Syracuse Post-Standard, Sun., Sept. 23, 1945

Not so many years ago, the village depot was a kind of general meeting

place, where citizens in all walks of life were prone to meet informally and

often to discuss the pros and cons of this and that, while waiting for the

evening train from the city.

There was always a continuous flow of light, or heavy, sarcasm thrown in

the general direction of the station agent, who, generally, richly deserved

it and always had more or less an adequate answer.

Yes, sir, it was always a jovial and carefree crowd that watched No. 3

come in, each evening. After the train's departure, the agent always hied

himself homeward, leaving the premises to the tender care of the night

operator. All he had to do was hang around from 7 p.m. until 7 a.m. - or

whatever time the usually fat and always blowsy agent considered near enough

- sweep the floor, trim the lamps, copy train orders and telegrams off the

Morse wires, and, hardest of all, keep awake - at which last task he was

seldom successful.

It was, of course, one of these night men who first saw and reported the

"White Flyer" - a legend on the old RW&O railroad- which more or less serves

the village north of Syracuse to Watertown and points north and east.

This branch of the NYC has from time immemorial, been known as the

"Hojack." The origin of this title seems to be lost in the mists of

antiquity, which mists will be in some future article, endeavored to pierce

- but that will be another story.

To return to the "White Flyer."

In the lonely watches of the night, as the presumably wide awake

telegrapher kept his lonely vigil at the key, he would, betimes, hear a

sound like the rush of a mighty wind, and peering fearfully through the

window, he would see the White Flyer - ghostly engineer at the throttle and

fireman with his hand on the bellrope - tearing swiftly through the night.

It was never my good, or ill, fortune to see this phantasmagorum, but I

have the (almost)unimpeachable evidence of many old-time Hojackers who did.

There was George Murphy, now retired and dwelling in Phoenix, who

counted the coaches on the ghost train, as it swept through Parish. He made

the number six, but Frank Hayner at Mallory claimed there were but five that

night.

You don't suppose, do you, that they might have stopped at Hastings and

switched one?

George Rowe relates that he saw the White Flyer pulling in to Central

Square about 3 a.m. one dark, misty night.

He grabbed a red lantern and ran out on the tracks to flag it. George

says he caught his foot on the outside rail and fell flat, directly in the

path of the on-rushing train, which passed over his prostrate body, doing

him not the slightest harm. He admits, however, that he was considerably

peeved!

Many old railroaders, readers of The Post-Standard, will recall

trainmaster Jimmy Halleran, located at Oswego for many years. Noted for many

things other than just railroad, was Jimmy.

How many will remember the circular of instructions which emanated from

Jimmy's office on the completion of the double track line between Pulaski

and Richland?

Some office wag had inserted the following paragraph:

Trains - approaching each other on double track, will come to a full

stop and will not proceed until each has passed the other.

Another time, during a terrific storm, the bridge at Red Creek went out

and all traffic was at a standstill beyond that point.

Jimmy hurried to the scene, with his master mechanic and crew. From

division headquarters at Watertown, came a bevy of engineers and craftsmen

to speed to speed the work of construction. Anon, comes a message from the

superintendent's office:

J.G.H.

Red Creek, N.Y.

Advise if engineers have completed drawings and when construction will

start.

D.C.M.

And back, over the vibrant wires, goes this immediate reply:

D.C.M.

Watertown.

Don't know, if the pictures are done, but the bridge is up and the trains

running.

J.G.H.

One time, a few of "us boys" got together and drew up a set of "rules"

for the government and railroad telegraphers. Time has proven to most of us

that we might have been better employed, but I venture to give you a

discreet number of these rules, as first authorized by a committee,

consisting of such old timers as Roy Nutting, Loyal McNeill, Earle Benson,

this chronicler, and many others:

The Rum, Waterburg & Ogdenstown R.R.

Rules Governing Telegraph Operators

I - J.H. G. is the Whole Push.

II - Train Detainers report to the Chief Train Detainer and will also, be

governed by the rules of the Bartenders' Union.

III - Telegraph Operators report to the Chief Train Detainer, and will also

receive instructions from anyone who thinks he has any authority, including

the Section boss.

IV - Operators will receive sufficient salary to enable them to purchase

uniforms and chewing tobacco. If they have families - "The Lord will

provide."

V - The Operators' summer uniform shall consist of a dirty shirt and a straw

hat. The winter uniform will be the same as above, with the addition of a

rawhide cord, wound nine times around the body and terminating in a leather

badge, bearing the inscription, "I AM IT." This must never be removed,

except at the wearer's funeral.

VI - Any operator who is observed on duty under the influence of

intoxicants will be asked to explain why he did not whack up with the boss.

If no satisfactory explanation be forthcoming, enough money will be deducted

from his salary to treat the crowd.

VII - Any operator who has been dismissed from the service will not be

again dismissed unless, and until, he has been re-employed.

VIII - If you faithfully observe the above rules, you will deserve all you

get.

Just a fleeting memory of an old-time Syracusan who also was prominent

along the Hojack 40 years ago:

Louis Windholtz owned and operated a canning factory at Parish for many

years. He was a kindly man, with a keen sense of humor as the subjoined

trifle will show.

I was a "student: at the Parish station, learning (I hoped) to be a

telegrapher. I was alone in the office one day, Agent Shaver having gone to

the village for a short time.

Mr. Windholtz came in and inquired about something, the details of which

I do not recall. Blown up with pride at being in charge of the office for

even so brief a period, I gave him the kind of answer which was known, in

those times, as 'fresh."

Louis eyed me for a long moment; his eyes twinkled and he said:

"Ach so! Venn ve sveep der floor, ve run der railroadt, 'nicht wahr."

The Days of Old, the days of Gold,

When skies were blue and fair;

Ah, knew not I that these would die,

Or, if I knew, would care.

But Memory is a living thing,

Or gay, or sad it be -

And, so I say to you today,

"Thank God for Memory!"

Post-Standard, Syracuse, NY Nov. 18, 1945

____

Engineer Cotter eased open old 2165's throttle and No. 21, the

northbound local slid slowly out of Salina yards. Barney Fiddler was

fireman; hop, Loren Look, the conductor, and the flagman was Denny Haley.

Fred Mug was the head "shack" and Dick Jones rode the cubicle.

Here was a sextet of hard-bitten railroaders ready for any emergency,

and fearful, neither of "Hell, or high water." They drifted into Liverpool

about 6:45 a.m. and unloaded a bit of merchandise on agent Jimmy Dial's

platform; then whizzed through Woodard on operator Richardson's "highball,"

and jolted into Clay Station.

Here the agent, Charlie Zoller, had some switching for them, and they

worked at this for some 30 minutes. The previous night had been bitterly

cold, the thermometer falling to 25 below zero in this section, but when

the local left Clay, about 8 a.m., the weather had moderated, and snow was

falling steadily. there was a stiff wind from the northwest and the snow was

beginning to drift.

There was a halt at Brewerton, where engineman Cotter gave his steed a

"drink" from the water tower. "We'll never make Richland if she don't let

up," he said, as he stamped into the station, where telegrapher Coon Rogers

was getting train orders from Oswego.

"Hell," said Conductor Look, "we won't never make it anyway, if that

double diagnosed dispatcher don't get his nit-wits together an' get us out

o' here - what's he say, Coon?'

"Here y'are," said the operator at last, "meet No. 4 at Mallory, an'

don't waste no time at Central Square - get out o'here, now an' step off

it."

They dug out of Brewerton through the blinding storm, which grew worse

by the minute. Sherman Coville at Central Square had his instructions to

highball them over the O&W intersection without delay, and the train limped

into Mallory and onto the siding, as Courbat's noon whistle sounded.

--And there the train of 13 cars remained for two weeks; for this was

the beginning of the Big Storm of March 5, 1904, and Oswego county's

greatest blizzard was in full swing.

After No. 4, due in Syracuse at 12:50 p.m. arrived seven hours late that

evening, not a wheel turned on the Hojack between Salina and Richland for

five days. In some of the "cuts" the snow was drifted to the tops of the

telegraph poles, after the storm had blown itself out - which did not happen

until snow had fallen violently and continuously for more than 72 hours.

The crew of the local waited in the Mallory depot until No. 4 struggled

in from the north, with a rotary snow-plow trying to keep the rails clear

ahead of it. Then, they all came back to Syracuse, with the exception of

fireman Barney Fiddler, whose mother resided at Mallory, a short distance

from the depot.

