Chapter VII: Part 7

I had weathered one brief, and I may say clean siege of competition, which had proved that the town was not large enough to support two papers. P. L. Briney, with his two daughters, Bertha and Olive, wholly on their own—that is, without MD’s or PB’s moral support—established and published the Enterprise for about one year. Unable to make a go of it, Mr. Briney sold the whole outfit—exclusive of the girls, of course—to me for $125, his first asking price.

Mr. Coleman did not last long enough here to do the political boys any good. He got off on the wrong foot in an early issue. He attended a recital given by Edith McConwell’s music pupils—and ridiculed it. Our people did not like to have their kiddies ridiculed—nor their music teacher either, who was once a kiddie here herself. However, after a few issues by Coleman, Art Sells, also of Effingham, took charge, and gave the people—not the politicians—a very satisfactory paper. Coleman gave up his political aspirations, sold his two papers, and took the job of City Editor for the Atchison Daily Globe. However, Coleman’s successor, W. F. Turrentine, held forth twenty years longer than the fourteen years that I had published the Spectator before giving up the ghost about five years ago. The idle plant is still in Wetmore.

To give a clear picture of the grain situation I should explain that Mr. Baker, of the Greenleaf-Baker grain firm, of Atchison, had asked me why would it not be a good idea for me to build an elevator here? I told him that I did not think there would be business enough, from year to year, to justify me in so doing—which, I might say, was a fact fully demonstrated in later years. I pointed out that with the large feeding interests here; and in the north territory, particularly at Granada, where the Achtens sometimes bought as much as one hundred thousand bushels of corn for feeding cattle and hogs; that practically all the south territory was in pasture land; and with two elevators at Goff and- two at Netawaka, we could hardly expect to draw trade away from them without making costly inducements, as we were now doing in our track buying.

Mr. Baker said, “Well, then, I’ll build one for you. It will save you paying a premium to get the corn, and make it more convenient for you to handle it.”

I think the Board members did not know this at the time of organizing. But the committee, composed of the man who had a canning factory building to sell, and the doctor who wanted a competing newspaper with political slant, both uncompromisingly for the Goff man, and two other men who had a tendency to view things in their proper light, met with a representative of the Greenleaf-Baker firm in ‘the opera house here. The spokesman for the committee told Frank Crowell, Mr. Baker’s brother-in-law, and member of the firm, that they preferred to locate their man Reckeway, because it would bring another family to town and consequently make a bit more business for the local merchants. Mr. Crowell told them that we would like to have their friendship and co-operation—but, regardless of whether or not they located Mr. Reckeway, that his firm positively would build the elevator as planned. The two silent members on the committee packed power enough only to delay action.

As it is now all water over the dam, with not even a trickle of cankerous aftermath, it is not my purpose to show up the old Board of Trade boys in a critical light—but it was evident that they were not being guided by the Golden Rule. They knew the Greenleaf-Baker people were going to build an elevator, when they located their man. They knew also that in normal crop years there would hardly be business enough here to sustain one elevator. As a sort of excuse for them pulling for the Goff man, the spokesman said to me, “You know, if we don’t get our man located this year, we may never get an elevator. We have never had a corn crop like this before, and we may never have another one.” It was not strictly a Christian act—and I suspect they never had any regrets for having turned the trick. It was apparently their way of building up the town—and, incidentally, securing a buyer for an old canning factory building.

The Canning Company, a local organization, having failed to bring in the expected returns, and having accumulated debts in excess of its ability to pay, had liquidated, the building going to the highest bidder, one Theodore Wolfley by name—uncle of Editor Theodore Wolfley. Then, later, it was planned by the holders of the worthless canning factory stock—and others—to try to recoup their losses by the establishment of a cheese factory, with an eye on the old building as a prospective site. It was then that the present owner hopped out and bought the old canning factory building, hoping to turn a neat profit. But the cheese factory promotion fell by the wayside. It was then patent to the purchaser that he had over-played his hand. Knowing these facts, one can better understand his sudden anxiety for an elevator—for the good of the town.

Their prospect, W. M. Reckeway, who had been operating the Denton elevator at Goff, likely misunderstanding the Committee, gave out an interview in the Goff Advance, saying that they had bargained for the Worthy dump, and that it was his intention to build a modern up-to-date elevator in Wetmore, but J. T. Bristow had slipped in and bought it away from them—the inference being that the good people of Wetmore who had longed for an elevator for lo these many years, would now have to take what they could get—something less than would have been the case had Bristow behaved himself.

Had this been true—the way I look upon such matters — it would have been both shrewd and legitimate business on my part, though it would have left an ominous smirch on Mr. Worthy. But it was far from the truth. The Board Committee had not bargained for the Worthy dump.

As has been pointed out, the Greenleaf-Baker Grain Company had already planned to build an elevator here for my convenience, as a shipper—but of course the company was not in the market for the old canning factory building. My Company, as well as their prospect—not the Committee — wanted a better location. Mr. Baker instructed me to buy the Worthy dump, solely for the location.

Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not even suspect that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter of fact, the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, at any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, “I’ve given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for $200, good until noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. Now don’t wait until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee went to Mr. Worthy after one o’clock, asking for an extension of the option. That old canning factory was still in the way. And the owner did not exactly pat me on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he learned that I had bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s reaction to this—but I do know that, though we continued on friendly terms—we never had any clashes — he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, with political slant.

Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, converted the old canning factory building into an elevator in time for the fall business. The people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an erroneous notion that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer, and while the reverse is true, they had located their man with this belief. Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in fact he put me completely out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I could get for it. How come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old canning factory. They were wrong of course.

It may be a little early to bring this in—but Mr. Reckeway was making some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he had brought in, but he could not count on a repeater in this line, for he had already been told by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour in his general store at substantially higher prices—to cut it out. It was made plain to the fellow that he had not been brought here to compete With the home merchants.

I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and why Mr. Heckeway bid up the price on corn—but this seems the opportune time to slip in a line about the entry of a business which led all competition. And lo, the man was from Goff, the town which had furnished me a competitor in the grain business, and a politically minded doctor who wanted a competing paper—and ironically enough, the town whose advertising merchants, C. C. Abbott, John Wendell, and George Bickel, were the thorns that had been pricking the Board of Trade boys’ sensitive hides.

Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man whose advertisements in my paper had given so much concern at the Board of Trade’s first meeting, and was the cause for that elaborate write-up, had moved in on them with a complete new stock of general merchandise, locating in the old Stowell brick building, the present Catholic recreation hall.

Now, let ‘em kick!

The energetic efforts of the dominating member of the Board Committee to close a deal for the sale of that old canning factory building had, unwittingly of course, also paved the way for the entry of some live competition for himself.

Mr. Abbott became my best advertiser. Legitimate, too. He paid, in trade, three to five cents a bushel premium for ear-corn, and turned it to me at the market price. Also, there was a general come-down of prices in the other stores. Now was I, or was I not, working for the best interests of the town?

Evidently Mr. Reckeway had a threefold purpose in bidding up the price of corn. He wanted to build up a reputation, wanted to crush competition, and at the same time discourage the Greenleaf-Baker people in their plans to build an elevator here. The word got around that I was going to try to operate the Worthy dump “as is.” It would have not been fruitful for them to let Reckeway know the truth at this stage of their dickerings—hence the circulated report that I had bought the Worthy dump, aiming to operate it myself.

Nor did Mr. Reckeway know that the order for the lumber in special lengths had been given to a mill in Arkansas the day after I had bought the Worthy dump, when he betook himself to Atchison in an effort to dissuade the Greenleaf-Baker firm from building, pointing out that he had the grain business corralled here; that I was now a “dead duck,” without standing in my own community. Mr. Baker was not impressed by Mr. R.’s pleadings.

Mr. Reckeway had been shrewd enough — or lucky enough—to sell, in early fall, a sizable quantity of December corn at a price above the settled market. He had been sloughing off his profits to the farmers to create atmosphere—and to stop me. Many of his old Goff customers were now bringing their corn to him in Wetmore, a high testimonial of his popularity—and a welcome morsel for the aggressive half of the BT Committee to peddle in support of their earlier expressed contention that an elevator man could actually pay more for corn—even, so to speak, pull rabbits out of a hat.

Had Mr. Reckeway made it win, it would have been good business. As it was, I’m not shrewd enough to say whether it was good business or bad business. The one certainty is that he did not make the goal he was shooting for.

Owing to delay in getting the lumber, the Baker elevator did not open for business until January 5. Reckeway had now quit playing for atmosphere. Then, we both got more corn than we could conveniently handle, as a car shortage had developed, which slowed down shipments.

We had a little bad luck the very first day the Baker elevator was opened for business. We were getting corn from three shelters, about 4,000 bushels that day—and some of the wagons came in after dark. Elmer Brockman, the builder, was looking after the elevator end of the first day’s run. I weighed a wagon, told the driver to wait for Elmer to signal him in with his lantern.

Something had gone wrong, and Elmer had taken his lantern and stepped out of the driveway. Mr. farmer, after pulling up and stopping, decided that he didn’t need a lantern to guide him—and he drove on in and got one horse part way in the open dump. The horse lost patches of hair in two or three places, but was not otherwise injured. The next day the fellow came back and wanted to sell me the horse for $100. The old plug was worth only about $40. I didn’t want to buy the horse at any price, and I didn’t want the man to go away dissatisfied. And I suspicioned—correctly—that some of my competitor’s supporters might be back of the fellow. I suggested that I send Milt Cole, the liveryman, out to the farm to examine the horse—and that I would pay him whatever amount that the two of them might decide would be just. Mr. Cole said $40 would be a big plenty—and I paid it. Then, about a week later the farmer, pleased with his high-handed stroke of luck, had the nerve to tell me that I was an easy mark, that the horse was as good as ever, and that I had virtually thrown away forty dollars.

