nev., bound south. No address was left with any of the merchants
who fitted out the party, and it appeared as if that were to be a
secret. There were two ladies in the party, properly dressed for the
occasion. The ox team was driven by a man of fifty-five or thereabouts,
who seemed to be the life of the caravan. He was continually cracking
jokes upon his comrades, and just before leaving, he with three other
good voices, sang, "The Old Oaken Bucket," which received a rousing
encoure.
As the caravan paid cash for everything they obtained, the episode of
their coming and going passed out of the minds of most everyone
excepting the several persons that helped to outfit the party.
The caravan went due south through Carson and Jack's Valley, where they
entered the sterile country once known on the maps as the "Great
American Desert."
It was in June, 1907, that Eugene Burdick, mining engineer, civil
engineer and prospector, residing in Tuolumne County, Cal., received a
letter from Boston, which read as follows:
"I am seeking information regarding a party that left Boston in May,
1888, bound for Southern Nevada and California. I am willing to pay
$5,000 for authentic information, which will enable me to establish
beyond any doubt the fate of these people. There were thirteen persons,
two women and eleven men. The leader of the party was John B. Lansing,
and it is of his fate that I desire to know, because a large estate is
in litigation. The last heard from Lansing, was from Reno, Nev., in
July, 1888."
Burdick was well acquainted with all the country leading from Reno to
the south, and readily accepted the mission. His visit to Reno elicited
the facts related above, and taking up the clue Burdick began his
laborious task of finding the lost caravan. Carefully he followed them
across mountains and desert, through what looked like inaccessible
canyons, but not one item of intelligence could he learn of the missing
ones.
It was on the evening of the seventh day after leaving Reno that Eugene
Burdick stopped for the night at the wickiup of Shoshone Joe on the
border of Death Valley. This Indian had lived in and around this
neighborhood with his wife Sally for more than twenty-five years, and
was a character well known to emigrants and prospectors.
A present of a few trinkets to the Indian made him quite friendly.
Burdick enquired if they had ever seen a caravan of seven wagons passing
that way long ago. Shoshone Joe with many "ughs," "ughs," picked up
seven twigs, which he placed in the ground in a straight line a few
inches apart, and then taking a stick with one sweep knocked them all
down, dramatically exclaiming, "All gone."
Burdick inferred from this that the Indian knew something which might
assist him in finding the lost ones. He gathered that the Indian had
seen the party, and had furnished them with fresh water prior to their
crossing the valley. A blinding sand-storm occurred a few hours later,
and the caravan lost its way, going south of the regular trail. Shoshone
Joe said, that once when he was down the valley he could see seven
little hills at a distance of ten miles, but Indian-like, he was afraid
of the "Debbil," and he had never investigated.
This information interested Burdick very much, and by making a few more
presents he induced the Indian next morning to come with him and locate
the seven hills he had told about.
Taking a two days' supply of water and a pick and shovel, Burdick with
his companion started across the valley in the direction indicated by
Shoshone Joe. The route was arduous, the sand being so deep and fine not
more than a mile and a half an hour could be traveled.
Five miles of this wearisome journey had been traversed when Burdick
located, by means of his spyglass, the seven mounds described by the
Indian, at a distance of probably ten miles away to the south, and this
added fresh impetus to his efforts.
Six hours later the twain arrived at the seven mounds. A vigorous blow
with the pick axe felled a mound to the earth, and two skeletons fell
out into the deep sand. The relics were those of a wagon which was ready
to crumble to pieces, the tires on the wheels being worn as fine as
ribbons. This wagon had been drawn by an ox team, the horns and bones of
which were half covered with the desert sand.
Twenty feet further along was another similar mound. It took but a
little shake to bring the second wagon to the ground, and two more
skeletons were exposed to view. An object that proved to be a gold
watch and chain fell out into the sand, but was speedily found by the
watchful Burdick. He pried open the case of the watch, and on the
inside read the following inscription: "To John B. Lansing from his
wife, Dec. 25, 1886."
"This is all the proof that I want," said Burdick, and bidding goodbye
to the gruesome spectacle he beat a hasty retreat. The Boston people
were satisfied with Burdick's story, and the evidence that he produced,
and he received the reward.
The shifting, treacherous sands now completely cover the seven little
mounds, and all that is mortal of Aaron Burr Hilliker, telegraph
operator, philosopher, bohemian, gentleman.
Illustration: End of Chapter 28.
WHEN GOLD GREW ON SAGE BRUSH.
He is a great banker and broker now, and directs the finances of a
little world of his own, but as he looks out from his luxurious office
on Broadway on the ever-busy throng on the streets, he grows
reminiscent, and, suddenly scratching his nose, breaks out into a great
laugh.
"You noticed me just now scratching my nose, didn't you?" he said, and
he laughed again, "and you can't see anything to laugh about, but I
remember the time when it would have cost me my life if I had attempted
to do so. It is a strange story and well worth relating."
The speaker was J. Frank Howell, the noted Broadway financier and his
companion a member of the House of Morgan.