Next morning, when I came down from Jim Jackson's where I was boarding,

to open the depot, the snow was piled to the top of the waiting room door,

and all the windows on the west side were completely drifted in. The train

dispatcher at Oswego issued instructions for all telegraphers to remain on

continuous duty in readiness for emergencies. So there we were, with nothing

to do - and 50 miles of rails covered with seven feet of snow on the level!

We recall that this was a halcyon period for Jerome Fiddler, the old

track walker, who lived just across from the station. He, too, was happily

idle for more than a week, while, as he confided in me:

"Me pay keeps travelin' right along, glory be!"

Well, after a couple of days it stopped snowing and some of the boys

from the mile-distant village tramped out a single-file foot path through

the drifts and came over to see what was doing. There were Lyman Hoyt, Tobe

Robinson, Len Snow, George Courbat, Lester Fiddler and others, who formed a

sort of parade as they plodded along the cavernous path to the depot, where

I had been alone in my lack of glory for all too long.

Fireman Fiddler hit upon a happy expedient to add to the jollity of

nations. He discovered some barrels of beer in the freight house, which had

arrived just before the storm made all deliveries impossible. This beverage

had frozen solidly in the kegs, so Barney heated a poker in the stove,

knocked in a bung, inserted the red-hot poker and pushed mightily toward the

center of the keg.

The amber liquid which oozed forth as a result of this operation was of

sweetish taste, not at all unpleasant, and its potency was of that variety

known as HIGH. Then we all gathered around the crimson-bellied stove in the

waiting room, played a little poker; drank a little (?) nectar, told a

little list of stories - and had, in general, a heck of a good time!

Finally, five days after the storm had started, a big snow-plow, pushed

by two locomotives, left Salina and made the 21-mile trip to Mallory in a

little over two days. Another plow left Richland at about the same time, and

they finally met near Parish. Thus, the line was cleared for passenger

traffic, and soon, matters began to shape normally.

In a section noted for its violent storms, this was easily the fiercest

and longest continued of any within the memories of the oldest citizens at

that time - and it has had no serious competitors since.

Of that salty and valiant train crew, which left Salina on that stormy

morning in 1904; of all the agents and telegraphers I have mentioned here;

of all the others who have appeared - there remain to survive, only Denny

Haley of Syracuse, and this narrator; I to reminisce in my wandering way;

and he, perhaps, to verify the tale, or point out its inaccuracies.

So, Denny, let's give each other three rousing cheers - and I'll say:

"Give 'er the gun, hoghead, the Big Roundhouse is Just Around the

Corner!"

Syracuse Post-Standard, Jan. 27, 1946

____

The Pennsylvania Division of the old New York Central, known to

old-timers as "The Fall Brook," connects with the main line at Lyons and

winds south through Corning to Clearfield, Pa. It crosses the Pennsylvania

state line at Lawrenceville and, from there on, it runs through the

Alleghenies. It is in reality a true "Scenic Route," although, alas, there

are no longer any passenger trains scheduled on the line south of Corning.

In 1912, there was a little way station known as Beeman between

Lawrenceville and Presho. Here vegetated, at this time, a telegrapher by the

name of Honnis. he had little to do, save report the passing of the numerous

coal trains and ponder on the vicissitudes of human life. these activities

he interspersed at too frequent intervals with a satisfactory flow of the

famed Tioga county triple-elixir.

As he sat thus, day by day, his grievances, real or fancied, grew space,

until he became a man obsessed. One day his muddled brain gave birth to the

Great Idea, and he acted thereon with promptness and despatch. The very next

morning, he hied himself to Corning, where were located the division

offices. He made directly for division superintendent, D.W. Dinan's office .

He swung open the office door and discovered Mr. Dinan seated behind his

desk, facing the door.

Without preliminary, Honnis dove into his hip pocket, with quick if

trembling hand; fished out a snub-nosed revolver and fired three shots in

the general direction of the official. At the sound of the shots, assistant

superintendent L. P. Van Woert rushed from his adjacent office; but halted

abruptly, at sight of the armed figure in the doorway.

Before Van could do anything about making himself scarce - which he,

afterward admitted was his primary intention - Telegrapher Honnis reversed

his weapon and shot himself in the head, dying as he slumped to the floor.

Having thus satisfactorily provided for his own future, the gentleman exits

from this narrative.

Superintendent Dinan, it was found, had suffered but one hurt - a slight

flesh wound in the right shoulder. Another of the bullets had sliced off a

coat button, and the third went wild.

This tragedy, not unnaturally, caused considerable furor in railroad

circles throughout the country, and one result was that railroad officials

were not nearly so easy of access for a considerable period thereafter.

The big boys didn't exactly lock their doors; but they took precautions!

Which precautions form the groundwork, for the following anecdote, which has

a slightly different finale from the preceding one.

A few months after the event recorded above, a young telegrapher on the

Hojack - we will call him Fred, principally because that's not his real

name - was the victim of a series of events, which eventually led to his

dismissal. He was working on the west end, between Oswego and Rochester, at

the time; and he decided to go to Watertown and try to induce

Superintendent F.E. McCormack to reconsider.

Resplendent in his "Sunday suit" of navy blue, and with a purposeful

glinting his somewhat less-than-eagle-eye, he descended upon the division

office and sought out the chief dispatcher, George Henry Williamson, his

immediate superior.

"Sorry, Fred," counseled George Henry. "I can't do anything for you, the

Old Man has the goods on you and he won't budge."

"Well, " replied Freddy, "I'm gonna see him, anyway. I'll sure give him

a line. Gee! I don't want to get fired just now - I ain't got time for it!"

"Won't do you any good, I'm afraid," counseled the chief dispatcher,

"but it's your funeral, suit yourself."

With which comforting assurance, George Henry turned away and applied

himself to his own worries.

So, Fred hung his overcoat on a nail, buttoned his tight-fitting

suit-coat about his manly torso, and stepped into the hall, declaiming as he

do so:

"I'll fix old F.E.M. plenty!"

Well, the chief clerk finally let him into the superintendent's sanctum,

but he had hardly begun his plea to the boss when the door opened and in

walked a "harness bull," a man in plain clothes. The cop waltzed directly to

our wondering hero and asked:

"Your name is Fred Ennis?"

And without waiting for an answer, he continued:

"Just step out into the hall a minute, we want to talk to you!"

Fred glanced at the boss, but got no encouragement there. F.E.M.'s face

showed nothing but a look of blank bewilderment, so Freddy accompanied the

two men to the door.

Outside, the two ranged themselves on either side of the luckless

brass-pounder and the man in civvies spoke for the first time:

"You come up from Wallington this morning, didn't you?"

"Yes," replied Freddie, "that's right."

"Boss fired you a couple days ago, didn't he?"

Fred nodded, miserably, still uncomprehending.

"Frisk him," said the questioner to the uniformed man.

The cop slid practiced hands around Freddie's middle. One hand halted in

the vicinity of his right hip pocket, where his tightly buttoned coat

revealed a bulge.

"Huh!, here it is. I guess," he grunted. He dove into the pocket and

with a flourish drew forth - Freddie's big curved meerschaum pipe in its

shagreen care!

"Hell!" snorted the detective, "That ain't no gun. Excuse us, young

feller - and - and - keep your mouth shut about this." And the two marched

away, much disgruntled.

It developed that, when Fred had left the dispatcher's office, his loud

assertion that he'd "fix" F.E.M., was overheard by a passing caretaker.

Noting the bulge on Freddy's hip, he immediately recalled the Corning

affair, and with visions of manslaughter in his mind, he hurried to the

street, where he fortunately (?) found a policeman chatting with a force

detective, and hurriedly spilled his beans.

Still eschewing any fiction in this veracious narrative, it is nice to

be able to record that Mr. McCormack called Fred back into his office and,

after learning the details, indulged himself in a hearty laugh - and

reinstated him on the payroll.

Syracuse Post-Standard, Feb. 17, 1946

Just Around the Corner By Bertrande Snell

______________

Jim Jackson gazed from his kitchen window, early one February morning in

1903. and remarked:

'She's comin' from the northwest an' I'll bet we're goin't to have an

old ripsnorter. When you see the snow comin' down slantwise that way, you

can get ready fer a storm."

The wind howled around the big white house on the hill, across the

tracks from Mallory depot, and the soft flakes were falling faster and

faster. And, as I struggled down to the depot for the morning passenger

train, it was getting worse by the minute. No passengers emerged from, or

boarded No. 7 that morning - and that was the last train we saw for some

time. Clayt Fellows, section boss, showed up for a brief survey of the

situation and then he and his men holed up in the section house to await

developments.

All morning and afternoon the storm increased in fury and the uproar of

its mighty travail was almost deafening. My telegraph wires had been

unworkable since late morning, and on the road between Richland and Salina,

I had no means of knowing their position, or condition.

