I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N.,
called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building,
on the floor above ours.
"That you, Curtiss? I'll be right down. I want to see you."
Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck me
that Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wondering
what could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath.
"You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about that
spur track along Third Avenue."
"For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we have
to do is appear before the City Council and make the request for a
permit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?"
"This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocket
and unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to be
enough to excite anybody."
I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the top
was one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes:
SHALL THE CITY COUNCIL
LICENSE CHILD MURDER?
Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. I
don't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitter
attack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is the
habitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of his
children. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thought
that the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as many
toddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory before
the fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and a
ringing call to arms.
"Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloated
bondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder your
innocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a modern
car of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamber
to-morrow morning--'No, a thousand times, no!'"