"It occurred in 1881, when I was out in Nevada, and working as a
telegraph operator at Beowawa, a little station on the Central Pacific
Railroad. I had acquired a complete knowledge of the Chinook language,
had become a fair student of Indian poker, could eat jack rabbits like
an Ogallala and considered myself quite a sport among the children of
the sage brush state.
"A few weeks of this kind of existence fitted me for great and more
promising fields of usefulness, and when the gold excitement broke out
at Yankee Blade, 125 miles down the line, I bade goodbye to Johnson
Sides, Nastyshack Jim and other of my playmates, and started on the
stage for Yankee Blade in company with three other adventurous spirits.
"I will never be able to explain how it happened, but it must have been
that the outlaw, Jim Slack, knew that I had drawn my month's salary and
that I was aboard the stage coach, for just as we were leaving Dogtown,
we were halted by a lone highwayman, who lost no time in ordering us to
throw up our hands, forming us into a line in the rear of the stage.
There we were, the four passengers and 'Stub,' the driver, all with arms
pointed skyward, while the merry Jim Slack rifled our pockets.
"The bandit cracked jokes with us, saying he was sorry he had to do it,
but he needed the 'mon,' and he hoped that he wouldn't overlook any
small change we might still have left in our jeans.
"At this moment my nose began to itch, but I knew it was sure death to
lower my hand to scratch it, and what was I to do, for I could hardly
stand it? I addressed the robber: 'I say, Mr. Highwayman, my nose itches
me pretty badly, won't you please allow me to lower my arm to scratch
it?'" I asked in a most plaintive manner.
"'Never mind, I will do that little job for you myself,' was his reply,
and taking the point of his Colt's revolver he rubbed my nose very
briskly till I told him I had enough, and thanked him for his courtesy,
and the passengers and 'Stub,' the driver, laughed merrily.
"I never knew, till I had it done with the business end of a revolver in
the hands of a stage robber, the exquisite delight of the privilege of
scratching one's own nose."
+Finis+
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.
INTRODUCTION.
Welcome to Project Gutenberg's edition of Portland, Oregon, A. D. 1999
and other sketches, a novel by Jeff W. Hayes. Hayes also released this
book under the title of Paradise on Earth. Aside from the title, the
cover and contents of both books are the same.
This Project Gutenberg version.
We based our production of Portland, Oregon, A. D. 1999 and other
sketches on the edition of the novel with that title, published in 1913,
by F. W. Baltes and Company. We used the scanned copy from the Bancroft
Library of the University of California available at the Internet
Archives as our source.
DETAILED NOTES.
Instead of correcting (and changing) a lot of the narrative, we tried to
preserve as much of it as possible. The spelling of words such as
encoure, mein, employe, brusquesness, pleasureable, inadvertantly, and
aboriginies were retained.
We did change familiar or occurrence because these words were used other
times in this book and spelled correctly those other times. All changes
are listed in the Emendations and Issues section of these notes.
For the few words hyphenated and split between two lines for spacing in
this book, we silently rejoin words based on other uses of the word in
this novel. When this book had no template, outside sources were used.
The author's other books on the Internet Archive provided some
assistance. Google's Ngram viewer identified the most-common spelling
of the word for the era. Some of the harder decisions are listed in the
Hyphenated Words section.
Other issues that have come up in transcribing the book are listed in
the Emendations and Issues section of these Detailed Notes.
Emendations and Issues.
On Page vi, Add question mark to the story Where Did You Get That Oil?
in the Contents to match the title of the story beginning on page 55.
Missing or incorrect quotation marks at the beginning of Chapter 4,
Chapter 8, and Chapter 9 were corrected.
Change A.D. to A. D.--Page viii, and the plain title page.
On Page 2, change informaiton to information.
On Page 10, change crominals to criminals.
On Page 11, change occurrance to occurrence.
On Page 23, change familier to familiar.
On Page 25, change effected to affected.
On Page 27, Remove unnecessary single quote before that in the clause
"'that the first class buildings.
On Page 29, change nations to nation's.
On Page 32, add period after More Denouements to make it like the rest of
the chapter titles in Part One. Added period after the chapter titles in
Part Two for practical reasons.
On Page 33, Change Cmmissioner to Commissioner.
On Page 45, add a period after him in good reports from him.
On Page 49, Replace comma after Thee with a period in "Nearer My God to
Thee."
On Page 53, remove right quote after never returned.
On Page 56, change given to give.
On Page 60, change report to reports.
On Page 92, change filing to filling.
On Page 96, change double quote to single quote after Kentucky Home.
On Page 112, Add beginning left quote before I never knew.
Hyphenated Words.
Page 9 high-toned.
Page 23 outskirts.
Page 31 tombstones. Author used this spelling in Tales of the Sierras.
Page 35 forbade.
Page 87 half-way. Author used this spelling in Autographs and Memoirs
of the Telegraph.
Page 101 horseman. Author used this spelling in Tales of the Sierras.
Page 111 Nastyshack Jim, referring to the Modoc warrior Jim Shacknasty.