About 4 p.m. I got my switch lamps ready and started south with two of

them. One was to be placed at the junction of Corbett's spur, and the other

on the sidetrack switch stand. The wind was blowing ferociously, the snow

was swirling in such compact clouds that it was impossible to see a single

foot in any direction, except at intervals, when the storm lulled for a few

brief moments.

I was walking down the center of the main track, when suddenly from out

of nowhere came a mental urge, intuition, "hunch," or whatever you care to

call it, that I should step across to the adjacent side track. Almost

involuntarily I did so - and I had taken not one step from my new location,

when a snow plow, pushed by two engines whizzed by on the track I had just

left! All I got was a slight addition to the storm's mighty roar, a ghostly

flash, a shadowy, fast-moving mass - and the show was over!

Must I admit I was a bit weak at the knees for the next few minutes?

Sam Hollingsworth, one of the engineers on the plow, said afterward that

he got just one glimpse of me as i stepped over to the siding. He claimed

he could sense, by my leisurely manner that I had no idea there was anything

behind me. And he swore mightily and oft it was so close, that had I been

two inches larger at the waist, the snow plow flange would have hit me!

Jim Jackson was sitting in his big chair by an east window, and during a

break in the storm he saw the plow bearing down and apparently running right

over me. Grabbing his coat and cap, he ran down the hill "faster," as he

said, "than any 72-year-oldster ought to travel." Plodding down the side

track, he finally glimpsed a form ahead of him and yelled lustily, but I

didn't hear him. I went on and set my lamps, and returning, met him.

We went back to the depot, and my day's work being done, we went up the

hill for supper. As we left the station, however, Jim's wife, "Car'line"

came plowing through the snow in eager search for us.

After supper we sat rather quietly in the big cheery living room,

discussing my near-adventure and listening to the wild hullabaloo outside.

Finally, Jim looked at me with a speculative eye, and remarked: "Y'know,

I don't hold, generally, to the use of liquor, but it seems to me, Bert,

that in memory of a dumb out-an' -out miracle, we could do worse than to

celebrate your good luck with a nice hot toddy - that is, providin' of

course that we had anything to make it with!"

The old rascal knew that I had a bottle of Tucker's rye up in my room. I

used to get a reasonable supply of that famous brand at Garlock's liquor

store, across from the old New York Central depot, whenever I came to

Syracuse. Perhaps the reason my supply was a bit low at that time, was due

to the fact that I hadn't been in town for some time!

Anyway, we had our hot toddies - one apiece - and, although Car'line

sipped hers in very small portions and with a most deprecatory manner, as if

she did it under protest, she left no final dregs in her glass.

Jim related again, in full detail, the story of his one and only

extended journey beyond the confines of Hastings- a two weeks sojourn in

Oswego on jury duty, 'way back in the '70s. It had been a great adventure

for him and he seldom failed to recount it, exhaustively, whenever he could

induce any listeners to stay within hearing distance, long enough for the

telling.

One of his favorite episodes of the occasion was about the waitress at

the old Adams House in Oswego, who, at the end of each dinner, came to the

tables and chanted: "Apple, mince, cherry, raspberry, custard an' punkin,"

to which outburst, Jim claimed he always replied, "I'll take a small hunk of

each!"

"And," he used to chuckle, "I always got 'em, too!"

Then, when the yawns became alarmingly manifest, Jim arose from his big

morris chair, knelt beside it; and, while we reverently bowed out heads, he

offered thanks in his own sturdy and unflowered tones - thanks for the

preserving hand of the Father, which had been held over me that day...And,

folks, when he had finished, I felt myself nearer to the Throne of God than

I had ever been before!

So - a mighty storm howled and raged outside; the force of nature seemed

to be at war; but here, within, was peace and comfort and thankfulness and

good fellowship. Perhaps just a tiny preview of heaven - who may know?

Jim and his Car'line have slept for, now, these many years; but I never

journey by the big white house on the hill without thinking of that day,

long ago, when death passed so closely by me, that I could feel the brush of

his ebony wing.

Syracuse Post-Standard, March 10, 1946

____

I went over to Oswego one night in August, 1901. I was on my way to

Newfane, Niagara County, where I was going to work as telegrapher on the

Hojack. As you know, the west end of the Hojack runs from Oswego to

Suspension Bridge, following pretty closely the shore of Lake Ontario all

the way.

Here at Oswego, was the dispatcher's office, the division offices being

situated in Watertown. A new superintendent had just come to Watertown. He

was from down New York City way and not widely known in these parts at the

time. He barged into the Oswego dispatcher's office one evening for the

first time. He walked over to Roy Nutting, the message operator, and asked:

"Anything there for me, young man?"

Roy looked up from his sounder and seeing a perfect stranger before him,

promptly remarked:

"I can't say - would they have your picture on 'em?"

Mr. Hustis, being a man with a sense of humor, recovered almost

immediately from the shock, introduced himself and was accorded proper

service. Yes, Roy was always that way, he had a snappy pick up, and he could

let you down easily, or otherwise, as his mood might dictate - a prince of a

good fellow! I stayed with Roy that night, and next morning started on my

westward way.

It was a long tedious grind from Oswego to Newfane. We rolled and

rattled through Hannibal, Red Creek, Wolcott, Ontario, Webster, and various

other assorted villages, finally reaching Charlotte, which was near the

half-way mark in my journey. From Charlotte, we fared on, ever westward,

with the lake at our right and the flat, fertile countryside stretching out

at our left. Hilton, Morton, Lyndonville, Ransomville - and then in Niagara

county we came to my destination.

"Here you are, oppy," said friendly Fred Hurlburt, the conductor, as we

came to a stop., "you ain't been up here before, have you?"

I confessed that this was my first railroad job, and he added, "Well,

you'll be okay. Art Dakin, the agent, is a fine fellow - he'll take care of

you. So long; see you tomorrow."

At this period, I was considerably on the verdant side; being just past

18, and never having been very far from the parental roof before. However,

in a day or two, I was "all set," having made Agent Dakin my friend for

life, by offering to help him out on the day job.

You see, the yearly peach season was just opening. Niagara county

peaches are known the country over for their exquisite flavor and beauty and

these shipping days were strenuous ones on the railroad. I worked from 7

p.m. to 8 a.m.; then, after breakfast I turned to and assist the agent -

sometimes, until late afternoon.

So, you wonder when I slept, eh? Why my dear people, it was a sad night

for me, when I couldn't get in at least six hours of "shut-eye" on the job!

There were few trains at night and Newfane was a relatively unimportant

station. The principal reason for assigning a night man there was so he

could run the pump and keep the huge water tank opposite the station full of

water for the use of locomotives.

The village consisted of the depot, a small store, a blacksmith shop and

less than a dozen dwellings within a small radius. Westward, some few rods

down the track, was a high trestle over Burt Creek. here one descended 86

steps to the bank of the stream, where nestled the little pump house which

supplied water for the big tank.

There were a couple of youths, about my own age, who habitually hung

around the depot; and I soon conceived the idea of using some of their spare

time (they had, apparently, no other kind). I intrigued Pink Niles with the

idea that he should learn to run that pump. He took up with it at once.

"Sure thing," says Pink, "that'll be fun. An' when you've learned me,

I'll learn Pete, here; an' in between the three of us, we'll have a hell of

a time."

Which is just what we had!

Now the bald fact is, that what I knew about running a steam engine was

so little as to be something less than negligible. Even that little was on

the negative side. I knew about a few things I was supposed NOT to do with

the blamed thing, but the whys and the wherefores of its workings were as a

sealed book to me.

Well sir, by reason of the most astounding good luck, we three - Pink

and Pete Travis and I -got along famously with the pumping business for a

few days. Then disaster began to loom. We had boiler trouble; every day we

had it. Nobody knew the cause, nobody had any advice to offer - we probably

wouldn't have taken it anyway.

At last, a brilliant light, smote me right between the eyes, as I was

billing a car of peaches. I hurried down to the pump house where Pink and

Pete were industriously doing the wrong thing in the wrong manner.

"Shut 'er off!" I yelled. " I gotta idea."

"What, another one?" razzed Pink, "the last one you had wasn't good."

Anyway, we shut her off, pulled fire, and then I set Pete to watch,

while I went back to work.

"Soon's you can put your hand on the inside of the firebox, without

burnin' it; let me know quick," I instructed.

In a couple of hours Pete came up to the station and said the cooling

process was complete. I ran down, grabbed a monkey wrench, shoved railroad

lantern in the firebox, followed with head and shoulders, and performed an

operation. Then I hustled over to Tom Caine's blacksmith shop and had

another operation performed. Then I reversed all of the above processes,

built a new fire, and got up steam.

