On a warm evening of the early summer of 1905, Wilfred Passmore and I arrived in Buffalo from the west. We had been telegraphing in the southwest for the Missouri, Kansas & Texas Railroad and were on our way home, each with about $300 in bills tucked away in one of our shoes, nestling comfortably between skin and sock.

Unfortunately, we got into Buffalo rather late in the evening and decided to stay there overnight. We got a room in a small hotel off Ellicott Square, deposited our suitcases and started out to "look around" a little. Just 36 hours later we sat in our hotel room and took inventory of our

assets. These consisted of two brand-new suits, two Ingersoll watches, a varied assortment of pawn tickets and about $12 in cash. So, we decided to go home. Passy lived in Gillette, Pa., and I lived in Parish, so it immediately occurred to me that I could easily get over to Suspension Bridge, where I was more-or-less known, and bum a ride on the Hojack to Oswego and thence home, with little, or no outlay.

My partner's case was different, since he was practically unknown as a railroader outside of Pennsylvania. In spite of his strong reluctance I forced all our remaining cash upon him - that is, all except a dollar in change for, "emergencies" - and went our separate ways, promising to take up where we left off, later (as to what had become of our joint $600 fund - that's something not to be divulged in this particular story. So don't be looking for it).

I trolleyed over to Suspension Bridge and hung around the signal tower until 3 a.m., when I boarded the caboose of the east-bound fruit train captained by Conductor Bob Cronin, whom I knew well. Bill and his crew greeted me, not too effusively perhaps, but made me free of the caboose accommodations, which in those days included plenty to eat and a place to sleep.

We arrived in Oswego about 10:30 that night and I promptly hied me to the train dispatcher's office, where my good friend, Roy Nutting held down the "third trick." I stayed with him until morning and easily negotiated a loan of $10. I rode the baggage car of 201 to Pulaski. Here I waited for the Salina-bound local freight, No. 22 which left there about 1 p.m. While waiting I had contacted George Murphy, Parish station agent, by wire and he had informed me that my folks were out of town for a day or two, so I rode the local clear into Salina yards.

In those days this freight train boasted as salt (sic) and efficient crew as you'd find in a month's hunt. Sam Hollingsworth was engineman, Barney Fidler, the fireman, and Bill Mudge, head brakeman. In the caboose were Conductor Loren (Hop) Look, Flagman Jones and Brakeman Denny Haley.

As we rattled over the frogs into Salina yards, late that afternoon, Conductor Look fixed me with speculative eye, stroked his handle-bar mustache and remarked:

"What you doin' tonight, Doug?"

When I assured him that my schedule was blank, he continued:

"You hang around till I sign off an' get washed up. I'm a-goin' over to th' transfer dock for a minit, you come along an' I'll show you something pretty dang classy."

So, a little later, Hop and I crossed the yard and visited the R. W.& O. transfer house, just above the point where the overhead now crosses N. Salina St. Here was a scene of great activity. Merchandise of every description was being carted about the floors and shifted from one car to another through the length of the long warehouse. At the point where we entered, four or five freight handlers were loading a car of cheese. This cheese was packed in wooden "half-boxes," weighing about 18 pounds each. I dare say many of you will recall these cheese containers - flat, round thin-sided boxes with supposedly tight-fitting covers. Two loaded planks were placed across the interstice between the car door and that of the warehouse, and the boys rolled these little boxes merrily up the incline while one man in the car piled them up in neat tiers as they arrived. It wasn't uncommon for a box to fall from the planks as it rolled, and in such cases the container was frequently broke. For such emergency, there were always near the transfer door, two or three tall piles of empty boxes used as replacements. It was toward these boxes that Hop made his way.

"Hey, Rick!" he explained to Foreman Althaus. " Me an' Doug wants a coupla these here empty boxes to take along. We're a-goin' to make some whatnots fer th' wimin an' these'll be jest th' thing fer th' tops."

Rick waved a careless hand toward the empties. "Sure thing, Hop," he agreed, "help yereself - they don't belong to me, nohow."

Hop winked violently at the two cheese-loaders and as he engaged them in loud and rapid conversation, they diverted two of the rolling boxes of cheese off the planks and in his direction. As one came to his hands, he deftly placed it on the top of a pile of the empty boxes, and in a short moment repeated the performance with the other. After a not-too-long exchange of persiflage with everybody in sight, Hop turned to me and remarked:

"Well, come on, Doug, here's yer cheese box - let's go."

With no apparent effort he reached up and plucked the full boxes from off the pile of empties, handed one to me and started for the door. "So long, Rick," he shouted to the foreman, "be seein' you."

And now you may visualize Hop and this narrator walking sturdily up N. Salina, bearing between us 35 pounds of the best North Country cheddar that was ever pilfered. We proceeded, forthwith, to Gaffney's Onondaga Hotel bar room, where the savory stuff was deposited right on the bar and the barkeep's kitchen knife quickly brought into play.

The north side sure had a cheese fiesta that night. Indeed, it is my fondest hope that this narrative may meet the eye of some old-timer who was actually at the feast.

Well sir, as we all stood around, eating cheese and otherwise keeping the bartender busy, the swing doors with a mighty "swoosh" - and there, immaculate and debonaire in his 6 feet 2 of virile manhood, stood my partner, Wilfred Passmore, with whom I had parted in Buffalo only the day before.

