Chapter IX: +Strange Occurrences.+ (1)

"_Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more,
For olden times and holier shore,
God's love and blessing then and there,
Are now and here and everywhere._"

"I must tell you of several most wonderful occurrences which have taken place since 1913," continued the old lady looking at some papers which she held in her hand.

"It was deemed necessary, about the year 1951 to increase the water supply for the City of Portland and it was ascertained that the conditions at Mount Hood forbade looking to that place for a greater supply and it was decided to utilize the, as yet, great and untouched abundance of water offered by Mount St. Helens, and three years later the pipe line was completed, and water from beautiful St. Helens was turned into the new and immense reservoirs constructed for the ever increasing population.

"It was fortunate for the city that this new supply was projected and consummated just at this time for it was but a year later that Mt. Hood, which had been 'groaning' for some time began to belch forth from its intestines a mass of smoke and lava which bared the mountain of snow and caused much consternation among our people. The volcano continued active for several weeks, at intervals, finally entirely subsiding and it has been on its good behavior now for 25 years. Repairs were made to the pipe line and Portland, today, is getting a portion of its water supply from Mt. Hood as of yore.

"The radical changes in the methods of railroading have caused a new era in locomotion and rolling stock. Steam gave way to gasoline and that energy to electricity which held sway for a long time only to be replaced by a newer power, which is not as yet given out to the public.

"The O. W. R. & N. Company now occupy a building of their own, 20 stories high, and I notice the names of Cotton, Sutherland, O'Brien, Campbell, Buckley, Klippel, are still on the official list, all of whom are descendants of the officials who served the company earlier in the century.

"The old Wells, Fargo & Company's building still stands and that express company occupies the entire structure with no rooms to spare.

"The Hasty Messenger & Express Company, founded in 1899, is celebrating its 100th anniversary, its manager being Napoleon Traverso, whose progenitor was connected with the company in 1910.

"There has been a wonderful improvement in the present-day typewriters. As I mentioned earlier in my story, there is now a universal language with but 8,000 words. Of this number about 1,000 is all sufficient for an ordinary person and the genius of the inventor has reduced to a combination these 1,000 words in such a manner, that it is possible for a good operator to copy a sermon, or lecture, with ease, on the typewriter, from the most rapid talking orator.

"The sphere of usefulness of the phonograph has widened and it is now 'A thing of joy forever.' It seems that this splendid instrument is now gifted with almost human intelligence. Take for instance, an item cut from a daily paper and paste it on the cylinder, or disc, and without further preparation, a voice will read off the item to you in a plain, clear tone. Paste on the disc, the 'Index of today's news' from your morning paper and start it going and the items are read off to you correctly and in good voice. Do you wonder then that I call this a great age?" and a pleased smile came to the old lady's countenance.

"Many splendid brains have been working to better the methods and increase the value and usage of the telephone, and one must 'hit the ball and hit it all the time' to be able to hold an official position with a telephone company. The result of these efforts have put the telephone to varied uses. You can now, not only talk to a person over a wire, but you can actually see them, life size and just as they are, exactly as if you were talking to them face to face.

"Telephones are everywhere, but there are no longer any 'Centrals' and no more 'Number, please,' is heard, that system becoming unpopular about 1925. Public telephones are established on each street corner, where one may call up, talk to and see the person who answers the phone.

"Much telephoning is now being done by wireless and that branch of the service has developed greatly and is used to communicate with aerial vehicles. This service has been perfected, many former objectionable features being eliminated or overcome.

"I am about to relate an occurrence which is by far the most wonderful I have yet told and it is a phenomena which startled the world, making the superstitious quake, and bringing alarm to many nervous people.

"You know that it was in 1912 that the ill-fated Captain Scott planted the flag at the South Pole, losing his valuable life in the 'get away.'

"Ice was forming at the South Pole, each year encroaching more and more towards the north and some alleged scientific men predicted that the time would surely come when the ice deposit at the South Pole would become so great and the weight so heavy, that it would result in throwing the earth off its present axis, probably tipping up old Mother Earth and reversing the positions of the Equator and the Poles.

"As the century rolled on this doctrine became much talked about and many extravagant speculations were made as to the exact time when the catastrophe would take place, the most advantageous country to emigrate to in order to insure safety, and business generally was much disturbed. It was difficult to sell or hypothecate any real estate, and money and jewels were considered of doubtful value. Continued cold weather, far into the summer months, was the usual occurrence for several years and devastating rains fell upon the earth. Street preaching was the order of the day, and at every corner an earnest man or woman held an interested crowd discussing the Last Day, which they assured the listeners was near at hand. Many people gave away their entire worldly possessions and essayed to get their soul ready for its eternal flight. As the days passed by the excitement increased, and aerial voyages to the South Pole were planned and executed by thousands of people in their air machines. In former days it was a fad to take a trip around the world latitudinally, but now all these tourists wanted to go the other way of the stuff, and make the journey longitudinally, crossing the Frigid, Temperate and Torrid zones, North and South poles, and the journey was completed, by some, in less than 20 days. The reports given out by these travelers were not encouraging and much distress of mind was manifest.