And it worked! The pump started functioning and the recovery was

complete.

For several weeks there was no trouble of any kind at the pump house;

but finally serious things happened to the pump itself, and here there was

nothing I could do, so Agent Dakin wired Master Mechanic Lonergan at

Oswego.

Next day came Pete Chetney, trouble shooter, to fix the pump. With

master hand and eye, he quickly located and repaired the piston trouble.

Then, as a matter of inspection, he aimed his flashlight into the cavernous

depths of the cold boiler and peered. He started. He peered again. He

sputtered. He cursed. He grabbed a wrench and this time HE operated.

With the damning gadget in his hand, he turned, fixed me with his pale,

blue eyes, and - then the explosion!

Pete Chetney was known from Ogdensburg to Suspension Bridge, from

Watertown to Salina, as an unrivaled master of vituperation, and he knew no

superiors. In the field, he was absolutely unique, and I verily believe that

on this occasion he delivered himself of every "cuss" word in his huge

repertoire. Please, O please, don't ask me to repeat any of it - I could

never do it justice...After nearly half a century, I sometimes awake in a

cold sweat from dreaming that Pete Chetney is telling me off again!

You see our boiler trouble had been that the soft plug in the top of the

firebox kept melting our, extinguishing the fire, and I had been refilling

it with melted lead seals. Of course the real trouble was a faulty injector

keeping the water at the danger point nd melting the plug.

But I had fixed that! When I went to the blacksmith shop that time, I

had Tom Caine weld a piece of iron spike into that pesky plug! Mister, she

never leaked after that.

But, why the boiler never blew up is more than I can tell you. Surely

Providence holds her saving hand over some mighty dumb people, doesn't she?

Syracuse Post-Standard, May 9, 1946

One sultry day in the summer of 1903, No. 11, the Hojack flyer, came

surging along at 60 miles an hour, and at a point approximately 300 yards

west of Red Mill bridge, she collided head on with a light engine and

caboose which was running extra from Richland to Salina.

Fortunately, there was no loss of life and only a few serious injuries,

but, as the surrounding terrain cluttered with falling debris; above the

hiss of escaping steam and the shrieks of terrified and injured passengers,

could be heard the stentorian voice of farmer John Quinn, issuing from his

back door as he apostrophized to the world:

"Now ain't that a hell of a way to run a railroad?"

______________

Forty-five years ago the Hojack was manned and operated by as sturdy and

salty a bunch of men as could be found anywhere in the states - and in those

days, the percentage of :hard" boys among railroaders was high. This don't

mean that they were either disreputable, or inefficient; they became tough,

originally because they had to be and, finally, because this toughness had

become a habit and a joy.

Number 21, the local freight, pulled into Mallory one morning in 1904

and sidetracked to let No. 9 pass. However, the passenger train got orders

from Train Dispatcher Nutting to stay at Mallory until No. 9 had passed. As

a matter of fact, they remained some three of four hours.

During this interim, Hop Look, the conductor, browsed around in the

Watertown way-car and sorted out an "eighth" of beer, which he lugged into

the station waiting room, where he and Dick Jones, the flagman, dumped its

contents into the tin water cooler, which was an adjunct to every wayside

railroad station in those days. this receptacle stood empty - as usual - and

Hop's donation filled it to the brim.

Somebody went back to the caboose and got an empty quart fruit jar to

serve as a goblet.

At this point Hop announced solemnly and with appropriate adjectives,

that any lily-livered so-and-so who couldn't empty the quart jar with on

quaff, would not be allowed to do any more quaffing. And he appointed an

able and willing committee to enforce this by-law.

This ultimatum automatically eliminated me from any wassail, after the

consumption of my first quart. I became almost at once, just an interested

spectator. It is possible hat such rigidly enforce abstinence caused me to

remember the episode with greater clarity than i could have done, otherwise.

It would have done your heart good - or otherwise, according to your

predilections - to have seen that four gallons of brew disappear! I went

across the road and got a couple of Mary Jerome Fidler's famous mince pies

to add more flourish to the fiesta and more solidity to the menu.

Everybody solemnly asservates that he never told anybody else about this

episode, but it wasn't more than four days before every Hojacker from Salina

to Watertown knew all about it. inasmuch as every narrator added some

touches of his own invention, the story soon got beyond any bounds of

reality and was finally relegated to the limbo of railroad fiction - which

was probably just as well for the future standings of hop Look, Dick Jones,

Denny Haley, Sam Cotter, Barney Fidler and this narrator.

_______

The old-time railroad telegrapher was a romantic soul, although he would

have been the first to deny it. You see, there was always something

impressive, something vast, something "out of this world," in his ability to

sit at a desk in some shabby cabin of a railroad depot and converse with

people hundreds of miles away!

And what a great bunch of brass-pounders used to infest the Hojack in

the early 1900s! There was Jimmy Duell at Liverpool, Ed Richardson at

Woodard, and Charlie Zoller at Clay. At Brewerton you would meet Charlie

Rogers or his son, coon, and, faring on to Central Square, you visited with

Ed Sprague and Sherm Coville. Hastings depot boasted the presence of Johnny

Benedict, while, at Parish you found George Murphy and Frank Hayner, a

betted by Louie Church. Union Square and Fernwood were represented by Fred

Nicholson and Bert Shear, respectively. Pulaski had a coterie of

telegraphers, among whom one recalls H.H. Franklin, Win. Pond and Sam Sweet.

I could tell you a rollicking story about each and every one of the

above gents; but lack of space and prudence combine to limit me to an

occasional outburst of reminiscence, as we go along from week to week.

_________

Nowadays, they run the trains by telephone instead of Morse code and

luck; so the present personnel is naturally of a different timber, but I

dare say no less efficient than that of old. (I wouldn't dare say anything

else, anyway!)

______

They sent Jim Hustis up to Watertown in 1903, as division

superintendent. Jim was from the New York City general offices, with plenty

of theoretical knowledge by not little practical experience. Hard-boiled

Trainmaster Frank McCormick was the real boss while Hustis was at Watertown.

Frank knew all the ropes and when he ran out of rope, he would use twine or

anything else to keep 'em rollin'.

One day, Jim Hustis was standing in the Syracuse train shed, waiting for

No. 3 to take him to Watertown. Juke Bodine, veteran car inspector, was

taking a look at the journals with lantern in one hand and dope-pail in the

other.

"How long have you worked here?" asked him, more to make conversation

than from any real desire to know.

"Forty-six years," replied Juke, "and always on this here one job, by

crummy. Considerable of a stretch, ain't it?"

"That's right," agreed Jim, "and just what is it that you're always

looking for in those car wheels?"

"Damned if I know," replied Juke, cheerfully, as he reached for his

Mail Pouch!

Post-Standard, July 7, 1946

Back in the first years of this century, they used to run a special

monthly train on the Hojack, between Salina and Watertown. This was known to

all and sundry as "The Whiskey Special" and its function was to link the

liquor jobbers with their North Country trade.

Every 30 days, there would be a number of cars loaded with varied

assortments of embalming fluid then in vogue, for the delectation of the

denizens of Watertown and points to the north.

One warm, foggy night in 1891, Engineer Sam Hollingsworth pulled out of

Salina yards at 1:30 a.m. with a train of 23 cars, loaded to the gills - the

cars, of course - with liquor. His conductor was Matt Shephard, the flagman

was Ted Mudge, and the head brakeman, "Silent" Jones - so named by reason of

his unceasing flow of verbiage.

They were running extra and had right of way to Mallory, where they were

to take the siding and meet the west bound fast freight. Sam eased through

Liverpool and by Woodard Junction; then he gave her the gun and they surged

eastward like a rocket. (Well - not quite that fast, maybe).*

The drag pulled into Mallory siding with 15 minutes to spare on 42's

time - and all hands in the caboose promptly went to sleep. As the fast

freight swept by on the main track, Engineer Hollingsworth seemed to sense

an extra amount of vibration for a few seconds, but a cursory examination

revealing nothing amiss, he promptly forgot it.

The extra pulled out onto the main track and high-tailed it for

Watertown. Without incident, they arrived as their destination just as the

grey dawn was breaking, pulled their load into the yard and signed off.

At 10 a.m. the call-boy routed Matt from slumber with the terse words:

"The Beetler wants to see you, quick - and boy is he tearin' mad!"

Sam yawned, dressed, unhurriedly and slowly propelled his lanky form

towards the super's office. As he entered the room, he perceived that the

rest of his crew had preceded him and were listening with no slight

attention to the blistering remarks of senior trainmaster, Frank E.