Now, this man was on a farm owned by an Illinois man—a Mr. Smith, who had entrusted me with the rental of the place. The farmer had contracted to pay cash rent, with a clause in the contract stating that in case of drought, or for any cause lowering the normal yield, that a substantial reduction would be allowed. Mr. Smith was a firm believer in the old principle of “live and let live.” But he soon found out that it wouldn’t work so well here. And anyway, it was mostly his sister’s idea—she having an interest in the land.

The tenant had asked for a reduction. Well, Mr. Smith came to my printing office one day, borrowed my shotgun, pulled on new overalls, and went out to his farm to hunt a bit. He found the tenant at the house, asked for and received permission to hunt. Mr. Smith said truthfully he had just got in from Minnesota, and casually asked about crops in general here. The tenant said they had been good, and he bragged a little about how well he himself had done that year. Mr. Smith’s sister lived in Minneapolis, and he had gone around that way to get her to yield a point on that stiff “live and let live” idea of hers—and to discuss plans for selling the farm. I sold it for them, later.

Might say here that another tenant the previous year had asked for, and received a reduction. The man had sold his corn. He patted his pants pocket, and told me, “I’ve got the money all in here. They’ll have to settle my way, or not at all.” He was entitled to a reduction and I was sure Mr. Smith would do the right thing. And he did. I said to the tenant, “If you should lose that money we would have no chance to collect anything. Put your money back in the bank where it will be safe. If anything comes up, I’ll notify you in time for you to get it out before attempting to force a collection.” He said, “On your word, I’ll do that. Can’t sleep very well with the money in my britches, anyway.” This man was Albert W. Dixon. Don’t care to name the other fellow.

This rather unusual incident got “noised” around, and the tenant:—the farmer with the “crippled” horse—being what he was, thought he might just as well do a little more gouging. Mr. Smith said to me, “Make that fellow pay in full—and get rid of him.”

Still Mr. Reckeway was not satisfied. Having failed in his efforts to block the building of the west elevator, he now began a play to get control of it. And, finally, he did get it. During a grain dealers meeting at the Byram hotel in Atchison, Frank Crowell told me that my competitor was still after my “goat”—that Mr. Reckeway had just renewed his offer to give them all his shipments, if he could get control of the west elevator.

I said, “For heaven’s sake, let him have it—if it means anything to you?” Please note that Mr. Crowell and Mr. Baker were my sponsors. They would not let me down.

Reckeway closed the west elevator.

When the new crop began to come in, I resumed track buying. I could have forgiven Mr. Reckeway for trying to squeeze me out—but now I would have to show him how badly he had been misled by his promoters, when he told the Greenleaf-Baker people that I was a “dead duck.”

We now had a new man in the depot. Agent Larkin was a fine Christian gentleman, an active church man. Also, he had a wife, and a pretty daughter who was a popular elocutionist—and a flock of 200 chickens. He did not impress me as a man who could be influenced or bought for a few kernels of corn. However, when he asked permission to scrape up the waste around the car we had just loaded, it gave me an idea. I was not expecting any favors from this agent — but I wanted to forestall the efforts of my competitor in demanding a division of cars on a comparable basis of his grand-elegant physical representation. When the boys would spill too little corn while loading the cars, I often climbed into the car and kicked out an extra bushel, sometimes more, before reporting the car ready for sealing—and of course I wouldn’t object to Agent Larkin gathering up the spilled corn, for his 200 chickens. I was getting an equal division of cars, and that was all I could reasonably expect—more, in fact, than seemed equitable to my competitor, with his investment in an owned elevator and his shrewdly acquired control of the Greenleaf-Baker elevator.

The idea that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer was all wrong. An elevator is a convenience to the shipper, and helpful to a community — but don’t forget for one moment that the grain producer must pay for it all. When track buying, I usually kept two men at the car, one inside the car and one to help the haulers shovel off their loads. I paid them 15 cents an hour. Tom and Juber Gibbons were horses to work then—but don’t look at ‘em now! And in long hauls, I would take the drivers to dinner at the Wetmore hotel, and feed their teams at Cole’s livery barn. The haulers, who were the seller’s neighbors, would complain about having to shovel the corn—but they, in turn, would bring me their corn for these extra helps, and extra money. One farmer who sold me 3,000 bushels said, “My neighbors will kick like the devil about having to shovel off their loads—but I reckon I kicked too when I shoveled off my loads when I was hauling for them.”

On the basis of those magnificent holdings, Mr. Reckeway took his troubles to the higher-ups. Agent Larkin called me to the depot. Reckeway was there with a special representative of the railroad — the “trouble shooter.” Reckeway told his side of the story—very correctly, I must say. He owned outright an elevator, and he had control of the Greenleaf-Baker elevator as well — and that firm was getting all his shipments. And, as a clincher, he said, “You know the Greenleaf-Baker people are heavy shippers over your railroad. They have elevators all along the Central Branch.”

The special agent then asked me: “Have you any storage for grain?”

“Yes,” I replied, “a bin with capacity for two car loads of shelled corn.”

His next question: “Did you ever have to pay demurrage for holding a car over-time while loading?”