"One day a report came that the South Pole was in process of eruption and that the ice was beginning to move. This announcement spread dismay on all sides, many now accepting the evil prognostications as being true, and the excitement was intense. The street preaching became more general but this merely increased the agitation. One preacher, a benevolent looking gentleman, who was very much at ease during all this disturbing period, seemed to be able to quiet the fears of the people by simply stating that God was present everywhere, and he would sing a hymn with that title. His singing and talks were very comforting to many who listened to his words and they patiently waited for what was to come.

"The eruptions continued and every day or two more volcanoes appeared, throwing up steam and lava, breaking up and displacing the ice which now began to move Northward. The huge mass was reported to look very threatening and the many photographs taken of the phenomena only produced more excitement. For days this situation continued, and now the ice was fast disappearing at the South Pole and it was also melting in the ocean as it proceeded north to the fiftieth degree. Disastrous storms ensued and the Western hemisphere was deluged, but the ice was melting rapidly under the fire of a dozen active volcanoes. Reports from the South Pole were growing more encouraging and people were again taking heart when, one day, the Department of the Interior announced that all danger was over. Then there was rejoicing, the like of which never before shook the earth.

"Of course, the return to common sense was marked by many humorous occurrences. The people who showed the most trepidation and who gave away all their earthly possessions, played the Indian act and wanted their presents back. Many said they were glad to begin all over again to accumulate worldly goods and the person who was thanked the most was he who had preached of the Omnipresence of God.

"A wonderful lesson had been taught everybody and that epoch marked the beginning of a truer brotherhood among mankind."

The old lady paused, and, heaving a sigh, exclaimed, "And, now my story is done. I have tried to illustrate the utter uselessness of borrowing trouble and being apprehensive without reason. I would like to have you tell your readers that it is my advice to heed the words of the poet prophet, 'Rest in the Lord, and He will give thee thy heart's desire.'

"What is my name, you ask?" here the old lady sighed again.

"I cannot tell you now, but some day you will know. I hope I have fulfilled my mission and accomplished some good.

"In leaving you I would like you to remember:

"_That all of good the past hath had,
Remains to make our own time glad,
Our common daily life divine,
And every land a Palestine._"

And my queer little visitor disappeared.

+End of Part I.+

+Part II.+

+Other Sketches+

THE BAD MAN FROM BODIE.

It was not a prepossessing face that entered Jack Hamlin's office one morning in Bodie, California.

"I say, young fellow, my name is Jim Slack, and I want ter talk ter you."

"All right, go ahead, and I'll try and be a cheerful listener," responded Jack.

"I'm looking for a pardner and it struck me that you'd be the right feller for the job," and the visitor tried to smile a persuasive smile, but the attempt was a failure. The scar which began at his ear and extended down to his throat was unbecoming, and his right ear which looked as if a bite had been taken from it gave his head a one-sided appearance. His eyes possessed a shifty, uncertain look, his beard was of a reddish hue and two weeks' growth. His clothes were ragged, ill-fitting and dirty.

Fastidious Jack Hamlin took his visitor in at a glance and laughed.

"So, you'd like me for a partner, would you?"

"Yes, I heard as how you were a spikilator like, and I want ter give yer a chance ter git rich quick." He continued, "I am the owner of some of the most valyable claims in the Lundy deestrict; I own the Sheepherder, the Dutchman, the Julia Lundy and some other valyable prospects. I want yer to grub stake me and one-half of all I own is yers." Here the visitor gave Jack a furtive side glance, but presently looked away.

"So, I have the pleasure of talking to the honorable James Slack of whom I have heard so much and I am further honored by being invited to become his partner, for the mere pittance of a grub stake?" And Jack laughed a merry laugh which did not please Slack. "You are the man that has several scalps already attached to your belt and you'd probably like to add mine to the collection, eh?"

Jim Slack winced under these insinuations, but he was hungry and he diplomatically kept his temper.

"Those were all accidents and they never could prove it different," sullenly replied Slack. "I did not come here to be joshed, but ter give yer a chance ter get rich quick."

"Very kind, indeed; here, take this and go and get a square meal, I think you'll enjoy that," and Jack tossed a gold piece to his caller. "Come again and we'll talk the matter over," and Jack returned to his work.

Jim Slack was probably the worst character in Mono county. He had been suspected of stage robbery, but so clever was his disguise that he could not be convicted. It was known that he had killed three men, an Irishman, a German, and a Chinaman, but he managed to save his neck through some legal quibble. When he was drinking, he would become almost a demon and assail friend or foe, if thwarted.

Jack Hamlin had made several thousand dollars about this time in mining speculations, and the money troubled him. He was never cut out to be an accumulator and money burnt a hole in his pocket.

"I believe I'll take a chance with you," he said, when Slack returned, "but I want a straight out and out deal. Go over and have Tom Stephens draw up the papers and I'll arrange the credit for you at the store."

No time was lost by Slack in obeying orders, and the next morning he started for his mines in the high Sierras with an outfit, the like of which he never before enjoyed. He swore everlasting fealty to Hamlin, but the latter waived all this "cheap talk," as he called it, telling Slack he expected to hear good reports from him.