After introductions all around, I forced a huge triangle of cheese into the not-unready hand of my friend and demanded to be enlightened.

"Nothing to it," he averred. "I made it to Gillette in fast time and explained everything to dad, especially how you were broke on account of us using all the money for my carfare. So, like I've always told you, he's a good guy and an understanding guy; and he handed me a stake and told

me to hunt you up, and here I am...This time, we'll try the far east. I wired the New Haven chief at Willimantic and he's got jobs waiting for both of us - come on, let's go."

"Sure," I grumbled, "you've got a stake, but me - I'm broke and I'm not going to trot around on your money, feller, you can depend on that."

"My fine-feathered friend," bantered Passy, "I just told you my old dad is an understanding man - and he thought about that, too. When he handed me this hundred, he gave me another for you; here she is." And he tucked $20 bills in my pocket.

There was nothing further to be said in the matter - so we went east. And, do you know, down there on the N.Y.N. H.& H., Passy and I got ourselves into the darndest mess you ever heard of. You see, it was like this - but shucks! That's another story, entirely. Let's save it.

Thus we cavorted and cacchinated while still the glamor was on the sunrise.

Stories of the old railroad days are heartwarming and serve well as a rainbow bridge to fond memories travel - but here's a little tale which is so new that it hardly can be called history, since it happened only last month - March 26, 1947, to be exact.

Ed Dayton has been station agent at Mexico for many years. In fact, his total of continuous service on the Hojack adds up to 39 years. At present, there is no night man at the Mexico station, and Ed's tour of duty is supposed to end at 5 p.m. after which time the station is unattended until 8 a.m.

On the night of March 26, Ed tapped out "good night" as usual at 5 p.m., but it was storming furiously and the big rotary snowplow was on the way east from Oswego, ahead of 483, the night passenger train to Richland, so the train dispatcher asked Ed to come back at 6 p.m. to clear the passenger train which was due there about that hour.

The snowplow arrived at Pulaski, leaving a clear track for 483, which arrived at Mexico at 5:20. Engineer George Lamb and Conductor Andrews came to the office and asked for clearance cards so they could proceed.

"She's bad," said Engineer Lamb, "bad as any I've seen this winter - and that's going some. Them cuts'll be fillin' up fast behind the plow and if we don't get outa here quick, mebbe we won't be goin' anywhere tonight."

"That's right," agreed Conductor Andrews. "Come on, Ed, ain't that plow cleared Pulaski yet?"

A this moment Ed got the "clear" signal from the Pulaski operator, so he handed the trainmen their clearance cards which gave them a "highball" to Pulaski. As they started for the station door, the local telephone rang insistently and Ed answered. It was his mother, at home, who had received a call from Mrs. Wood, living near the North Street railroad crossing at the east end of the village.

"There's an auto on the crossing," she announced breathlessly, "it's been stalled there quite a while and they can't move it - you better do something, quick."

Well, the first thing Ed did was to leg it out of the station and catch Engineman Lamb just s he was climbing into his cab. Then they notified the conductor and all went back into the station. Ed called the train dispatcher at Oswego and explained the situation. After a little delay, the dispatcher issued orders to the train crew to ease the train down through the cut, stop at the crossing and see if they couldn't help get the auto off the track. The crossing is about a half-mile east of the station and when they got there they found the vehicle directly across the track and by this time, so completely snowed in as to render any shoveling futile. The driver, Harry Nicholson, had sent to a neighboring farm for a team to endeavor to pull the car from its precarious position; so, leaving a flagman at the spot, the train backed to the station and waited.

In the meantime, Station Agent Dayton was making frantic phone calls to the homes of section men, village officials and others, but nobody answered the calls. "I don't blame them," says Ed, "for it was a terrible night out; the snow was driving down in a heavy white blanket and the wind was howling like 40 banshees."

As hey sat in the office, waiting for word from the flagman, Engineman Lamb remarked:

"Here it is spring an' the storm's about as bad as any we've had since ‘04, the time everything was tied up tight from Salina to Watertown. I was brakin' on the Watertown local at that time an' we got to Mallory about 3 a.m. an' we stayed right there for a week. For three days o' that time, there wasn't no telegraph wires either."

"Wind blowed 'em down, eh?" suggested Dayton.

"Nope: the cut just west o' Mallory was plugged so full of snow that it was piled up three feet above the tops o' the poles an' grounded th' danged wires."

'Why, you star-spangled, nickel plated liar," exploded Conductor Andrews, "why you oughta be -"

But at this point, the flagman trudged in from the cut and reported the crossing clear. The delayed train went its way and Ed went home. As he plodded through the fierce storm his mind was busy recapitulating the events of the evening. He was forced to the conclusion that the strenuous days of railroading are not all in the past, as some of our latter-day romancers would have us believe.

"If," ruminated Ed. "that phone call had been two minutes later, the train would have been on its way east and the way the snow is blowing through that cut, they never would have seen the car on the track and would have run right into it. What might have happened then is anybody's guess; but the rails were in such a condition that a derailment would have been most probable - and lives might have been lost."

Ed has little to say about his own quick thinking in this episode; but he is loud in praise of "Grandma" Dayton, Mrs. Wood and telephone operator, Bessie Cross.