Again I replied, “Never.”

The special agent’s final question, the one I was hoping he would ask me: “Where do you ship your corn?”

I said, “To the Greenleaf-Baker people in Atchison, as always.”

Reckeway’s countenance showed surprise, if not real anger. The agents both laughed.

Turning to Agent Larkin, the special agent asked: “Has he told the truth in all three instances?”

“Absolutely,” said my chicken-owner friend.

“Then, give him every other car,” said my newly found friend.

And Mr. Reckeway stalked out mumbling in jumbled English and German, of which I could catch only, “A man with two elevators—.” My reputation was now redeemed.

The so-called “Board of Trade” had long since passed out. It was never a Board of Trade, anyway. Its operations were limited to the sale of one old canning factory building, and the location of Mr. Reckeway—that is, if we do not choose to count the location of Mr. Abbott. You know, I was a member of the Board, with dues and absentee penalties paid in full.

Now, let’s get this straight. I wouldn’t have been so resentful as to induce a live merchant like Mr. Abbott to move in on the homefolk. I just told him of the behavior of some of the Board members, and that I might have to deny him space in my paper. “Oh,” he said, “I don’t believe you will want to do that to me.” He winked. Well, I didn’t—really.

Mr. Abbott had been thinking things over ever since the time I had asked him to surrender his space in the interests of that elaborate write-up. Said he figured it would now be OK for him to bring me copy for a half-page advertisement announcing his location in Wetmore.

There were, however, many proposals advanced — but always they met with opposition from some member or members of the Board. In general, they kicked like the proverbial “bay steer” whenever something was advanced which might be helpful to one and detrimental to another. I think Mr. Worthy and I were the only ones who did not protest their proposals—such as bringing in Mr. Reckeway. And, frankly, until it had come to a showdown, I was not favored with too much information as to what Michael had up his sleeve.

I don’t know where they could have found a better man than Mr. Reckeway for the place—but he was no miracle man. Handicapped as he was, he found the going rather tough. And having found out also that the Board Committee’s prophesy was only a myth—that an elevator alone could not make two bushels grow where only one bushel grew before—after a few rather lean years, he departed for greener pastures. I believe Mr. Reckeway made good in the flour milling business at Girard, Kansas.

The Board of Trade sponsored (Reckeway) elevator, after years of idleness, has been torn down. Goff and Netawaka, like Wetmore, each now have only one elevator. And still the grain does not roll into Wetmore as was anticipated by the Board of Trade enthusiasts. Perhaps the old town may someday be favored with another set of progressives—who do not know their onions.

I reiterate, there is no lingering malice in this writing. Collectively, year in and year out, the oldtime Wetmore people, despite all differences, were the best people I ever knew—and I lived in relative harmony with them for a long, long time. I’ve lived a lot of living in the old home town.

And, thankfully, I’m still here.

FAMILY AFFAIR Not Hitherto Published—1947.

By John T. Bristow

In the foregoing article I made reference to Theodore Wolfley’s poor marksmanship, with a revolver. When possible, I like to back up my assertions with proof. I now quote from a letter dated at St. Louis, April 5, 1941, written by T. J. Wolfley to his sister May Purcell, commenting on my writings in The Spectator, in which I likened a Belgrade story to a hot Wolfley editorial. It was at a time when a Hitler delegation was in Belgrade endeavoring to put pressure on the Yugoslavs to force them into the war on the Hitler side. The quote:

“I received the copy of the Wetmore Spectator, which you so kindly sent me. Thank you for it. I was interested in the story from Yugoslavia; and flattered to be even remotely connected with the incident by my friend John Bristow, who professes to think that if I wasn’t in St. Louis, I might be running a newspaper in Yugoslavia. . . . Just as in the political wars he mentioned, I was sometimes more friendly with the men I opposed than with the ones I favored. But the people liked it and it was then the accepted slogan to give the people the kind of news they wanted. . . . John was a good newspaper man and a good squirrel hunter, so we thought a little expert shooting might lend realism to the picture. But I wasn’t a good shot. I couldn’t even hit the imposing stone when it stood on the side against the wall. But I remember John could hit a penny when it laid on the floor at the leg of the imposing stone. So we depended upon John’s ability as a shooter to keep the enemy away. . . . Show this to John. A good many things happened in the Spectator office even after I quit, similar to the way they happen in Yugoslavia. He may remember some more.”

Well, yes—I do remember one more. Always one more. But first I want to say that Theodore verifies the point I made in the preceding article—that he could not even hit the leg of the imposing stone, in his gun-practice. To those who are not familiar with the mechanics of the print-shop, the imposing stone is a heavy slab of marble mounted on a stand about waist-high, on which the forms of the newspaper are made up.

When the Spectator was in its first year, I helped Theodore Wolfley carry out one of his “bright” ideas which gave him some sleepless nights. His sister Mary, still too young to carry on a flirtation with a grown man, had embarked on a whirlwind romance with a Central Branch railroad engineer. The heavy grade at the John Wolfley farmstead five miles west of Wetmore, made it possible for the engineer and the girl to exchange notes. And when they might desire a few moments time together, it was said, he would drop off at the crossing near her home, and then grab onto the caboose—and the fireman would take the long freight train into Goff.