McCormick.

"You're a hell of a fine bunch of railroaders," spluttered Frank, "you

leave Salina with 23 loads and you pull in here with 22 - and not a damn

mark on your switchin' list. Matt, where did you switch that car?"

"I didn't switch no car," replied Shephard. "The only stops I made was

at Mallory for No. 42, an' at Parish for water."

"What's your story, Sam?" yelled F.E.M., turning to the engineer.

"Matt's got it right, Frank; we didn't do no switchin' an' we didn't

have no delays - an' what the hell are you talkin' about, anyway?"

The rest of the crew, corroborating these statements, old F.E.M. blew up

entirely, his flow of invective became almost unintelligible and his

naturally ruddy countenance assumed a hue of crimson which was no less than

a joy and a benison to his highly appreciative listeners.

Investigation followed investigation. The right-of-way was minutely

examined. Every section-boss from Salina to Watertown was on the lookout for

clues. But nothing developed. (I might, at this point, inject the statement

that I have in mind one section-boss, one station agent and one train

dispatcher who had cause to congratulate themselves on the fact that they

were not sleep-talkers).

The matter eventually became one of the mysteries of railroad lore.

Engine cabs, yard offices and cabooses have been the scenes of a

half-million so-called explanations of this affair - but no one of them

really explained the uncanny disappearance of boxcar A.T.& S.F. 18633.

So now, on this quiet Sunday morning; hear, O reader, the true and

unvarnished solution of the great mystery of the Hojack highjack.

Brilliant indeed, was the mind that had conceived and brought to full

fruition this wondrous scheme to temper any siege of drouth, which might

have been in the offing.

It is, indeed, regrettable that, as far as I am concerned, this mighty

thinker and his no less doughty fellow-workers, must fare down through the

dim corridors of time, "unwept, unhonored and unsung." Were I minded,

however, to do any divulging, it would be much the easier task to make a

list of those denizens of the area who were not involved, than of the

participants. I can at least tell you how they did it.

On the bank, just the Mallory sidetrack, stood two pine trees, about 25

feet apart. Their huge branches entwined and interlocked at a point not more

than 30 feet from the ground. Here, our adventurers constructed a heavy,

solid platform of two-by-fours. This staging at its completion was artfully

hidden by the thick foliage; its very existence known only to those who

constructed it. (And one other).

Just in front of these twin trees stood a local contractor's big

portable steam engine, placed there to operate a buzz-saw, which cut

cordwood and dropped it down a chute into cars placed on the siding below.

Above the tree platform, the boys installed a huge block-and-tackle,

with boom and grappling hooks; which machinery they were at some pains to

obtain surreptitiously at pregnant intervals.

When the "Booze Flyer" sidetracked that night, as usual; the sawmill

engine was under a full head of steam; the conspirators were waiting with

bated breath - yeah, they'd all had a few - and the stage was set.

As the west-bound freight rumbled by on the main track, two sturdy

youths from - never mind where they were from - two youths fastened a swivel

hook at either end of the car on the siding, directly in front of the trees,

while two others yanked the "pins" from the coupling blocks.

The steam throttle opened wide, the winch groaned a little, and the box

car rose from the rails. A couple of experts steadied its ascent with ropes,

and before the long drag of empties had passed, car A.T.& S.F. 18633 was

resting easily and securely on its everygreen-camouflaged platform, 30 feet

above the surface of the shuddering earth.

At this period in the era railroading, it wasn't considered necessary to

have all cars equipped with air brakes - only the 10 front cars of this

train having been so provided. As the box car rose into the air, the siding

being on an appreciable grade, the rear of the train gently slid forward and

closed the gap made by the removal. As contact was again made, one of the

boys shot the pin home and the train was intact!

An observer, whose utter veracity has never been impeached, once assured

me that the whole matter was consummated in less than three minutes by his

Waterbury watch - once again establishing the truth of the old axiom that

preparedness is nine-tenths of the battle!

Well, sir: they never did find hide, nor hair of that car until 'way

along in 1913, when the big wind blew over one of the trees - and down

tumbled the ancient tracks and running gear. That's all there was left. As a

matter of fact, there were a good many red-boarded smoke houses, hen houses

and other-houses for some years after in that section. The precious

contents of the car were, during the course of time, so widely distributed

and so carefully disposed as to create little comment - although they

certainly satisfied a good many thirsts, and super - induced, no doubt, an

appreciable number of headaches, other than the one suffered by the railroad

company.

Anyone who is minded to read this tale with a modicum of distrust, is

here asked to remember that freight cars were much smaller 45 years ago than

they are today - however, I will not deny that tall-tale-tellers were just

as rampant then, as now.

*Note: Although this railroad physically ran north and south, the timetable

direction was east and west.

Syracuse Post-Standard, July 21, 1946

There's a vast difference of opinion as to what constitutes true

greatness. I dare say a multitude of great men have lived and died without

anyone ever having suspected that they possessed this attribute.

You who read this have probably known your quota of great, near - great

and better-than average people but, perhaps you never heard of the great

Jimmy Halleran, trainmaster on the Hojack for a good many years during the

late '90s and the early days of this century.

Jimmy had his office in Oswego and he spread out from that point like a

a fungus, his tendrils reaching to Suspension Bridge on the west, to

Watertown on the north, and to Rome and Syracuse on the east. Before he came

into our midst he had been a train dispatcher on the West Shore, east of

Syracuse. Tradition has it he left those parts under some kind of cloud. It

is at least a matter of record that he came to Oswego, enveloped in an aura

of mystery and accompanied by a fragrance (not too unfamiliar in those days)

bearing a close resemblance to that of Tucker's.

He was a well setup man, with broad shoulders, Irish blue eyes and a

dignified swagger. he wore, habitually, a long frock coat, a black string

tie and a frown. Also, being a first grade railroad man, he came to be

cordially disliked by one and all who labored under him. I don't suppose he

ever realized his own greatness. Certainly, none of his underlings ever

would admit he had any - but, as a fair example of it, let me recite a

little tale:

Harry Burt, the night operator at Parish, was fired. Halleran had tied a

can on him that very day, with the announcement he would be relieved from

duty as soon as an available man could be found. The occasion for the

dismissal has nothing to do with this story - but i can assure you it was

p-l-e-n-t-y.

Harry sat in the bay window of the depot, listening, unhappily, to the

staccato cadence of the sounder. He heard the train dispatcher call "PD"

Pulaski and give him the "31" signal to stand by for train orders. Then, he

gave the same to Brewerton and transmitted an order making "meet" for 2d

No. 10 and No. 3 at Hastings.

Now, 10 was an overflow Thousand Island tourist train, traveling to

Syracuse, and 3 was the regular evening mail to Richland. Both trains were

badly delayed and the train order was issued to minimize the wait which the

regular passing point would have caused. No. 3, of course, was to take the

siding at Hastings and allow the club train to whiz by without halt.

As the disgruntled Harry sat, listening to the telegraphers at Brewerton

and Pulaski as they repeated the order back to the dispatcher, he came

suddenly to his feet. He listened again for a brief moment - and the sweat

began to bead his forehead. He had heard the operator at Brewerton repeat

the meeting point as Parish instead of Hastings. And the dispatcher had not

corrected him.

This meant that 3 would not take siding at Hastings, but would run 3

miles further east while the flyer, expecting to find 3 on Hastings siding,

would undoubtedly crash her, somewhere between the two stations.

Harry prodded the key, calling Brewerton. "B," "B," "B," "I," "I," "B,"

came the answer, at last. "Hold 3," he clicked.

-"She's gone, what's wrong?"

There was no time to tell him - there was no time to tell anybody -

there was only one thing to do, if it could be done. He grabbed a red

lantern, shot out of the door and scurried eastward like a scared rabbit.

Running over the bumpy ties, he stopped briefly to throw the switch at the

end of the side track, then scampered madly on, hoping he could get far

enough down the track to flag 10 down to a speed that would allow her to

negotiate the open switch without piling up.

A banshee wail came from far in front of him and he knew that it was now

just a matter of seconds - but he kept on, stumbling now, and gasping, but

still plunging eastward.

And there she was! A headlight flashed around the curve at Red Mill

bridge, and Harry stopped, spread his legs apart between the rails and

waved that lantern like a madman.

Even as he tumbled aside at the very last moment, he heard the hiss of

the air-brake and saw the engineer's white face through the steam as he

struggled with his levers. Then as the train lost speed, Harry grabbed the

hand rails of an unvestibuled coach and swung himself aboard. The train took

the siding safely and came to a stop in front of the station. The engineer

leaped from his cab and ran to the station, meeting Harry just as he

arrived.