Two months passed by, and a visit was projected by his new partner to Slack's mines. The latter came down from his eyrie, the twain meeting at Lundy, a little camp at the base of the mountain.

In drawing up the contract, Jim Slack had agreed to cut out liquor, and much stress was placed upon this part of the agreement.

It was quite late in the evening when Jack and his comrade started up the mountain for the mines. The location was far above the timber belt and in a spot of almost everlasting snow.

It was too dark to make any inspection of the mines that evening and a log fire was speedily burning for the weather was very cold on this July evening.

The bed was uninviting, composed mostly of wild beasts' skins, the odor of which was strong and lingering.

To Jack's surprise the first act of his host was to produce a whiskey bottle which he placed to his mouth, taking a long swig, offering the same to Hamlin.

"No, thank you," said Jack, "I don't like your brand."

"Good shot, that leaves the more for me," and the miner took another big swig.

Quiet reigned for a few minutes, when suddenly, with a demoniacal yell, Slack drew his gun and aiming it at one of the windows, emptied the six shots in as many seconds, crying out, "I got him then, didn't you see him? It was Paddy Mann, whom they say I killed last year. There, I saw him tumble over the cliff," and the now thoroughly drunken man shrieked with laughter.

Another libation was indulged in, and looking at the other window Slack shuddered, exclaiming, "Ah, there is the Dutchman after me; what does he want? Let me take a pop at him," and again was the revolver emptied into the window, provoking much maudlin merriment from the gunner.

Hamlin laid quietly in bed all this time, feeling a sense of more security by so doing, but on the alert with his own gun if it became necessary to defend himself.

The bottle was again produced and the liquor went gurgling down Slack's throat. "That was Hans Schmidt that I finished. What was he doing around here, do you suppose?"

"Hold on, hold on," he shrieked, "here comes Ah Lim, the Chinaman, I can see him dodging behind the rocks; let me go out and pepper him."

Six shots again rang out in the air, and throwing himself on the ill-smelling bed, Slack pulled one of the skins over his head to shut out the gruesome sight his imagination had conjured up.

"That Chinaman ought to know better 'n to come round this yere cabin. I told him so, but he, too, has fallen over the slide and I'll never be bothered by him. They been coming purty thick tonight, but I've done a good job, and now I'll have another drink."

The big bottle was nearly emptied and Slack again threw himself on the bed, apparently oblivious of Jack's presence.

After a few moments of quiet, the drunken man fell into a stupor, snoring heavily. Hamlin saw his chance to escape, but he realized that he was taking desperate chances. Were he to inadvertantly awaken the sleeper, he might be number four.

Patiently waiting till the sleeper gave evidence of being soundly at rest, he made for the door, which he quickly opened and passed out, hastening with all speed for the friendly timber a quarter of a mile away.

The night was clear, the moon shining brightly, like it does in the lofty Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Jack had reached the timber belt, when an awful shriek rang out upon the air, followed immediately by six rapidly fired shots. Looking backward, the tall form of Jim Slack could be seen coming down the snowy trail, and Jack accelerated his own speed. Again and again did the pursuer empty his revolver at the fleeing Hamlin, who could not hold his distance against this man of the mountains.

The forest was growing thicker, and Jack saw his only chance for escape was to hide from his pursuer, so dodged quickly behind a huge fir tree, just as a sharp bend was made in the road.

With bated breath he waited the coming of his pursuer who passed by three minutes later, gun in hand and shrieking and cursing like a demon.

Jack watched him, following him as closely as he dared, till the little camp of Lundy was reached.

Slack pursued his way to the hotel bar room, which was crowded with the usual habitues.

It will always remain a mystery as to how the affair happened, but it is said that Jim Slack opened fire on his old enemy, Ed Clancy, who retreated, only to reappear in the rear, where he poured a volley into Slack. The latter fell, and, standing over the dying man, Clancy emptied his second gun into the prostrate body.

The magistrate of the camp was a witness of the killing, and promptly exonerated Clancy from any blame.

The following telegram was put on the wires immediately for the San Francisco papers.

"James Slack, widely known as the 'Bad man from Bodie,' was killed in a pistol fight tonight by Edward Clancy. The killing was justifiable. Slack has relatives in San Francisco."

About noon on the following day a message was received by the postmaster of Lundy reading:

"San Francisco, California, July 15.

"Please take care of James Slack's body till my arrival. I come on first train.

Signed, His Mother."

Four days later, the lumbering stage coach drew up in front of the hotel, and a little, old lady alighted. She was modestly attired and possessed a sweet, gentle face.

"I am Mrs. Slack, the mother of James Slack, the man who was killed a few days ago. Where will I find his remains?"

Every hat was doffed as the old lady passed out into the back room where laid all there was of James Slack.

There were no tears in her eyes as she stooped down and kissed the dead man on the forehead.

"My poor little Jimmie," she murmured, "my poor little Jimmie."

It was decided to bury the remains at Lundy and a grave had already been dug for that purpose, over which some heartless fellow had placed a head board, bearing the following inscription:

"Jim Slack, the toughest cuss in all Mono diggin's."