Theodore told me that, as her older and wiser brother, he intended to break it up. He said it had got to a point when a talking to would do no good—and the girl was too big to spank. We printed a ten-line item in the Spectator, branding Mary’s Romeo as an all round bad character, even had him arrested and jailed for drunkenness—and credited the item to one of Atchison’s daily newspapers. After printing one copy for the Wolfley family perusal, I lifted the spurious item before running the regular edition.

Theodore commuted on horseback between farm and town at that time. He took the “doctored” paper home with him. He watched Mary read the item. He said she wrinkled up her nose, shook her head as if she meant to get even with someone. When he came back to the office the next day, he said, “I guess that will hold her.” But it didn’t.

On the following day Theodore discovered the item had been cut out of the Spectator—and he rightly suspicioned it had been turned over to Mr. Romeo. He came to the office in agitated confusion. He asked me, “What paper did we credit that darned item to?” He had maligned an Atchison man and credited the item to one of the three Atchison daily papers—the Champion, the Patriot, or the Globe—which made him liable to attack from two angles. But luck was with Wolfley. John Reynolds, the engineer, came back promptly with his daily exchange saying the item referred to another John Reynolds living in Atchison—and the romance went merrily on.

Theodore would have felt a lot easier had he known there actually was another John Reynolds living in Atchison. And though the second Mr. Reynolds had a shady record, he was never guilty of the things the item charged the engineer with. I have penned a line on this John N. Reynolds in another article. John A. Reynolds, the engineer, was really an honorable man, with high standing in Atchison. I came to know him well in later years.

I shall carry on from here — after this paragraph — without Mr. Wolfley. But I’m not forgetting the Romeo engineer. And I should say here that Mary’s romance terminated without hitting the rocks, and that Theodore never had any complaints from Atchison. And I might say further, as a last tribute to my old friend, that Theodore Wolfley went from here to Phoenix, Arizona, and became editor of the Daily Republican, owned by ex-Governor Wolfley, of Arizona, (no relation), where he played up Republican politics to his heart’s content. From there he went to the St. Joseph (Mo.) Daily Gazette, where I imagine he would have been a loyal Democrat. And from St. Joe he went to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat as Financial editor. While in St. Joe Theodore wrote me that he was holding open for me a place on the Gazette paying four and one-half times the ten dollar weekly salary I was getting here. That was considered “big money” then. But I had promised Curt and Polly Shuemaker that I would remain on the job here when they bought the Spectator from John Stowell. Curt Shuemaker was blind—lost his eyesight from close bookwork in the Morris store and as the first cashier of the Wetmore State Bank. I could not quit them cold—but I was trying to find them a reliable printer when Curt sickened and died suddenly, leaving The Spectator in need of an editor as well. The quickest way to help out Polly was for me to buy The Spectator—at my own price. Not an unfair price, however. When Theodore was back home a short time before he died, having just read my manuscript of the Green Campbell story, he proposed that we buy The Spectator from the Turrentines—just to show the people what we could do. From past experience, I knew he could have shown them plenty—and I was afraid he might insist on doing it.

Some years after Mary’s romance, I was walking past the depot in Wetmore with the girl who afterwards became my wife. Her home was on the south side of the tracks, near the watertank. The noon passenger train was at the tank. As we came abreast the engine the engineer hopped down from the cab, pulled off a leather gauntlet glove, and met the girl with a hearty handshake—and some hurried palaver. She introduced him as Mr. Reynolds.

But you know, passenger trains must move on time — and when alone with the girl, I said, “Let me see your hand.” She said, “Oh, you’d never get a speck of dirt from shaking hands with Johnny Reynolds; he’s really quite particular about keeping himself clean of engine grime.” I learned later that she had told the truth in this particular—but how the devil did it come she knew so much about him? I said, “I think I know something about him that you do not know.” Then I told her about his exchange of notes with the Wolfley girl.

She laughed and said, “Were you expecting to see a note in my hand? You don’t need to be afraid of Johnny Reynolds. He is engaged to a Miss Spelty, in Atchison.”

“Johnny” Reynolds had roomed at their home in Effingham before the family came to Wetmore, when Myrtle Mercer was eight years old. Being a very courteous man, he “made over” all members of the Mercer family whenever and wherever he might chance to meet them. And he had gotten lunches from their home in Wetmore.

After her husband’s death in 1888, Myrtle’s mother had rather a hard time providing for her family of five girls, ranging in age from two to sixteen years. She was advised to open a boarding house for trainmen — and others—but it settled down mostly to providing lunches for the two local freight train crews which passed through here about the noon hour. I think it was not very helpful. She was an excellent cook, and her twenty-five cent lunches were too elaborate to make money, even in those days. The passenger trains had stopped here for dinner before this. The hotel charged trainmen 25 cents—as was customary at all stops—while passengers paid 35 or 50 cents. Hence a 25 cent precedent for trainmen.