"What's goin' on here?" yelled Ed Cullen. "Who in hell threw that

switch? Who flagged me down at Red Mill? Who -?"

"Never mind, Ed," soothed the telegrapher. "Take a good look up the

west track there - did you ever see a bigger full moon in your life? Looks

to me, though, like it's kinda in the wrong place tonight."

Ed looked and gasped - it was 3's headlight that stared him in the

face!

Well, that's all the story - except that Jimmy Halleran happened to be

riding on 10 that night and you can bet he congratulated Harry, no end. He

slapped him on the back and vociferated gratitude, until poor Burt began to

feel very much embarrassed. Then, the trainmaster added, as an after

thought:

"Don't forget, Mr. Burt, that you are still fired - that can I tied on

you is as tight as ever."

Next day, Jim called him on the wire and told him to go to Buffalo,

where he had made arrangements with Chief Signalman Charlie Olp for a job on

that division. "He'll take care of you," said J.G.H., "and after he's ironed

out the kinks, let me know - I'll have something good for you."

I hope that proves to you that old Jim Halleran was one of the great.

Some of those who knew him only in his latter years thought differently -

but a man has to be great only once to win the credit.

-----

On a spring day in 1901, I got a telegram from Trainmaster Jimmy

Halleran, of Oswego, to go to Woodard and work the day trick for a short

time. Agent Dixon was off duty.

You know where Woodard is, of course. It's three miles north of

Liverpool on the Hojack; and it's here that the road branches - one leg

going to Oswego via Phoenix and Fulton, and the other continuing on to

Richland and the north.

Åt the time, as now, it wasn't much of a place - hardly aspiring to even

the name of settlement. The tiny depot was and is situated right at the apex

of the triangle formed by the divergence of the two branches.

North of the depot, a few hundred feet, a county road crosses the tracks

and wanders off toward Euclid and Hosside Holler. Right at the junction of

this highway and the railroad was a small general store - and that was all.

There were no swellings directly adjacent to the station, and the wilderness

camped closed to the tracks.

At this time, I had just started in the business of telegraphy, having

"graduated" as a student at Parish. My teacher, Agent George Murphy, now

residing in Phoenix, had (reluctantly, I hope) certified my fitness for work

and I had been duly commissioned as an "extra" operator on the division. I

was very green at the time, and my telegraph '"ability" was something which

I would rather not discuss too frankly - if it's all the same to you.

So - I went over to Woodard on No. 8, the late evening train, intending

to bunk in the waiting room until 7 next morning, when my tour of labor

would begin. In those days, you know, a telegraph office was open 24 hours

and needed but two men, since each did a 12-hour stint for a day's work.

This arrangement was ideal; since it made unnecessary any idle speculation

as to what you'd better do with your spare time.

Arriving at Woodard about 9:30 p.m., I found that the night operator was

also a "new hand" - a young fellow named Foster. He was a stranger to me,

but I found him a likeable fellow, albeit somewhat scared; since he

admitted that this was his very first night on duty alone, as a telegrapher.

When he learned that I intended staying all night with him, his joy was

almost pathetic - and we became fast friends in nothing flat.

Telegraphy is, I must tell you, a curious profession. It is, primarily,

about 10 percent code, 20 percent intelligence and the rest adaptability and

experience. It is one of the very few trades, where one good man, alone, is

of little use - he must also have a good man at the other end of the line.

Since there was never yet in the annals of the business, a telegrapher

who would admit that he was anything less than one of the best, you can see

how complications could easily arise. It was always a peculiar profession

and a large share of its professionals were peculiar, too.

Well, Foster and I decided we would both stay right there on the job

until we were relieved. We would sleep in the little waiting room which was

seldom occupied by passengers, and we would do a little fancy cooking on

the big stove which sat in a grilled niche between the waiting room and the

office.

I walked down to the little store and bought a chunk of bacon, a dozen

eggs, a package of cocoa, a bag of crackers and a hunk of cheese. On my

return I noticed a young fellow of about 16 in the waiting room. I was about

to inquire of Foster if he knew him; when I became aware that Foster was

busy - very busy. he was trying to copy his first train order, "on his own."

It seems they were running an "extra" from Salina to Oswego, via

Woodard and it was necessary to get them to Woodard against any and all

traffic coming west on the mainline. A copy of this order had to be placed

at Woodard to notify all west-bound trains that the track between Salina and

Woodard was occupied until the extra arrived there.

It was with this order that Brother Foster was struggling. You will

understand that the order was being sent from the dispatcher's office in

Oswego and had to be repeated back by the operators at Salina and Oswego,

before the train could leave the yard.

Mr. Foster perspired; Mr. Foster reached for the key at 20-second

intervals and "broke." Mr. Foster trembled and Mr. Foster groaned; but the

staccato click of the devilish sounder became more and more confusing to him

- to both of us, for that matter.

The wrinkled train order blank in front of him bore a series of pencil

scratches and re-scratches which revealed nothing to anyone, and Foster was

sinking every moment deeper into the mire of his own helplessness.

At that moment, from the corner of an eye, he saw me enter the office and

reached for the key and spelled out, awkwardly:

"Minute - here-comes-the-day-operator. I'll ask him to copy this."

"Who-is-he?" asked Dispatcher Nixon at the Oswego key.

"It's Snell," responded Foster.

""Hell," exploded the sounder. "He ain't any better than you are - ok,

let him try it."

Then it was my turn to sweat, my turn to squirm, my turn to accomplish

absolutely nothing. It was an impasse.

At that moment, a rumbling voice came from the open ticket window.

"Lookit!" said the voice. "Here's your train order. That feller has

sent it 10 times an' I got it all written down, nice. You repeat it back

an' then copy it on your blank - take it easy."

And the lad I had noticed in the waiting room thrust a plainly written

copy of the order into Foster's outstretched hand and went back and sat

down.

So, the train finally got started on the way toward us and we regained

some measure of composure, while we waited for our next test.

It developed that this lad who saved our lives was Charlie Kretchman of

Liverpool, who had been studying telegraph for some few months with Dixon,

the regular agent here. There was nothing miraculous about his having been

on hand at the crucial moment. He was on his way home after having been

over to the store to see his girl who was the daughter of the proprietor.

Charlie still lives in Liverpool and still telegraphs. You ask him

about that time when he copied his first train order and saved the day for

two would-be telegraphers.

Syracuse Post-Standard, March 9, 1947

The old time telegrapher always claimed he was in a class by himself

and that he refused to be bound by the ordinary rules that his less gifted

fellow men had laid down for the benefit of society.

He wasn't so wrong at that. He led a strenuous life; he worked long and

tedious hours; he drew pitifully small pay and he was by choice a wanderer

upon the face of the earth.

In speaking of this fraternity, I use the past tense, since their

activities have now almost ceased. The train dispatcher now controls his

trains by telephone, commercial telegraphy is 95 percent automatic, and it

will be a matter of but a few years when a Morse telegrapher will have

become a museum piece.

As I have remarked before in these columns, the mere ability to

transmit and receive the Morse dots and dashes is but a small part of that

intricate business which distinguished a really "good" operator from his

host of inferiors.

You see, it's like this: A telegrapher must be able to function in

three separate and distinct ways as he puts down each word that the clicks

spell out to him. First, he must recognize the Morse signal for what it

really is, then he must set it down on paper, either with a pen or a

typewriter. All of this within the space of a split second, while he is

already mentally reaching for the next signal. A first-class operator,

writing down 40 words or more a minute for any length of time, is most

certainly keeping the old brain cells shuttling, even when he doesn't

realize it.

On the other hand, all of this concentration and ability would be of

small avail if the "sender" at the other end were not doing his full share

by transmitting the signals clearly, speedily and in the proper rhythm. As a

matter of fact, it always has been a dangerous thing to tell a telegrapher

that he's not a good sender. Even though it's probably true enough, he'll

never believe it and will most certainly be your enemy for life.

Just to illustrate how easily the telegrapher's trained ear can miss a

bet; let me relate a little incident in my own experience. In my Hojack days

I once labored for a few months at Newfane, which is in Niagara county, near

Lockport. One night the train dispatcher sent me a message for the conductor

of the pickup, reading:

"Pick up 3 cars peaches at Appleton, 2 at Lyndonville - all via

Charlotte."

But the copy I handed up to the caboose as it rolled by the station

read like this:

"Pick up 3 cars peaches at Appleton, 2 at Lyndonville - 4 at Charlotte."

