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 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. 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 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 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.”
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. 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. 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 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. 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 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. 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 “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 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. 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 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. 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. “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 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. “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. “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 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:
Then Manager Crain would reply:
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. 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?” **** 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 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. 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, 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 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’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 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 “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?” 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 “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 |
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