Anyway, he claims last winter was the worst he has ever seen since the blizzard of 1888, during which convulsion of nature he was born at New Milford, Conn.

(Excerpt from an article essentially about the intensity of the heat wave at the time).

"Whatdaddye mean - hot?" snorted Denny Haley, the erstwhile, politically-minded Hojacker. "boy, when I was alderman, I could make the north side (of Syracuse) hotter'n this right in the middle of a blizzard.

Why, look, son; when I was railroadin' on the Hojack - that was when they used to have the hot days - and I don't mean of course.

"Why, I remember one day in latest August of 1904, I was flaggin' on the local freight from Salina to Richland; and when I hopped the caboose at 6 a.m. it was already so hot you couldn't put your hand on the grab iron without raisn' a blister. By the time we got to Central Square that mornin', Barney Fidler, the fireman, didn't have much to do after he banked the fire.

"He took on a full tanko' water at Brewerton and the sun beat down on the engine on the engine tank so fierce that by the time we got through Hungry Lane cut, she was bilin' like all get out. All Barney had to do was set there an' work his injector, lettin' the water run from the tank into the boiler. Yep, that sure was a hot day.

"Why, when we got to Richland, old man Butts an' his clerk, Schwartz, had organized a picnic. There they set, in the shade of th' ash pit, stuffin' themselves with grilled frog-legs, by Judas!"

'Where'd they get'em, Denny?" I foolishly asked.

"Well, I just been tellin' you how hot it was, and in them days there was considerable of a yard at Richland, with a lot o' switches to throw; an' I'll be teetotally swizzled if the sun hadn't roasted every frog on every switch in th' yard...Yep, that was a hot day, son - so long, call me again."

-And I softly and reverently laid the receiver in its cradle and walked away on tip-toe.

Ah, but there's bad news in the North Country!

Through the outer fastness of Daysville, in the farm-homes of New Haven; among the denizens of the pretty village of Mexico, and deep in the hearts of North Scriba's strawberry growers there's a pulsing sadness and a feeling of bitter anguish.

Fate, in the form of an official order, approved by governmental sanction, has struck at last...And there will be no more passenger trains on the Hojack between Pulaski and Oswego. October 1 was the fatal day - a day which may be appropriately draped in somber black on future Oswego calendars. Old-timers, who have been watching developments were not too much surprised at the culmination of this tragedy - they had seen it coming - but when, at last, the blow fell, they were none the less saddened and disgruntled.

For many years there have been no passenger trains on the west end of the Hojack from Oswego to Suspension Bridge - a mighty long stretch of rails. More and more curtailed has become the service on other Hojack divisions - and now this, the latest and saddest blow of all!

Why, I can recall when there were eight passenger trains puffing daily between these two points - and they carried a lot of passengers, too. In the early 90's, you could stand in the window of Trainmaster Jimmy Halleran's Oswego office and see a whole lot of railroad activity. To the west were the big railroad yards, the roundhouse and the shops, presided over by Pete Lonergan, and to the east you could watch the trains rolling in over the bridge - practically one right behind the other!

That, folks, was long before they started to grow greensward between the rails for decorative purposes. That was the day when railroaders were salty and sassy, locomotive smokestacks long and bell-crowned; and every other brakeman you met was short his right thumb as the result of a losing battle with a recalcitrant coupling pin. Badges of honor we deemed these foreshortened digits - symbols of service and guardians of grim accomplishment.

At the turn of the century you could leave Pulaski by train for Oswego at 7:30 a.m., 11:20 a.m., 3:15 p.m., or 705 p.m., as your fancy might dictate - and there were four other trains leaving Oswego, eastbound, at appropriate intervals. In those days, Pulaski depot was a busy place. Agent Austin was in charge, with a telegrapher, a clerk and a baggage man to assist him. Later, Harry Franklin took over the agency, to be succeeded by Earl Benson, who in turn gave way to John Benedict.

On your way to Oswego in those days, your first stop was Daysville - there's not even a depot there now - where you would see Agent Marty Sampson (or, perhaps, Bert Shear) hustling out to the baggage car. After no undue hesitation here, you chugged on to Mexico, where presided the veteran Matthewson, who adorned that one depot for more than 50 years. Then on to New Haven, whose station agent was another old-timer, even then, Ed Prior, who still lives there, was in charge of the New Haven depot from 1895 until 1941 - and I have never heard of his growing old! The last stop, east of Oswego, was North Scriba (Lycoming), where the big strawberries came from. Here labored George Murphy as the Hojack representative. In the same capacity, George went later to Parish, and still later to Phoenix, where he continued as agent until his retirement, some three years ago. He still dwells in Phoenix and he'll feel sorry, too, about those ghost trains that no longer haunt the rails.

There are still three veteran station agents left on the Pulaski-Oswego line: Ray Geer at Pulaski, Ed Dayton at Mexico and Charlie Lodge at Lycoming - but any one of these will freely admit that "she ain't what she used to be" - and they won't be referring to the "old grey mare," either!

Well, the fast trains are going faster and faster - and the slow trains are going fast, too. The sturdy hands that gripped the throttles of the big, old steam hogs are, one by one, growing pulseless and cold; the keen eyes that peered ahead from the cab windows have closed in their last long sleep, and the rusty, grass-grown rails vibrate no more to the impact of the big drive wheels - except when the tri-weekly local freight goes plodding by!