The substitution of "4 at" for "via" - the two sounding very similar

in Morse code - caused Conductor Grogan to hunt all over the Charlotte yards

for four non-existent cars of peaches. And did he tell me off on his next

trip?

Lance Corrigan used to work the Hojack dispatcher's office at Oswego.

This was back in 1904, when any good telegrapher could get a job on any good

railroad in the good old U.S.A. Lance was a crack-a-jack telegrapher and a

fast, fluent and witty talker. In the practice of his profession; he had

traveled from east to west, from north to south - but he always claimed,

"There's a lot more of 'em left."

Lance was a snappy dresser, but his elbows were always shiny from

leaning too long and too often on polished bars, and he was always broke

for the same reason. He was holding a job as day message man, and I held the

night trick in the same capacity; so we naturally became well acquainted -

and if I may say so with pardonable pride - the best of friends.

In spite of Larry's widely known addiction to the old throat gargle, he

was such a friendly fellow and so fine a workman that he quickly won favor

of the "higher-ups" - Chief Dispatcher, Ashe, and Trainmaster Halleran. In

those days, if the boss was on your side and you humped yourself a bit, you

could generally manage to wangle a little salary raise out of him from time

to time, and if you refrained from bragging about it, nobody would be the

wiser. Such goings-on were probably very nefarious and reprehensible; but

that's the way it was - and we were stuck with it, or on it, according to

the way modern regimented labor would look at it.

Anyway, the boss, liking Lance's work and not frowning too severely on

his elbow-bending propensities, cooked up a little scheme, whereby he could

grant a salary increase. "You have," said J.G.H., "considerable spare time

during the day, which you could use to advantage doing some of my office

work. I'll run the message wire to a desk in my office and you'll be all

set."

This idea immediately appealed to Lance and he said so. He worked on

his new job in seeming content until pay-day rolled around. Fifty years ago,

this event transpired but once a month- and two or three days later we were

already looking forward, breathlessly (and penniless) to the next one.

Lance ducked out to the paycar and got his money, coming back, he sat

at his desk figuring furiously. At the culmination of his arithmetical

labors, he arose, grabbed his hat barged over to the beetler's desk.

"Jim," he announced without preliminary, "I'm through; gimme my time. I'm

off for the west this afternoon."

"Why, what's the trouble?" exclaimed the astounded trainmaster. "I

thought you liked your new job. You've been doing it might well, and I'm

paying you well for it, too. You can't quit me like that."

"Sure I can, feller," responded itch-foot Corrigan, "and I'll tell you

what the trouble is, too. Your job is all right; but me, I don't want it.

It's too much of an expensive job. Why, it costs me more money

every day to keep drunk enough to work this job than what the danged thing

is worth! So long - I'm I'm on my way.

And that was the last I ever saw of Lance Corrigan - boomer deluxe and

careful appraiser of comparative values.

Syracuse Post-Standard, Jan. 26, 1947

Rufe Potter was at his desk in the freight office. It was 3:30 p.m. and

he had just completed the consists for next morning's Cape Vincent local and

turned them over to the yardmaster. He wiped his favorite pen carefully on

the sleeve of his once-white linen duster which he always wore in the

office; filled his pipe with shag, lit it and leaned back, puffing

contentedly...Not that his days' work was all done - but why start on

another piece of work until you had to?

The freight agent, Clyde Allen, sat opposite and idly flipped through a

stack of car-cards as he remarked, " Rufe, you seen Frank Wilson this

afternoon? He ain't been in the office since mornin'."

"Aw," responded Rufe, as he yawned tremendously; "he's over at the

Woodruff, takin' in a few with Jimmy Halleran an' Pete Lonergan - they blew

in from Oswego this noon on 204."

"How come you know so much about what they're doin'?" queried Clyde with

a glint in his eye.

"Why, you just thought I didn't know where you was on that dang long

lunch-hour you took today - you ain't foolin; me none, mister. Well, so

long, Rufe, I gotta be gettin'."

The scene was the Hojack freight office at Watertown the season was

early autumn and the years was 1904. Jimmy Heustis was division

superintendent, Frank McCormack was senior trainmaster and Frank Wilson was

division freight agent. McCormack was he real boss of the division and he

knew practically all the answers, having learned his routine under such as

Pat Crowley and Dave Dinan.

At this period, Pat Crowley was superintendent of the New York Central's

Fall Brook division with headquarters at Corning. He was on the way up - a

way which was finally to land him in New York City as president of the

entire New York Central system. Pat's initials are P.E.C. and his strenuous

and successful efforts to get more tonnage behind the locomotives of the old

Fall Brook became so widely known that all the engineers flatly declared

that his "PEC" meant nothing less than "Pull Eighty Cars." Later on, when

Frank McCormack took over the Fall Brook job at Corning, we continued to

insist that his "FEM" stood for "Fetch Eight More." - And we were right

about that too.

But to get back to our hero, Rufus Potter, the billing clerk.

After Agent Allen departed, that afternoon, Rufe started in on some

transfer sheets, but was soon interrupted by Chief Clerk Harry (John Bull)

Howard, who dispatched him up the yard to get a list of car numbers from a

"symbol" train which had just pulled in from the north. This was little to

Rufe's liking; it was really not part of his job and, besides, he didn't

like Howard a little bit and he was aware that the feeling was mutual.

Reflecting, however, that it would be pleasant to get out in the open

after a day spent at his desk, he demurred but little and went his appointed

way. Completing his list, he decided that, instead of returning directly to

the office, he would slip across the yards and drift into the Woodruff, just

to see how many of the boys really were there.

Well, sir; when he got there, he found, as he had expected, quite a

delegation on hand; Passenger Conductor Fred Cole, "the best-dressed man on

the division;" Hank Lester, yardmaster; Bill Jewett, clerk; Agent Allen,

Pete Lonergan and Jimmy Halleran of Oswego, Frank Wilson, George Griffith, a

couple of brakemen from Syracuse - and one lone telegrapher from Parish.

"What you doin' here?" cried "John Bull" Howard, as Rufe ducked in, "I

thought I sent you up on track 11 to get them numbers from O-M3."

"Well, here they be," responded Rufe, "you want 'em?"

"No, hustle back to the office with 'em -have a beer?"

"Not on you, mister," retorted Potter - "I'll buy my own."

Which he accordingly did. As he gazed down the length of the bar, he

took in all the familiar faces there, and asked:

"Where's McCormack? I thought he came over a while ago."

"He was here," somebody said, "He just left a few minutes ago."

"That's good," chuckled our hero, "I ain't got no use for him, even if

he is the Big Boss. He gets on my nerves, he does, an' the less I see of

him, the better off I'll be."

--And now, Rufus really warmed to his subject and discoursed with

fluency and abandon as to the lack of merit in his boss. He highly spiced

verbiage heaped anthems upon the name of McCormack, and his adjectives of

invective sparked and sputtered like a wet solenoid.

"Why dang it all, if i ever get a good chance I'm gonna tell that guy

just what he is - and why. I ain't gonna pull no punches. I'm gonna let him

have both barrels and when the smoke clears away, I'll soak him with some

more. I tell you, boys that man is gonna take it from me and like it. he's

the most un-"

At this point in his harangue Rufe suddenly noticed that a deep, hushed

silence had fallen over the assemblage. The gent who stood at his elbow

seemed to be gazing beyond at some distant object which horrified him - and

Rufe caught from the corner of his eye a fleeting, but clear-cut picture of

the cause. There, in the open doorway within easy hearing distance, stood

the red-faced subject of his discourse - Superintendent Frank E. McCormack.

Rufe never blinked an eyelash, his posture changed not a hair, and his

discourse continued from the exact point where it had ceased for the space

of a fleeting heart-beat. "--But, right there, I stopped him. 'You can't

stand there,' says I 'and talk about Frank McCormack that way. He's a

first-class guy and a bang-up railroad man and he gets my vote, every time,

and I can lick the man that says no.'

"You know, fellers, that shut him up like a clam - not another word

outa the dang idiot - well, so long, fellers. I gotta get back to the office

- why good afternoon, Mr. McCormack, I didn't see you."

"Mr. Potter," said Frank, "I am about to pour a libation with you, join

me?"

-And as they blew away the collars, Frank continued, "By the way,

Rufus, who was that enemy of mine you squelched so efficiently?"

"Sorry, sir," vibrated his companion as he edged toward the exit. "I

don't know his name - he was a perfect stranger to me."

Syracuse Post-Standard, March 23, 1947

____

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. Passey 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, nd 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 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 broken. 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' Dough 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.

Post-Standard, April 13, 1947

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 as 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.