"This here don't go, I tell yer," said big Bill Hall, the hotel man, "and this is what I'll do with sich a board," and seizing it threw it over the Geiger grade, where it went clankety, clankety, clankety, down 2,000 feet to the creek below.

"Who can sing a hymn in this here crowd?" enquired Bill.

"I used ter know a couple of hymns when I went to Sunday School," ventured Dick Byzicks, and one or two others owned up that they, too, knew a hymn or two and the volunteers stepped to the side of the woods to rehearse.

It was an unusually quiet day in Lundy. The bar room was closed, the first time in its history. Heads were uncovered as the little cortege proceeded slowly from the hotel to the newly made grave. Jack Hamlin walked with the little mother. A quartette of pretty fair voices sang "Rock of Ages," and "Nearer My God to Thee." Hamlin read a few passages from the only Bible in camp and the body was laid at rest.

A representative from the May Lundy mine, whose stockholders lived in Calais, Maine, called on Mrs. Slack, offering her $10,000 for her son's prospects, and after a little negotiation, the deal, was consummated, Jack Hamlin generously waiving his partnership rights in favor of Mrs. Slack.

A little marble monument marks the last resting place of Jim Slack, which bears the following legend and no mark of disrespect has ever been shown the grave:

"Sacred to the memory of James Slack, who died July 15th, A. D. 18--. Erected by his mother, who always loved her son."

HE NEVER CAME BACK.

While the writer was on a long journey recently he was often entertained by his old friends at their commercial clubs or other hospitable resorts and an evening of genuine enjoyment was always sure to ensue.

At Ashland, Oregon, Frank Routledge, the genial manager of the Western Union Telegraph Company tendered a smoker, at which were present some 30 telegraph and ex-telegraph men, all glad to get together for an evening.

Story telling was in order, and as most of the guests present had traveled a good deal in their time, the tales told covered every known topic.

"I'd like to know something about 'Bogy,'" exclaimed George Eubanks, an erstwhile telegraph man and now a banker of Ashland. "I have heard so much about 'Bogy's' great ability, but have never heard it corroborated. Can anyone present tell me if it is really so that he could copy 50 words behind, all night?"

"Bogy" was a character whose real name was Henry Bogardus, and he was one of those itinerant operators who are never content to remain in any one place more than a week. He made annual pilgrimages to the Pacific, and in his peregrinations would become acquainted with most every railroad operator on the roads that he traversed. "Bogy" had a way of convincing these humble knights of the key that he was a most extraordinary operator which impression assisted him materially in evading the inter-state commerce bill.

It was up to the writer to tell a story about "Bogy," as he had seen him later than any of the rest of the assemblage.

About the year 1893, "Bogy" arrived in Portland, and straightway appealed to the telegraph manager for a loan of $1, which was speedily forthcoming, for nobody could refuse "Bogy."

An hour or so later, he repaired to the operating room, where he sat down to the Walla Walla wire, proceeding to get off business on the double quick.

"Who sent for you and what's your name?" queried the chief operator.

"Oh, that's all right, young fellow, I'm Bogy, and I refer you to our manager," and the imperturbable artist proceeded sending to Walla Walla.

The manager informed the chief that "Bogy" was all right, that if he did no good he would do no harm, and to let him continue his work.

"Bogy" worked all day and evening and clear up into the night, only stopping when there was nothing left for him to do.

The soft side of a bench was a tempting bed for this weary traveler, and, as he liked to sleep near the tick of the telegraph instruments, permission was granted him to take the bench into the battery room.

Several days slipped by, "Bogy" working night and day. He certainly enjoyed working; it was a pastime with him.

Saturday came, and with it the usual pay-day and "Bogy" received his emoluments with the rest of the men.

"I want you on at 6 P. M. tonight," said the chief operator, "you will take the Associated Press news tonight."

"I'll be here when the clock strikes 6 and I'm going to show you something in the line of telegraphing the like of which has never been performed here before," and "Bogy" assumed a very important air.

He was on hand promptly and sat down to the San Francisco wire, where Billy Williamson was displaying his musical Morse. It was coming very fast, but beautiful as an opera to listen to.

Picking up the manifold sheets, he discovered the carbons were not straight and he began to adjust them, San Francisco sending right along.

"I say," began the night chief, "when are you going to start in to copy? You are now 100 words behind."

"Cease from annoying me, I often copy 300 and 400 words behind. Now, just wait till I locate my stylus and I'll show you what no other man can do," and "Bogy" began a search for the missing article.

Williamson had now sent two full sheets and the night chief was very nervous fearing an unlooked for denouement, but "Bogy" was impassive.

The missing stylus was at last found and "he" squared himself for his grand feat, much to the relief of the very much excited night chief. Fully 400 words had now been sent but "Bogy" looked wise.

"I say, my boy," addressing the night chief, "I'm going out for a few minutes, but let him send just the same. I'll keep it all in my head till I get back, and when I return you will see something in the way of telegraphing that you never dreamed of before."

Saying this, "Bogy" went out into the dark and--never returned.

WHERE DID YOU GET THAT OIL?

The firm of Kelly, Dunne & Co. were doing business a quarter of a century ago, and the junior member of that concern, David M. Dunne, was very popular. He made friends and treated them right and they were staunch and loyal.