In the old days, railroading was a rugged job and railroaders were a rugged company. They were rough, they were ready,. And not so very steady - but they got there just the same.

I recall a favorite story that Barney Fidler, Hojack fireman for many years, used to tell with great glee. Barney claimed his uncle Mort was the best locomotive engineer that every yanked a throttle on the Hojack or any other road. He sat on the right side of the cab for more than 40 years - and then, all of a sudden-like, he took sick, and died at the age of 71.

There was a big funeral. Everybody for miles around came to pay their respects to the memory of the old man; for he had been a friend to everybody and everybody's friend. After the services, they loaded Uncle Mort into the open hearse and started for Little France burying ground. Everybody went along in their buggies and their "democrat' wagons. Barney claimed it was the longest funeral procession ever seen in Oswego county. As the cortege approached the cemetery gate, the deceased pushed up the casket-lid with a powerful hand, and leaned on one elbow, gazed back at the long, apparently interminable string of carriages.

"By Jumpin' Jickety," shouted the old hogger, "She's sure a mighty long drag - betcha the drinks we have to double into the graveyard."

Anyway - that's how Barney used to tell it.

Fifty years ago, the lowest-paid railroad traffic employee was the telegrapher. The section hands, unshaven and unshorn, were just a notch ahead of the professional brass-pounder in point of salary. On most eastern railroads, a half century back, the average telegrapher's pay was $30 a month - and, in those days, a month's work meant 30 or 31 days of 12 hours each. Did I say 12 hours? That, friends, was the minimum.

At one-man stations, your agent-telegrapher was lucky if he ever got away from his job with less than 14 or 15 hours behind him. Let's take the Syracuse - Watertown division of the old Hojack as a pertinent example. The agent at Mallory was required to be on duty there at 6:30 a.m. - a half hour prior to the arrival of the first passenger train. He was then supposed to be constantly on duty until the departure of westbound No. 8, which was due there at 8:40 p.m. (and was generally from two to three hours late).

It is a fact that the regulations permitted our hero - that's what he was - time off for lunch or dinner, but this period. Its time and its duration, was strictly up to the Oswego train dispatcher, who allowed him to eat "whenever it might be most convenient for the company's interest." And right here was another catch - if it happened that the dispatcher had miscalculated and really needed the services of the agent during the time he was absent, said official, in his explanation of whatever delays may have been caused, always solemnly averred that he had granted no absence permission to the agent. Now, please don't assume that this diligent employee's troubles were all over for the day when he locked up and went home about 10 p.m. Not so - the rule book, under "Duties of Station Agents," contained the following paragraph:

"On closing the station at night, the agent in charge will post a card in the office window where it will be plainly visible from without. This card shall give complete information as to where the agent may be located during the night, in cases of emergency."

And such occasions, Mister, were by no means uncommon. During the whole of a 12-to-14-hour day, the gentleman I am describing had been more or less actively engaged in a whole galaxy of jobs - agent, telegrapher, baggageman, express agent, Western Union manager, ticket agent, accountant, bookkeeper, cashier, janitor, and roustabout - to mention a few. He was required to wear his pretty, blue uniform, with the brass buttons at all times, while on duty, and the "tailor car: came through twice a year to take his order for a new suit. As these outfits set him back 419.75 apiece, there were always two monthly pay days during the year when he walked into the paycar and drew the princely sum of $10.25 for 30 days of toil.

Yes, friends, we had to have a sense of humor in those days. However, it was well to keep most of this strictly under tour hat - as witness my own experience in 1904. For my own amusement, I concocted a set of "Rules," and distributed them rather widely among my associates. I will bore you with a few fragments of this masterpiece, just as illustrations:

Rule XII - Telegraphers and Station Agents report to and receive their instructions from the superintendent, the chief dispatcher, the section boss; or any one else who pretends to have any authority.

Rule XVIII - Telegraphers will receive sufficient remuneration to purchase uniforms and chewing tobacco. If they have families, they must remember that the Lord will provide.

Rule XXI - The Company as such, has no conscience and cannot, therefore, be responsible for that of any employee.

Some of the boys got a big laugh from this bit of persiflage - but me - I stopped laughing when trainmaster Jimmie Halleran came down from Oswego and fired me for "insubordination."

Why, then, you may well ask, did anyone ever become a railroad telegrapher? The reasons varied, I suppose, according to the characteristics of each individual; but there's a certain fascination about the business that gets you, even before you start. The great majority of the old-time telegraphers were graduate students of certain veteran station agents who knew a good thing when they saw it. Take, for instance, Bill Shaver of Parish. He was Hojack station agent there for some 12 years prior to 1900. Bill was a great fellow - a pleasant, jolly man with a great fund of humor and a ready, infectious laugh. He always managed to have three students at the office in the following order:

No. 1 - pretty well trained in office work and a fair telegrapher; No. 2 - intermediate in these subjects and supposed to be under the tutelage of No. 1; No. 3 - a "freshman" just starting in, who was also the janitor and errand boy. No. 1 was never certified to the Superintendent as ready for work, until Bill had a prospect ready to take No. 3's place. You see, No. 1 was the man who took over the job when Bill wanted to go uptown for an hour, or so - which happened not infrequently.