The pinch was lifted, however, some years later, when Mrs. Mercer was granted a Government pension—for herself and the two younger children—with several years back pay. Though only 39 years old when he died, John Mercer was an “honorably” discharged soldier. He had enlisted in 1864, when only 15 years old. How he managed to get in at that age, is presumed to be the same as other under-age boys got in.

One time when I was riding the local freight to Atchison, I saw Tom Haverty, the conductor, an Irish Catholic, open his lunch basket. It contained a big porterhouse steak cooked just right—it was a steak that would cost at least $2.50 now, with very few trimmings. I know that steak was cooked just right, for my wife had learned the art from her mother, and she had cooked many a one to the same turn for me. Well, Tom Haverty picked up that steak, held it as though he thought it might bite, walked to the opposite side of the caboose and chucked it out an open window.

It was Friday.

After selling my newspaper, I found time to “putter about” on my farm one mile down the creek from town. I actually did a lot of worthwhile work, cleaning up the bottom land of brush, trimming hedge, and cutting cockle burrs with a “Nigger” hoe. I usually stuck a sandwich in my pocket for lunch—but sometimes Myrtle would prepare a real dinner, even steaks like I’ve been describing, carry it in a basket, sit down on the ground with me in the shade of hedge or tree, fight flies and gnats while eating, and pretend to enjoy it.

One morning she said I need not take a lunch—that she was going to cook a real dinner, bring it down to the farm, and eat it with me. I told her I would come for dinner, and save her that long walk. She insisted that she “loved the walk, loved to get out in the open,” and I told her where to meet me.

But she caught a ride most of the way. Green Goodwin, conductor of the local freight, told her to come aboard the caboose, that he would stop the train out near the farm and let her off. He had gotten lunches from her mother’s home. She said, “Mr. Goodwin said my lunch basket smelled good — like old times. He told a passenger in the caboose that he could always be sure of getting a good lunch at our home. I sure appreciated the ride, and I offered to give him my part of the lunch, but he wouldn’t take it. I’ll bet that traveling man who peeped in the basket wouldn’t have turned it down. But Mr. Goodwin did eat two of the cream-puffs: he said they were as good as the ones mamma used to put in his lunches. That leaves four cream-puffs for you—if I don’t eat any myself.” What manner of man would have eaten four cream-puffs—just then?

Myrtle felt pretty chesty about getting this ride—to think Green would stop his train on a steep grade, to save her the walk. Well, it was a pretty steep grade—and it was kind of Green to give her this lift. It recalled the time when, on several occasions, freight trains had stopped at that same place to let me off. And when the train had started to move again I could easily have beaten the engine to the top of the grade, in a running walk. But that would not Tiave been what I had been taken on the engine for, in town. I walked, or trotted slowly, ahead of the train pretty close to the creeping engine, shooing grasshoppers off the rails. After the 1874 invasion of grasshoppers freight trains could not make that grade until the rails were cleared of hoppers—and I had to stay close to the engine so that the hoppers would not fly around me and settle on the rails again. I was always “Johnny on the spot” to catch those rides. To ride the engine was a thrilling experience for a twelve-year-old boy.

While eating our lunch that day, a covey of half-grown quail came out from between the rows at the end of a cornfield. Myrtle said they were so cute that it was a shame to kill them. “And if you shoot any more of them,” she declared, “I will not cook them for you.” I said that I guessed I could cook them myself—that I had roasted them suspended on a stick over a fire in the woods.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll cook them, of course—but I promise you that I will never eat any more of them.” I tried her out on six birds. She cooked them, of course—and kept her promise. And then, in due time, I also thought they were too cute to be killed. But I continued carrying feed to the quail, in snowy times.

While Wolfley said I was a good squirrel hunter, quail was really my game. I trapped them in my younger days, and shot them when old enough to be trusted with a gun. I “potted” them. In the old days quail sold for 5-cents each and no one would think of wasting a charge of ammunition on a single bird, especially while on the wing; though I did once shoot a lone quail sitting on top my figure-four cornstalk trap, under which were twenty live birds. We made our traps then with any old thing we could pick up and bind together. The twenty trapped quail had followed a tramped out path in deep snow, baited with a thin scattering of shelled corn, with a more generous supply of kernels under the trap—thus to engage the lead birds while the others were coming up, lest an impatient bird might go after the nubbin on the treadle and spring the trap too soon. I think trapping and “potting” were legal then. I winged them in later years, same as other sportsmen were wont to do.