The Portland Ice Company bought a great deal of oil from Mr. Dunne, and notwithstanding all kinds of inducements, no one else could sell oil to the ice company.

The foreman of the ice plant swore by the Kelly, Dunne & Co. product and would treat with much brusquesness any drummer who had the hardihood to come to him to dispose of oil. He had full charge of the works and was held strictly accountable for the welfare of the plant.

Dr. Charlie Plummer, who was manager for a competitive house, had tried in vain to introduce his wares but the erratic foreman was unswerving in his loyalty to Dunne.

A bright young man, named Tony Neppach, a crack salesman, was employed by Plummer and it was Tony's duties to crack all the hard nuts.

"I want you to go to the Portland Ice Company and sell them some oil," said Plummer to Neppach one day.

"You will see that I will do it," responded Tony and off he put.

"Don't come around here with your oil, I don't want it and I don't want to talk to you on the subject. I am satisfied and that's all there is to it," vociferously declared the foreman.

"Yes, but you are talking to an oil man now and my oil is far superior to the stuff you have been using," replied the placid Tony.

Much talk ensued, Tony protesting that the foreman could not tell the difference between the oil he was using and the product he was endeavoring to sell and offered to set up the cigars for the crowd if he could tell the difference, but if he failed to tell, then the foreman was to give him an order for a barrel of oil. It was the noon hour and some 50 men were witnessing the sale.

When the offer was accepted, Tony turned his back to the foreman and produced a bottle of oil from his coat pocket, poured a little in each hand which he showed the foreman, ejaculating, "Now, tell me which is your oil and which is mine."

The foreman hesitated, looking at one hand and then the other, finally touching Tony's left hand, triumphantly remarked, "Why, that is my oil." A laugh followed this from the men who saw how the oil had been manipulated and Tony told him that he had his oil in both hands.

Neppach received an order for a barrel which greatly pleased his employer.

Two weeks passed by and Tony, who had been up the Valley on a business trip, thought he would drop in at the Portland Ice Company before reporting to his house.

Entering the machine room with a jaunty, nonchalant air, he began singing in a high pitched voice, "How did you like my oil? How did you like my oil?" this to the tune of "Where did you get that hat?"

The ice plant was in a complete state of chaos, pipes being torn out and some 25 men were engaged in still further tearing out the piping. The foreman was up on a high ladder assisting in the demolishing when he espied Tony.

"There he is, there he is," he yelled and he slid down the ladder, approaching the drummer with a formidable looking monkey wrench. His language was strong, full of epithets and he swung the monkey wrench menacingly.

Tony picked up a huge rock to defend himself, retreating backwards to the door, where he beat his way to the store to ascertain the cause of all this turbulent demonstration.

"Oh, that's so, you have been away and did not hear about it," said the undisturbed Plummer. "You see, one of the boys made a mistake and sent them the wrong oil, in fact, it was some oil which contained a good deal of lard oil, and when they turned in the cold water into the pipes it cooled off the lard and put them out of business."

The ice company lost that summer's output and litigation ensued, which helped to popularize Dave Dunne's wares and Tony in disgust jumped his job.

It was not long after this that Neppach was engaged by Nicolai Bros. as manager of their planing mill and he was given full charge of the whole business.

Nicolai Bros. owned some land down around Slabtown, a piece of which they leased to a Swede, who ran a saloon on the premises.

The Swede's lease for three years was about to expire and as he was doing a good business he became desirous to lease it for five years longer. When he applied to the firm, he was referred to Mr. Neppach as the proper person to negotiate with.

Tony saw him coming and determined to have a little fun.

Assuming a very severe air, he asked the Swede whose beer he sold, the latter explaining that he had made a reputation with San Francisco beer. "That settles it," exclaimed Tony, "you can't lease from us unless you use the home product." Some important business at this juncture engaged Neppach's attention, the Swede departed, and the incident was temporarily forgotten.

A month later, the Swede called to pay his rent and announced that he was now selling Weinhard's beer and was ready for the lease.

Tony produced a blank form and began filling it out. He dwelt at length in the preamble over the great superiority of Weinhard's beer over every known competitor, and in each sentence would have something to say about the "Celebrated Weinhard's lager beer." He incorporated in the lease a promise from the Swede that he never would drink, or allow any of his friends to drink any beverage, excepting the world famous Weinhard's beer. Never before or since has there been such an elaborate lease made up and the funny part is that the whole matter was a huge joke.

A month elapsed and Mr. Weinhard noticed his new customer. He had been seeking, without avail, the Swede's patronage, but here he was now, giving good orders without any solicitation.

Mr. Weinhard determined to ascertain the reason for this change of heart. The Swede informed him that he was obliged to patronize him in order to retain his lease.

"Would you mind letting me see that lease?" queried Mr. Weinhard.

There being no objections the lease was sent to him for his perusal.

No one will ever be able to tell what passed through the brewer's mind as he read the uncommon document, but he went to the telephone and called up Nicolai Brothers.

"I want to speak to Mr. Tony Neppach."

"That's me," said the merry Tony.