Shaver kept this up for many years, and turned out a large number of telegraphers, among them I might mention: Loyal McNeal, at present a Hojack train dispatcher in Watertown; the late Earle Benson of Pulaski; Frank Alsever, now with the N. Y. N. H.& H. at Worcester, Mass.; Roy Nutting and Burnell Miller, both now deceased; and a host of others, including this scribbler.

Bill was just one of a great many who made use of this plan to render life a bit easier for themselves, while at the same time offering the youth of the community an opportunity to learn a profession. Yes - a profession that exerted a strange, not always beneficent influence on its followers. A profession that wound its magnetic tentacles around the very hearts of the old-time brass-pounders. You will note that I here use the past tense; since the key and sounder of the Morse code are now in the very last process of becoming museum pieces.

It is related that, after a long life spent amidst the clickety-clack of the busy sounder old Hermann Veeder died, and his soul was wafted through the ether in ever-widening concentric circles of light, which finally dumped him gently at the Pearly Gates. As he gazed upward where the shining towers

gleamed in the supernal glory of Heaven's eternal light, his courage almost failed him and he felt a bit sick. But at last he made shift to knock gently, Oh! So gently, on the gold-and-nacre panel of the closed door. At his second or third timid attempt, the might gate opened a mere crack to reveal the severe features of St. Peter, who gruffly demanded:

"Who are you; and why come ye here?"

"I'd like to come in, please, if you don't mind," quavered Hermann, "I just died, you know."

"Your name," snapped the Guardian. Hermann gave the required information and another question followed instantly:

"Occupation?"

"I was a telegrapher, your honor, and I've come up here for my overtime - you see, I -"

With a mighty heave of his sturdy shoulders, the good saint opened wide the massive twin-gates so swiftly that their gem-studded surfaces shimmered like flying rainbows in the ineffable radiance of the sun of Paradise.

"Enter, my good man, enter," he invited as a broad smile illumed his features, "long have we waited for one of your tribe to seek admittance here - and, verily, you are the first of them all. Come, friend, you'll enjoy it here - for it is written that, on earth, you surely led one hell of a life."

He was happy in his field and it is too bad that he was stricken at a time when he was so firmly established in his field. His death is a serious loss to us and to those who enjoyed his epigrams, observations and poems so much.

Just Around the Corner By Bertrande

It occurred to me just now that I have been telling you railroad stories for a long time; better men than I have to you (sic) better railroad stories for the better part of a century - but, who among us has not almost forgotten all about the ubiquitous section gang?

One reads the hectic and thrilling annals of brave engineers and faithful firemen; of the fearless conductors and their resolute trainmen of the nervous but unfailing telegraphers; and of that grouchy superman who is the trainmaster - but who has ever bothered to throw a modest nosegay at the lowly section-hand, whose sweat and grime made all these narratives possible?

All along the right-of-way on every American railroad, you find these laborers jumping frantically but with well-timed precision from between the rails as the ‘flyer’ thunders by. And they’re back there again with their pinch bars, their mauls and their spike buckets before the rails have ceased to vibrate from the contact of the big drive-wheels. A railway roadbed is always in need of repair; it is constantly under

the impact of terrific shocks of oncoming trains and it must be, at all times, in a state of almost perfect alignment...And who but the faithful and long-suffering section-hand keeps it that way?

Maintenance of a railroad’s trackage is, of itself, a science which calls for a high degree of specialized engineering skill and a vast amount of intricate planning and careful execution. The unsung and mostly unnoticed section boss must be a man who knows his business and has the knack of imparting his knowledge to those who labor in his gang.

Time was, half a century ago, when a large percentage of section bosses were Irishmen. They labored mightily, and they swore roundly, and they dearly loved their authority - an authority which enabled them to direct the every movement of their 6-to-8 men gangs. Themselves, they took no orders from any one, save the maintenance superintendent - had woe to any other official who attempted to ‘give ‘em the lip!’

In the Parish section gang, during the late 90s, there labored a gent whom we will call Mike Mulcahey (because that was not his name). Mike was a good section hand, an excellent example of that sturdy breed of men who keep the melody in the ‘singing rails.’ In not too long a time his excellent work attracted the attention of his superiors; and, on a day, he was called to the Super’s office to undergo an examination as to his fitness for the job of section boss. Mike passed the test with flying colors; his natural ability and his experience being in no wise allowed to stay in the background when his native wit and intelligence urged them to the fore.

Soon a vacancy developed along the Hojack and Mike was notified that he was, as of that date, in charge of section 16. Next morning, Mike appeared at the section house far ahead of his men and surveyed the scene with a smile of utter satisfaction and content. As his men approached, he gave them a flowing hand-salute and announced:

‘Mornin‘, byes, Oi hov a word for ya. As ye well know, Oi’m now yer new boss, an’ we’ll get along fine - but remember, me lads, Oi want nothin’ out o’ ye but silence, and damn little o’ that!’

He waved majestically toward the sliding doors of the section house and commanded:

‘Shake a leg, now, an’ get out th’ hand car.’

So the boys took out the car and set it more or less gently upon the rails. Then they waited for the next ukase from the stern limps of boss Mike.