One time while coming home from the farm on a Sunday morning about eleven o’clock, three teen-age boys caught up with me. They said they were from Fresno, California. I questioned them a little about Fresno, and decided they were telling me the truth. Also, I knew they were not professional tramps—and that they were hungry. I took them to the Wetmore hotel, and told Bill Cordon to give them their dinners, fill them up with double orders. One of the boys had about worn out his shoes—the sole of the left shoe was dragging, making it hard for the boy to keep up with his pals. While they were waiting in the hotel for the dinner call, I went to my home and hunted up a pair of shoes—almost new shoes, which pinched my feet—and took them, with a pair of clean socks, to the little fellow, and started them on their way back to Fresno, walking of course. On parting, the boy wearing my shoes, asked me why had I taken so much interest in them? I told them that I might be tramping myself someday, maybe even get as far away from home as Fresno, and in that event I hoped to meet them all again. This is what I told the boys. For the correct answer—it is enough to know that my people live in Fresno. One of the older boys said, “Never doubt, we’ll be there—if we ever do get back home.” And though I have been in Fresno a number of times since, I never had the pleasure of meeting any of them. I lost their names.

Now—the $64 question!

A real honest-to-goodness professional tramp had hurriedly passed me by before the boys had caught up with me. I had a couple pork sandwiches in my pocket. My first thought was to offer them to this fellow—then thought that maybe he was not a tramp. A tractor had been running on a farm east of my place, and this fellow was just about smeary enough to have been the driver. I let him pass—and later saw him go into the depot. The wife and I were preparing to eat the sandwiches which were on the table still wrapped in oil paper. Then, this professional tramp showed up at our kitchen door, asking for a handout. Taking the two wrapped sandwiches off the table, I said, “Here you are, my man—I’ve been saving them for you.” I told him that had he not passed me by in such hurry on the railroad tracks, that I would have offered them to him then. He said he had been sick, and was hurrying to get in out of the weather. It had been “spitting” snow—which, I imagine, had caused my dinner guests at the hotel to wonder why did they leave their homes in sunny California. My home was two blocks away from the depot—and this was the tramp’s first call. Now—had this fellow “read my number” in passing on the railroad track? Or, did he read the sign at my home? It was said in the old days that tramps had a way of marking the favorable houses. My wife never let an applicant go away without something, little or much, to allay his hunger.

I shall drop back a few years now and expand a bit on the trials and tribulations of my wife’s family—before she was my wife, understand. Married at the age of sixteen, and left a widow at the age of thirty-three, with little more than the home and a houseful of kids—all girls, at that — Kate Mercer found herself in a highly discouraging predicament. Deprived of the bread-winner, the almost new five-room house on an acre of ground down by the creek, on the “wrong side of the tracks,” could now hardly be called a home. It had been ideally situated for the husband and father, who had been section foreman here for eight years.

There was no county welfare aid here then, as there is now. There was, however, in practice at that time the “good neighbor helping hand.” It consisted of raising a temporary fund by the circulation of a subscription paper. But when such a course was proposed by sympathetic neighbors, Mrs. Mercer, strongly backed up by her oldest daughter, declined to permit that. They would try somehow to get along without charity. They would go out and work. Thus, an up-hill drag was in store for them.

Myrtle finished her schooling in May—though she said that with the readjustment problem confronting the family, and consequent worries, she feared she had made a rather poor job of it. Then she went out to work as domestic, or maid—just plain “hired girl” it was termed then. She worked two weeks in the home of the aristocratic Augusta Ann DeForest during the illness of Miss Mary Randall, the regular long-time maid. Myrtle said she could not have wished for a more congenial place to work. She dined with the family, notwithstanding the traditional rumors which said that such breaches of table etiquette were not tolerated in that home. And she said Mr. Henry, whom gossip claimed never even got to see the other cooks, was especially considerate, and told her not to try to overdo. That would be Mr. Henry, all right.

Myrtle worked for the eccentric Mrs. Draper, who was the mother-in-law of Charley DeForest. And she worked for Mrs. R. A. DeForest—and as chambermaid at the Wetmore hotel while her mother was the cook there. Of all her domestic “positions” Myrtle said she felt more at ease, and liked best to work for Linnie (Mrs. R. A.) DeForest. Linnie was the sister of the gracious Alice McVay, mentioned in another article. And Linnie was the mother of Harold DeForest, now living on a farm two miles northeast of Wetmore.

Myrtle worked five weeks that first year for a young married couple who had come down from Granada to set up housekeeping in Wetmore with scarcely more than their love to go on. She quit them before the man had accumulated the money to pay her. The loss was only ten dollars, she said—but ten dollars would have been something toward keeping the family together. Myrtle said, “There ought to be a law preventing people from marrying before they are financially prepared for it.”

That was a statement worthy of a philosopher.

In the early winter of that first year the family went back to Illinois, the home of Mrs. Mercer’s people. Again Myrtle worked out at her enforced occupation as “hired girl.” Jennie, the second girl, went temporarily to an aunt, Mrs. Esther Noble—her father’s sister—in Bloomington. Georgia stayed with her aunt, Mrs. Henry Ham, in Bureau Junction. Kathy and Jessie remained with their mother in the home of Mrs. Mercer’s father, John Leonard, in Bureau—which railroad town was the home of the Mercers before they came to Kansas. They were all back in Wetmore within a few years.