"This is Henry Weinhard and I am putting up a building on the corner of Fourth and Alder Streets and I want to tell you that you can have all the mill work there, without price. Goodbye," and he hung up the phone.

Thus did Tony Neppach have his little joke, and his firm reaped an unlooked for reward for the same.

A GRAPEVINE TELEGRAPH LINE.

It was the Fourth of July, 1876, and the City of St. Louis was celebrating the occasion in the good old way, which is rapidly becoming merely a matter of history.

The Atlantic & Pacific Telegraph Company had recently opened an office in the Missouri metropolis, but the facilities were, indeed, very meagre, consisting of but one wire to Chicago, which went along the highways and byways the entire distance. The telegraph company did a good business, the wire being crowded to its fullest capacity day and night.

The advent of the new telegraph company had brought into existence a new daily paper, the Morning Chronicle, which came to fill a long felt want. The Chronicle could be supplied with press dispatches, a matter of vital moment in the introduction of a new journal, even in those days.

On the afternoon of the "glorious Fourth" some bucolic individual with more enthusiasm than good sense, shot off several insulators near Alton, breaking the wire, and as the linemen were off duty celebrating the day the telegraph company was put out of business pending repairs.

The writer was the night operator for this company at St. Louis at this time, and while regretting the unfortunate break and loss to the company, it looked like there was a chance for a holiday.

The Chronicle was informed of the situation, and the telegraph editor, who was also city editor and writer of heavy editorials, came to the telegraph office to discuss some way of obtaining some press dispatches.

"You can't expect to get any dispatches without a wire, and there is absolutely no use hoping to get one tonight," was the report made to the editor, who was very much chagrined. He said he was up against it and he could not get out a paper unless he had some telegraph news, and what was he to do? He declined allowing the office to be closed up till the regular time, hoping against hope that the wire might come up.

It seemed cruel to keep a person from enjoying himself on the occasion of the nation's Independence day, but there was nothing to do but to remain on duty. Every half hour the editor would drop in to ascertain the prospect and it was really pitiful to observe how disappointed he was.

It grew on till 8 o'clock, with no change in the condition of the wire.

Hank Cowan, an interesting character, a fine operator, but given to drink, stepped into the office to borrow four bits.

"Come, Hank, I'll make it a dollar if you'll give me a lift for an hour."

"All right," replied Hank, "tell me what to do for I need a dollar pretty badly tonight."

Connection was made from the manager's private office to the Chicago table and I began calling St. Louis.

"Take that fellow, Hank," was the next order, and Cowan sat down at the wire.

I was doing the manipulating at the key in the manager's office and said, "Here, you are, I've a bunch of press reports for you."

"Go ahead," said Cowan and I immediately began sending a lot of fictitious news.

The first item was from London and purported to be a dispatch from Queen Victoria to President Grant, felicitating the United States on its 100th anniversary. This was followed by one of similar import from the Czar of Russia and the Emperor of Germany. A graphic description of the day's doings in New York City was next put on the 25-foot wire, Hank Cowan copying it in a big round hand. News from the nation's Capitol came next making an interesting budget. An imaginary steamboat explosion on the Mississippi River came next in order and then a report of a battle in some one of the Central American States, but as they are fighting down there all the time, not much chance was taken in making up this story.

A report from Chicago of the day's proceedings followed, a big fire in the lumber regions of Michigan, and then the West was supposed to be turned on. Omaha reported some Indian depredations in the Sioux country, a big strike in the Comstock mines at Virginia City, loss of a steamer at sea came from Victoria, B. C., and an account of one of Denis Kearney's sandlot speeches to his constituency in San Francisco was given, when the editor came in.

He looked over the "news" with a gleeful eye and thanked me again and again and before I could realize it, walked away with the "stuff."

I gasped as I thought what had happened, for it had been my intention to merely have some fun with Cowan and make him work for his $1.00. I told Hank that it was me and not Chicago that had been sending to him and asked his advice about confessing the situation to the editor.

"No, let him print it, it's good stuff and no one in St. Louis will know the difference," was the advice I got from Cowan and as he was much older and experienced than me, his advice was accepted.

There was no more news sent over the "short line" after this and we locked up the office shortly after.

I was impatient to get a copy of the St. Louis Chronicle the next morning, and there were all my dispatches, only more so, for the intelligent editor had freely padded them showing that he, too, was quite fertile in his imagination.

Not only were the dispatches printed, but editorial comment was made on the Queen's alleged telegram to President Grant, a scathing rebuke was given Denis Kearney and his followers, attention being particularly called to the item from San Francisco, in "our dispatches."

I was a little fidgety for a few days but as time went by and no mention was made of the hoax, I began to take more courage and laugh about it.

A month later, I resigned to come West and 'fessed up to the manager the Fourth of July joke. When the enormity of the hoax dawned on him, he laughed loud and hearty, declaring it was the most daring, venturesome and awful joke he had ever heard. I was freely forgiven for the part I enacted, but the story was not told to the paper.

This incident occurred many years ago, and in a recent visit to St. Louis, I looked up this enterprising editor, who had grown rich in the business.

He remembered the Fourth of July, 1876, and all the circumstances, but when I related the story, he laughed so heartily that he declared that 10 years had been added to his life.