‘An’ now,’ he added, ³‘put ‘Eer back into the house, n’ we’ll knock off fer th’ rest o’ th’ forenoon in honor o’ this grand occasion...Oi’ll show ye who’s boss around here from now awn.’

At the age of 18, I took a turn at this section hand business for a few months. That’s how come I know so much about it’s being real, honest-to-goodness work!

In those times, we bent our backs in the sun for 10 hours a day. And, mister, when you drag ties, set fish plates, and hammer home a slew of those big spikes to fill one of those big days, you don’t know anybody to accuse you of being a ‘sissy.’ Although you might be too tired to resent it, at that.

Of course, I got a little time off on the first day, because I was made victim of the legendary ‘initiation’ monkey-shines that had to be undergone by every rookie. We started work that morning near the east switch stand and one of the men soon approached me with an empty oil can, requesting I run down to the section house, about a half mile distant, and ask the boss for some red oil for the switch light. After I had been sent back empty-handed, but bowed beneath the load of sarcasm the boss had unloaded upon me, I started to swing my pick in disgust. It wasn’t long before the boss, himself, strolled up with a well-feigned look of worry on his face.

‘Dang it all,’ he growled, ‘Joe Scanlon, over to Central Square, ain¹t never brung back that rail-bender I lent him last week. Now we gotta use it today, fixin’ that Red Mill curve. Here, Burt, you scoot over to the Square an’ get that bender. It’s a might heavy to carry, so take yer time comin’ back.’

So off I went - not exactly ‘scooting,’ either, for it’s nine miles from Parish to Central Square. When I finally arrived and informed boss Scanlon of my errand, I caught a fleeting look on his face, which by the mercy of Providence penetrated my skull to the extent that I realized on the instant that I had been made the butt of another practical joke.

Joe quickly recovered his poise, telling me he’d loaned the fabled instrument to Ed Greene at Brewerton, and that I’d better go there and ask -

But his words came too late - I had caught on. So, to even up matters a little, I spent nearly the whole afternoon getting back to Parish, where I faced the uncouth laughter of my associates as well as I was able.

All of which brings me, apropos of nothing at all, to the case of Swen Gustafsen, trackwalker of the old Slate Run section gang, down in the wilds of Lycoming county, Pa.

Swen was tramping the rails between Slate Run and Cedar Run on his daily tour of inspection, when he spied at the side of the track a dismembered human arm. He stopped, gazed briefly, shook his head soberly, and proceeded on his tour. A bit further along, he came upon a leg, which brought him to another short pause. A few yards more and he beheld a man’s torso in the rank grass. Then he began to hurry a little and in a minute or so he came upon a man’s head!

--My good gosh! it was the head and features of Ole Ekstrom, a friend and fellow worker!

Swen stood for a long moment, scratching his blond head and mustering his thoughts.

‘Ay tank,’ he murmured slowly, ‘mebbe something she is happened to Ole!’

--A great life, this railroading, even if you do weaken!

“Yes Sir - Morse Telegraphy is on the rocks,” mourned a veteran Syracuse telegrapher as we sat on a park bench and exchange views and comment. “It’s not so much the almost complete mechanization of the business, as it is the general quality of the few telegraphers that are left - that I’m referrin’ to,’ he commented.

“I’ve been scoutin’ around a little, havin’ nothing else to do, for the past few months. I’ve been hangin’ around little railroad stations in this section - on the Hojack, on the Lehigh Valley, the D L& W and the NYC main line - and I tell you it’s sickenin‘; that’s what it is.’ ”

“Oh, I don’t know,“ I objected, “there’s some pretty good men still left in the business, you know.”

“You¹re right about that, too,“ agreed the retired veteran, “but they’re gettin’ few and far between, and the ranks are growin’ thinner every day. On the railroads now, the old-timers are retirin’ fast and they’re replacin’ ‘em with a bunch of the dangdest hams you ever saw. In the first place, these men don’t want to telegraph, anyway; they haven’t got the spirit of the thing, the romance, the traditions.

“In the second place, they’re taught wrong and none of ’em has any ambition to get beyond the kindergarten stage. Why, I was listenin’ through the window at a little station not more ’n 40 miles from here, just the other day. The operator was trying to copy a message from the Syracuse Western Union office. The sending was nice stuff - clear, easy and well-spaced. This bird was breakin’ on every word; he was mumblin’ to himself, sweatin’ and wearin’ down his eraser, but he didn’t seem to be gettin’ anywhere. Finally he breaks in on the Syracuse man and spells out, ‘Why don¹t you send Morse?’ That’s when I ought to have walked in and clipped him one on the jaw!’ Probably the sender was going too fast for him,’ I suggested.

“Now look here, you know better than that,“ snapped the old war-boss, “speed has nothing to do with it. If the sender spaces properly, makes his characters clear-cut and avoids combinations, why, the faster he sends the easier it is for the receiver. You know you can’t send too slow or you’ll spoil our rhythm.”

I was in no position to argue with my companion, who had in his time three Delaney medals for fast and accurate sending in country-wide competition, but I venture to suggest, “This fellow you’re talking about probably didn’t have a chance to get much practice: they don’t use Morse to run trains any more, you know.”

“He had the chance all right,” disagreed my commentator, “only he didn’t want to take it. That wire he was on, clicks off some kind of stuff all day long; but this fellow told me later, that “the noise made him nervous,“ so he kept it cut out most of the time - what d’ye know about that? Why that guy has been on the job for two years and he still can’t get his own name unless you send it to him on a postcard!”