James F. Noyes, a well-to-do retired farmer, living in Wetmore, adopted Georgia. He and his wife Jennie could — and did — give her a good home. But after the novelty of the new life for the child had worn off, Georgia would “run away”—and go back home. The several occasions when she did this, made sorrowful times for the family. When matters became really serious, Georgia’s foster parents took her on an extended trip to visit Mrs. Noyes’ brother, George Scott, in Oregon, hoping to cure her of her homesickness. Georgia married Don Cole and reared a family of two boys and three girls in the Noyes home. She never lost contact with all members of her mother’s family.

Then there was an opportunity to have another of the girls adopted into a childless home. I don’t think the matter was considered seriously — not favorably, anyhow — but Myrtle said she “Threw a fit.” No more adoptions, if she could help it. She’d just “bedarned” if anyone could have Jessie, the baby. So it came to pass that she got the care of Jessie herself—after her mother had married John Hall, and gone to live on a farm one mile west of Powhattan.

Mr. Hall’s first wife, and mother of his four children, had stayed several months in Mrs. Mercer’s home while taking treatments of Dr. Haigh for the chronic ailment which caused her death. He had come over weekly to pay the bills. And he therefore knew just where to find himself another wife—provided.

Graduate Wetmore Public Schools—Class 1899.

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No, Girls—It’s not her Graduation Dress.

Artist’s Idea—1904.

Mother of Virginia, Ruth, John, and Betty.

The deliberating period was another trying time for the girls — but after thorough consideration, mother and daughters were in complete agreement. It would perhaps be best for all of them, especially for the overburdened mother. And it was really good for all of them—the Halls included.

The Mercer girls all finished their schooling in Wetmore. The two younger girls could have gone with their mother—it was so arranged—but they preferred to remain in Wetmore, most of the time. Jennie was offered the chance to work for her keep in Conductor Carlin’s home in Atchison, while taking a course in the Atchison Business College. She soon switched to the home of her uncle Stewart Mercer (a tailor) and his wife Mina, to act as baby sitter for little Esther, their first born. The Spectator, by virtue of some timely solicitation by Jennie’s older sister, and an advertising contract, contributed the tuition fee. Then Jennie went to work for a grain commission company in the Kansas City Board of Trade building. She worked in that one building as secretary and bookkeeper for different grain firms for the remainder of her life—more than thirty-five years. She never married.

Not that Jennie never had the chance. She turned down Danny Cromwell, a Kansas City boy, after he had secured the license. His sister Kate, a true friend and a very sensible girl, told Jennie that he had nothing, that he was sickly, without prospects—and that she would do well to sack him.

Then, too, Jennie had prospects of marrying her boss. But, after years of happy anticipation — you could see it written all over both their faces when they spent a vacation week with her relatives in Wetmore—it developed that this romance also was fraught with intolerable aspects. Her Romeo lived with, and was the sole support of an aristocratic mother who was allergic to working girls. Oh, those aristocratic mothers! A wise Nineteenth Century girl needed no advice. What think you a Twentieth Century girl would have done?

Jennie was helpful in securing positions in Kansas City for her younger sisters. Kathy worked as cashier and bookkeeper for the B. F. Coombs Produce Company down by the market, at Fifth and Main. She married Luther P. Hyre — and reared a family of three girls and one boy, in Kansas City.

I think Kathy was the only one of the girls to inherit in a high degree her mother’s Irish wit. I don’t care if she was my mother-in-law, Kate Leonard - Mercer - Hall was a witty woman. And what’s more, I never could understand the why of so much criticism of the mother-in-law.

Also, little Virginia Hyre, Kathy’s first born, was a bright kid. Note this. Percy Worthy had gone to the farm with me to get a load of posts. Little Virginia, my wife’s short three-year-old niece, tiny and talkative, was taken along. The posts were in a small depression on the edge of a cornfield. I lifted the little girl out of the wagon and stood her on higher ground. She remained quiet while we loaded the posts. When Percy started to pull out, the front wheels of the wagon hit soft ground, sinking to the hubs, stalling his big bay team. He lashed the horses—mildly of course—and yelled fearsome notes of encouragement. Virginia set up a howl—screamed as if the lashes and frightening words were falling on her little tender person. Percy climbed down off the wagon to investigate. Virginia stopped her howling and said with broken sobs, puncturing each word with her little right hand swinging up and down, “I know what’s the matter, Uncle John. You-just-got-too-many-posts!”

And again, nearly a year earlier, after the child had spent a month in our home, Virginia’s mother had come out from Kansas City to take her baby home. At the last minute, when they were seated in the passenger coach, Virginia decided she did not want to leave us, and she tearfully argued the matter with her mother—to no avail. As the train started to move the little girl, tiny and tearful, standing up in the seat, thrust her head and outstretched arms out an open window, and sobbed, “Uncle John, don’t you want me?” That did something to me. The fact was, we did want her. And I could have made the flying catch all right—but her wardrobe would have gone on to Kansas City. Virginia came back to our home, later, and started to school here, but she “fell out” with her teacher—and was carted back to Kansas City again. “I just don’t like Miss Peters” is all we could get her to say. Miss Myra Peters was the primary teacher who had for many years been adored by the little tots.