It would be impossible in this day and generation to successfully carry out such a joke as is just related, press dispatches being scrutinized for the "bogus" with as much zeal by the diligent telegraph editor as he would a bunch of dollar bills in quest of counterfeits. And so it happened again that "All is well that ends well."

ALONG THE SHORE.

About a dozen years ago, B. A. Worthington was appointed superintendent for the Pacific Coast division of the Southern Pacific Railroad, with headquarters at San Francisco.

In falling heir to this position, Mr. Worthington also acquired the private car of his predecessor, which had been named the "Texas." It was agreed, however, that the name of the car should be changed, as the former superintendent wanted to give that cognomen to his new car down South.

There was a very wealthy railroad man, in the East, who used to pay a member of his family $1,000 a year, in return for which this member would find appropriate appellations for each new Pullman car turned out at the shops.

Not feeling justified in invoking the aid of such an expensive person, the new superintendent decided to select a name, and as the State of California contains many poetical names to draw from, the time card for the Pacific division was consulted.

Such names as "Santa Maria," "Santa Margarita," etc., were canvassed and rejected, and the little city of "Orilla" seemed to proffer its name.

By reference to a Spanish dictionary, it was ascertained that the meaning of the word "Orilla" was defined, "Along the shore," and as the name was poetical enough and as his line of railroad ran along the shore of the Pacific Ocean, he determined to name the car, "Orilla."

This was a flattering tribute to the town of Orilla, and on the first appearance of Mr. Worthington's car in that little city, the populace showed their appreciation by deluging the car with flowers.

The "Orilla" had been refitted throughout and was very beautiful, and all the employes of the road hailed its coming, for they liked to see it and the popular superintendent, but there are contrary spirits the whole world over.

One night the superintendent, with his private car, was coming North, attached to the San Francisco flyer, and stopped for a few minutes at San Luis Obispo, where the car inspector came around with his hammer to test the wheels of each car. Another functionary was also on duty to take the number or names of each car.

"Look yere, Chimmie, wot is dis?" and he began spelling out "O R I L L A." "Begorrah, that's a moighty funny name."

"Yes, dat's de old man's private snap" (Mr. Worthington was 35 years old at this time), "and he calls it 'Orilla'," was the other's rejoinder.

"'Orilla?' 'Orilla?' begorrah and it should have a 'G' in front of it and I'm going to put one there."

A can of black paint was produced and quite a decent looking letter "G" was prefixed to the car's appellation, completely changing its euphony.

The two worthies laughed at their alleged witticism and the "Gorilla" went Northward.

From his window in the middle of the car that evening, Mr. Worthington was a witness of the whole occurrence, but wisely kept silent. He realized if he made a demonstration, the employes would have a laugh on him and jokes travel fast with men employed on a railroad.

Arriving in San Francisco, Mr. Worthington had the car put up immediately in the shops and ordered the name erased and the less poetic name of "Surf" substituted. Of course, surf goes along the shore, so virtually the title was not changed.

The jokers at San Luis Obispo had no joke after all, and probably will never know, unless they read this story, how it happened that B. A. Worthington so quickly changed the name of his private car.

Illustration: End of Chapter 14.

SHOWING OFF.

Some six or seven years ago, there lived in Portland, a rather notorious young chap, named Otto Prag. He was a messenger boy, private detective, playwright, actor, candidate for councilman, friend to the newsboys, etc.

About 1907, he went to Spokane, where he pursued his various callings, adding that of candidate for United States Senator to the rest of his business qualifications. He, however, found himself "crushed" in his vaunting ambition and he took up the collection of bad debts to gain a livelihood.

Notwithstanding the fact that Arthur Green and Harry Murphy had immortalized the name of Otto Prag in the columns of the Oregonian, the young man prevailed upon the Washington Legislature to allow him to adopt the name of Arthur Prague, in lieu of his former family cognomen.

Arthur Prague, as he is known now in Spokane became a benedict some three years ago and is now the proud father of a very lively boy. This diminutive little chap is very interesting, and possessing a mercurial nature, makes the fact patent that he is in existence.

The writer was recently in Spokane for a few days, and ran across the young man of varied occupations.

"I want you to come out to my house and see my baby and my piano and take dinner with me and my wife," said the ex-playwright. "You will have a nice time and I'll feed you well, you must come."

Yielding to these importunities, a day was set and an automobile took us to the Pragues.

Introductions to the family speedily followed, and the baby, Webster by name, came in for a large share of attention. He was dandled and tossed in the air till he fairly shrieked with joy.

"Come, let me show you my $550 piano and my $250 phonograph. And here's dinner, too, and I'll tell you what I have for you to eat today. There is two kinds of soup, oyster and consomme, then there are three sirloin steaks, some ham and boulogne sausage, a dozen hard boiled eggs, tea, coffee and milk, there is three kinds of pie, mince, lemon and custard, two kinds of cake, some canned strawberries and peaches, two kinds of cheese, mashed potatoes, pickles, chow chow, apple sauce and ice cream and it is all on the table to save time."