“I’ve nosed around like that for more than a year, now, sittin’ in waitin’ rooms and listenin’ through windows at guys murderin’ poor old Sam Morse. I get a kick out of it, too - only sometimes I get mad enough to bite nails.²”

“Don’t you ever run across any good ones?” I asked.

“Yep. But they’re mostly old-timers, about ready to fold up. I suppose I’m just an old grouch soundin’ off to hear myself talk - but when I think of the way it used to be on the railroads and in the commercial offices, I do get plumb disgusted.”

“This new crop of railroaders that’s been comin’ in for the last few years,” ranted the old boy, “seems to have sprung from three different, but closely-related families - the Goslows, the Minfones and the Newmans...lemme explain:

“The Goslows, when they answer a call on the wire, always tell you, go slow before you start; but it don’t make much difference how slow you go - they prob’ly won’t get any of it, anyway.

“Then, there’s the Minifones, who wait until you’re right in the middle of a message you’re tryin’ to send ‘em, and then stop you cold with the words, ‘minute-phone.’ You’ll notice, however, that they never have to answer any phone while they’re stumbling through a message they’re trying to send you.

“The last family is the Newmans. They greet you with this phrase, ‘New man - take it easy.’ I heard a fellow say that to a sender just the other day, down on the Lehigh - and afterwards he told me he’d been working - right there for four years!”

“A funny thing, though - the way those birds act on the wire, you’d think they were the dumbest of the dumb, but when you barge in and talk to ’em, you find ’em a rather intelligent bunch - danged if I can understand it.”

“Well, Joe,” I demurred, “maybe you’re right, but don’t you think you’re treatin’ these boys a bit rough? I dare say you made a few mistakes, yourself, down through the years.”

“You betcha,’ agreed the veteran, “and, by Judas, I profited by ’em, too - that’s where the difference lies.”

“You recall any outstanding errors you’d care to mention?” I wheeled.

“Why yes - come to think of it, the worst mistake I ever made was learnin’ the blasted business in the first place; then I fell down the second time lettin’ old Alex Bell invent the telephone instead of doin’ it myself - and there was a lotta other flukes I pulled, too. Here’s one, I never did live down; one I made when I was just a yearlin‘, as you might say.

“I was workin’ a night message job in the Oswego train dispatchers’ office. One night I got a message from old man Austin, agent at Pulaski, that I copied down like this:

J.G. H., OSWEGO - FOUND A LION UNDER THE FREIGHT PLATFORM, VERY WEEK.

ADVISE - J.H.A.

“When old Jimmy Halleran, the trainmaster, found that thing on his desk the next morning he was fit to be tied. He was ready to fire everybody on the division, if somebody didn’t come across with an explanation of the so-called joke. Finally, Jim Doolittle, the dispatcher, got hold of agent Austin and the mystery was explained. But that didn’t do me much good. You see, the message Austin had written was:

“FOUNDATION UNDER STATION VERY WEAK”

“--No, sir, the boys never forgot that one.”

And the old boy shuffled off down East Fayette Street, shaking his head, mournfully, as he pondered the downfall of his favorite profession. Personally, I think he bore down pretty heavily on the modern tyros in the Morse telegraph business. They have never been taught to view it in the same light that we old-timers did. To them, it’s just a small part of their day’s work - to us it was an obsession and a glory; a thing to be cherished in our bosoms.

--And now, that it is in the last throes of dissolution, I must admit that oldsters are partly to be blamed for its untimely end - we killed it with kindness!

In 1905 I was telegraphing for the New York Central in Northern Pennsylvania. This division runs from Lyons down through Corning and enters Pennsylvania at Lawrenceville. At Jersey Shore it branches off to Clearfield on one hand and Willamsport on the other. The section between Wellsboro and Jersey Shore, a distance of some 60 miles, is sparsely settled, a mountainous, rugged and teeming with the virgin ‘wildness’ of nature. I was stationed for some years at a little 14 by 16 telegraph office called Ulceter, about midway between Slate Run and Cammal - both of them lumber towns at the turn of the century. The little office sat on the bank of the river (Pine Creek) and on either side rose the steep mountains. At this point the valley was just wide enough for the river, the railroad, and the narrow, little-used highway. The only dwelling within a half-mile was that of the Callahans, some 300 yards south of the office. Here ‘Uncle’ Dan Callahan owned a few acres of river-flat, and did wisely well with their considerable fertility. Of the four sturdy sons he and ‘Aunt Car’ had raised only one, the youngest, remained at home.

This one, Matt, you would be unlikely to forget, had you known him for any length of time, as I did. He was about 19 when I first met him; broad shouldered, strong, active - and, I really believe, as absolutely fearless as any man I have ever known. He was a rather handsome, good-natured fellow, with but little education; but as quick-witted as they come. His whole idea of life seemed to be centered in ‘having a good time.’ He was a heavy drinker, would fight anyone, anyway where, on the slightest provocation, and withal had a most charming personality which made him highly popular among women and children. He was one of the first acquaintances I made when I came - and we were friends for many years.