Syracuse Post-Standard, May 25, 1947

As one looks back from a distance at the happenings of other days, there

are always certain characters and certain incidents that stand out against

the background of the past. In recalling my earlier years as a telegrapher

on many different railroads from Oklahoma to the Atlantic Ocean, I never

fail to think of one outstanding personality in the bygone parade. His name

was (or is) Harry L. Schneider, and he was, indeed, a character.

When I first knew him he might have been in his late 20s, a rather

stocky man, dark-haired, pleasant-featured, always well-dressed and

seemingly as carefree as a dust-particle in the sunlight. The thing you

first noticed about him was the fact that his left arm had been amputated

close to the shoulder, and a second glance showed that his right hand had

been badly mangled, leaving him possessed of only one thumb and the first

two fingers.

However, Harry could do more and better with his thumb and two fingers

than the average man could ever hope to accomplish with a full digital

equipment. He was an expert telegrapher, he knew the railroad game inside

and out, he was familiar with the routine of commercial telegraphy, having

"sat in" on some of the fastest wires east of Chicago – and he professed no

modesty in the narration and fulfillment of those capabilities.

He was a consistent lover of good company, good food and good liquor,

the last of which he consumed in vast quantities, with no apparent ill

effect. His spirit was seemingly unconquerable. Quips and "wisecracks"

showered from him like sparks from a red-hot horseshoe; he was the

personification of good humor and the apostle of good fellowship.

I recall with a grin the cards he was always passing out:

Harry L. Schneider

The Ragtime Millionaire

The World's Only Two-Fingered

Telegrapher

Today a Plutocrat, Tomorrow, a

Bustocrat

Always An Aristocrat

Have One on

ME!

During the course of the last half-century, I have met railroad

telegraphers of all sorts and conditions; I've seen them come, and I’ve seen

them go. And it has been a rare and wonderful experience – almost worth the

penalty of growing old to have viewed such a panorama. I have met lowly

"hams" who later became high officials; vice presidents who ended up as

bums; and a vast army of the ordinary boys who just stayed as they were and

drifted along with the tide.

If I ever make good on my 20-year-old threat to write a book titled,

"Tales of the Telegraph," there will be more snickers than sighs among its

few readers; for I shall recount but little of the obvious insincerity and

blatant incompetency of the great and near-great; concentrating rather on

the whimsical situations that 43 years of laughter and tears cannot have

failed tio evolve.

For instance, reverting to our deluxe boomer, Harry Schneider, let me

spin you a little yarn about him.

The first time I laid eyes on Harry was in the fall of 1911. He blew in

to the New York Central train dispatcher's office in Corning, immaculate of

attire, clean-shaven and reasonably sober. He was after a job, and Chief

Dispatcher Lynahan was, as always in those days, desperately in need of

telegraphers. Explaining with evident success that his handicap would in no

way interfere with performance of duty, he was duly hired and sent into the

message room for a telegraph test.

At that time, I was trying to hold down the division message job, with

not too great success. We had a couple of "fast" wires, one to New York

City and another to Buffalo and the men at the other ends of these circuits

were first-class telegraphers, speedy and accurate.

Well, "Uncle" John, as we all called Chief Lynahan, brought Harry in

and introduced us. At the moment I was working the New York wire. The sender

was a man named Relyea, a very speedy and competent man, but personally a

"grouch." He’' just informed me that he had a "file" of some 50 telegrams

and we had just started on them.

I opened my key, jumped up and greeted Harry and was about to resume

when Uncle John said:

"Let Mr. Schneider sit in for a few minutes, Bert, and tell me how he

makes out." And he ambled back to his office.

At my invitation, Harry tipped me a slow wink, dropped into the chair,

took a swift look around, saw that we were alone in the little room, and

pulled up his left trouser-leg halfway to his knee. Nestled neatly there,

between his skin and his Paris-gartered long sock was a full half-pint of

the genuine old telegraphers’ oil.

He grasped the bottle and removed the cork by the simple expedient of

pulling it out with his teeth. He passed the full flask to me with a

flourish of invitation. In the sacred spirit of brotherhood, I took a

vigorous swallow and returned it. I fancied I saw a fleeting shade of

contempt on his features as he noted the negligible amount I had consumed,

but without comment he tilted the container and the contents ran down his

throat without let or hindrance until the last drop disappeared.

Burying the dead soldier in the depths of the big wastebasket, he

turned to the business in hand. Lighting a cigarette with one simple motion,

he leaned

over, tapped "GA" (go ahead) and closed the key.

By this time, Bro. Relyea in New York was fit to be tied. The wire had

stood open, of course, ever since I had stopped him, some six or seven

minutes before, and when he started, he really opened up.

Schneider listened a second or two, smiled and pulled the ancient

Remington nearly into his lap. His thumb and two fingers hovered over the

keys for an instant – and he went to it!

He flashed those completed telegrams from the typewriter to the

message-hook in a continuous and blurring stream of paper without halt or

hesitation, as his three flashing digits banged the old "mill" like the roll

of a snare drum. As I stood, awestruck, he turned to me with a smile and

spoke low-toned, without altering his stride.

"That guy's good, but I know where there's a better one – and he's

sittin' right in his chair," And I believed him!

I soft-footed over to Uncle John’s office and beckoned to him. He

entered silently, observed the scene with appreciation, and as the sender

finally came to a halt, with the signal "NM" (no more), he said quietly:

"Young man, you are a telegrapher." - Than which no higher praise could

be asked or given.

It later developed that Harry had, by actual count copied 27 messages in

21 minutes – and that’s going some, even for a guy with a full complement of

fingers.

Morse telegraphy is dead - pushed aside and strangled by the cold hand

of mechanized communication. The day of the boomer, with his battered "bug,"

his threadbare suit, his gin-flaunting breath, and his eager, questing soul,

is gone forever. But the drudgery and the romance, the despair and the

exuberance, the woe and the happiness that were the traveling companions of

the old-time telegrapher, still swell in the hearts of the few who survived

the awesome ordeal.

And may heaven bless us, because that's all we need, now!

Syracuse Post-Standard, Aug. 17, 1947

(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, wen 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.

Syracuse Post-Standard, Oct. 12, 1947

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 7;05 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.

Nov. 16, 1947

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: cam through twice

a year to take his order for a new suit. As these outfits set him back

$19.75 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."

Syracuse Post-Standard, Jan. 25, 1948

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

rush, 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 don¹t 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 didn¹t 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

advanced 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 opponent¹s

jaw.

I am prepared to make positive declaration that Matt¹s 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'n 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 th' 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, because 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

Wart 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 nut²"- but he

was all MAN.

Syracuse Post-Standard, Feb. 15, 1948

Your old time railroader was a rugged individual. He had a tough job

to do; and when he worked, he worked hard; and when he relaxed he relaxed -

easily and with enthusiasm. For all I know, the present breed conforms to

these same specifications, but it is inevitable that they have changed in

many ways.

For instance, I wonder how many modern "hog-heads," "shacks" and

'brass-pounders" are willing to admit that they believe in ghost trains?

In the early years of this century you could always start a caboose

conversation by a casual reference to the "White Flyer" of the Hojack or

the "Midnight Drag" of the D.& H.

I am sorry to admit that during more than 20 years of telegraphing on

more than a dozen railroads from the Connecticut coast to the sage-brush

of Oklahoma, i was never privileged to behold this phantasmagoria - but I

recall one night when I came mighty close to it!

In 1901 I was a green night telegrapher at the Hojack depot in Parish.

In those days there was a big water-tank there and it was one of the

night-man's duties to run the steam pump and keep the water supply

adequate at all times. Generally, however, we did our pumping in the daytime, so we

could get some "shuteye" at night.

The night man worked from 7 a.m. to 7 a.m. After midnight the rail

traffic became rather thin; quiet settled down on everything and the low

hum of the outside wires was conducive to a longing for officially-forbidden

sleep. And, sometimes, when a fellow really got into the very depths of

slumberland, even a passing train would fail to awaken him.

However, Frank Haynor who had preceded me on this particular job, was

a man of attainments and vision. he had perfected a device - an idea,

rather - which was guaranteed to produce results; and he passed this invention on

to me when he left.

Frank had bored a small hole in the casing of the bay window, facing

the tracks. Through this hole he ran a length of fishline out to the main

track. Then, he fastened one end to a wooden peg about six inches long, which he

drove into the ballast on the INSIDE of the rail. within the office, the

coal hod, half filled with anthracite and rounded out with a half dozen

empty cans was tied to the other end of the string and balanced on the

edge of the telegraph desk by the tautness of the line.

With this ar