The table was set for eight persons, but there were only four of us to partake of this banquet, including the baby. Every available bit of space on the table was covered and there was enough edibles in sight to feed 20 hungry laborers.

Arthur sat at the head of the table, his young hopeful on his right and the writer at the foot, the little wife flitting around to add a little more to her already elaborate dinner.

"I say, Hazel, I want to have our guest hear our $550 piano, please play us some rag time while we eat."

There was no use protesting and the dutiful spouse sat down to the piano and began to play, when the telephone rang and the young papa went out to answer it.

Little wee Webster set up a yell, but the mother was so bent on her rag time piece that she did not notice him.

Involuntarily the writer's hands went up into the air, as if describing the tossing up with which he had been indulging the child. This was invitation enough for the youngster, who started for the other end of the table regardless of any seeming obstacles in the way. He bounded out of his high chair, plunking his fat little fists into the consomme, one foot kicking over the custard pie. Tea, coffee and milk were brushed ruthlessly aside, the dozen hard boiled eggs met an ignominious fate on the floor and the apple sauce and canned berries were tipped over. Halting for a moment in the middle of the table where he squatted in the center of three sirloin steaks, he proceeded to his journey's end, creating havoc and destruction in his wake. Everything seemed to be a target for the youngsters efforts, and just as he was about to spring in triumph into his guest's arms, both parents arrived on the scene of such wanton destruction. The boy had done a complete job and the tempting viands of a few moments before became immediate "candidates" for the little barrel furnished by the garbage man.

Recriminations between the "newly-weds" and apologies for Master Webster's rudeness were in order, but the occurrence was so humorous that the whilom guest is still enjoying the memories of the untouched dinner with the Prague family.

"KNIFIN' DE DOUGH."

In the earlier days of Oregon the State Fair at Salem was the great event of the Fall's doings, and countryman and merchant alike contributed by their presence to make the fair a success. It was a week when the old pioneer, who lived in the Grand Ronde Valley would expect to meet his former neighbor in the East, who, perchance, located in Yamhill County and, railroads being scarce, old Bob and Florrie would be hitched to the prairie schooner that bore them across the plains years before, to participate in the annual gathering in September at Salem.

More people came from Portland in those days than at present, notwithstanding the increased population.

There were no bridges across the Willamette at Portland, and ferry boats handled with ease all the travel between the East and the West Sides.

Two brothers were the proprietors of one of these ferry boats, and the husbands and fathers of the two families indulgently gave over the proceeds of one day's collection to their wives and children to spend as they wished in a day's outing at Salem. Thursday was the day generally selected and every member of both families excepting the husbands took the early train for the State Fair.

On one of these occasions, along about 1882 or '83, the members of both families were a little slow in getting started, and Capt. Robinson brought the previous day's collections, a good sized canvass bag full of silver and some gold pieces also, to the train, where he handed it to the mothers for distribution among the flock.

"How will we proceed to divide the money," was asked.

"Why, open up the bag and take out a dollar and I'll do the same." Which plan was agreed upon.

"Here's four bits for you and here's four bits for me. Now, here's a dollar for you and here's a dollar for me, and here is two bits for you and here's two bits for me." Just then one of the youngsters pulled on his mother's skirts, and down tumbled the coin, necessitating a new division.

The money was put back into the bag and the same system started over again, only to be found impracticable.

Several gold pieces gleamed in the bag, one being a double "sawbuck," as Dixie fantastically described it. There appeared to be no end to the disputes arising, when Conductor Stroud was appealed to for some of his wisdom in aiding a settlement.

The conductor had a merry twinkle in his eye when he suggested that he would be fair to both sides, but they must agree not to appeal from his method of adjustment, which was readily consented to.

Taking the bag in his hands, Mr. Stroud tied up the opening, then beginning in the middle he worked one-half of the coins as nearly as could be guessed to each end which left a place in the middle of the bag, around which he securely tied a string, thus making two compartments in the bag.

"Now, we will toss up a copper and see who has first choice."

This was harmoniously done and producing a huge pocket knife, the bag was cut in two at the point where the string was tied.

"This is what I call 'Knifin' de dough,'" laughed the jolly conductor.

Each one of the bairns was allowed to slip his or her hand in the bag and take out all it would hold.

"I wish I had a hand like a ham," cried Gordon.

"Yes, and I picked out the double eagle," triumphantly exclaimed Miss Dixie, and all were made happy.

Semi-annual dividends by our streetcar systems usually bring gladness to the already bloated stockholder, but they never can experience the exquisite joy that these two families had in "Knifin' de dough" on their annual pilgrimage to the State Fair.

Illustration: End of Chapter 16.

A MUSICAL ABORIGINE.

The train from the East, bearing a long string of loaded coaches, had stopped at Wallula for dinner and amid the din of the sounding gong in the hand of a burly negro, the passengers alighted to partake of the Willis' bill of fare. This was an important hour in the day for the little band of Umatilla Indians who gathered around the station to sell their curios to the tenderfoot passenger.

The captain of these remnants of a once mighty nation was Hawkeye, a fine specimen of the Indian genus homo. Hawkeye leaned on the corner of the station dressed in a becoming Indian garb, looking every inch a warrior.