It was some little time after midnight in the late autumn of 1905. A gentle wind whispered down the mountain-side and rustled the dead leaves to eerie song. The lanterns on the distant switch targets loomed dimly through the black darkness as I gazed out upon the tracks from the telegraph desk. A northbound coal train had just rumbled by and I was waiting for the clearance from Slate Run, three miles to the north.

In the little patch of light that shone on the rails from the kerosene lamp over my desk, I saw a sudden movement, there was a quick, furtive step on the little wooden platform outside - and as the door swung open with a push, there stood a big bearded man pointing a revolver at me! I was about 20 years old at the time and I was still unused to this wilderness, having been here only three or four weeks; so don’t blame me too much when I tell you that I was literally scared stiff. The round hole in the end of that gun-barrel appeared to be the approximate size of a length of stovepipe and it didn’t waver in the slightest.

The husky brute wasted no time in introduction or explanation; he advanced steadily into the little room and toward my shrinking form. “I’d as soon shoot you as not,” he growled, “pull that chair over into the corner and an’ set down.”

Still holding the menacing gun, the intruder grabbed a fishing rod from the wall, tore off the reel and proceeded to tie me like a cocoon with innumerable loops of the stout line. Now, I was helpless in two ways - from abject fright, and from the constriction of the tight cord.

Then the big man turned his attention to my well-filled lunch pail which I had not touched during the evening. He wolfed the food like a man who was obsessed by hunger - which he undoubtedly was, but he continued to keep a wary eye on my helpless form. In a remarkably short time he had devoured the entire contents of the pail - cold coffee and all.

“Okay, chief, that’s better,“ he grunted, “you got any money?” And he advance upon me, gun in hand. I couldn’t move either legs or arms, tightly-bound as they were, but I managed to nod miserably and quaver, “some in my hip pocket.”

In those days we got paid only once a month, and it had been just the previous day that the pay car had visited us. (O sorrow and alas!) As my unwelcome guest came closer, there was a loud crash as a piece of rock ballast came through the glass of the side window and landed with a heavy thud on the telegraph desk.

My captor wheeled toward the sound, firing a shot as he turned, and in that same split-second the door burst open and through the opening surged Matt Callahan, yelling like a fiend. His rush carried him clear across the shanty and his left shoulder hit my visitor with a stunning force, driving him to the wall, before he had a chance to turn. Matt backed off as his victim hit the wall; he flexed his mighty right arm; his rock-hard fist came up almost from the floor and landed flush on the point of his opponent’s jaw.

I am prepared to make positive declaration that Matt’s haymaker lifted the gent’s feet a full 15 inches from the ground, before he pitched forward - definitely down and out. In the fully approved method of backwoods warfare, Matt kicked his fallen foe three times in token of victory, at the same time emitting a yell which could have easily been heard for three miles. Quickly he unwound me, laughing heartily at my grotesque appearance and all-too-evident terror.

“Cheer up, pal,” he cried, “it’s all over now. We’ll tie up this damned so-in-so with this here same line, an’ if he comes to before I get him ready, I’ll wrap this blankety-blank poker around his neck an’ choke him to death. “Now, you get on the wire an’ tell Slate Run to get Constable Jake Tomb down here quicker ¹n hell.”

My trembling fingers finally managed to tick off the news to telegrapher Ivan Campbell at the Run, while Matt tied his prisoner securely and rolled him onto the cushioned bunk at the rear of the room.

“I see somebody in here with you when I came round the curve,” explained my friend, “an’ I injuned up, soft, to see what it was. Seein’ you all tied up an’ this jasper domineerin’ at you with his cannon, I knowed somethin’ has to be did, so I done it.

“I sneaked up, fired that rock through the winder an’ busted through th’ dam door. An’ frum now on, tell everybody to lay off you, ’cause you’re a friend o’ Matt Callahan’s - an’ I can lick any man in Lycoming county - an’ dang well they know it!”

Finally, Constable Tomb had rounded up half the able-bodied citizens of Slate Run, the posse arrived and the still partly unconscious prisoner was removed. Next day they took him to Jersey Shore and there he was quickly identified as an escaped prisoner from Bellefonte, for whom there already had been a three-day hue-and-cry.

Poor Matt! The last time I saw him was in the summer of 1923, when I returned to the Pine Creek Valley for a visit. He had been overseas in World War I and had been slightly “gassed.” He was a physical wreck, but still tried to carry on with his ready smile and his unconquerable spirit.

Just a few years later he died in a veterans’ hospital near Philadelphia, and they brought him back and buried him in the little private cemetery across the tracks from his old home. He was a ‘tough nut’ - but he was all MAN.

Note: The following was sent to the typist along with the above Snell article. It is not evident who penned these comments:

Misspelled the name. It should be Utceter. It was 1.8 miles south of Slate Run and 2.8 miles from Ross. It was only a manual block station with no passing siding. The stations were about five miles a part. By a 1913 employees timetable, it was no longer a signal station nor was Ross, but both show train times but not stopping.

The timetable has a speed schedule with the fastest being 36 seconds, which would be 100 mph. What is interesting is the size of the building and what was in it. Snell evidently lived in it and was on duty 12 hours a day with the other 12 hours having no one. This would indicate the freights ran unevenly around the clock.

Matt Callahan. He was born in 1888 and died in 1932. The Callahans settled in this valley in the early 1800s.

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