Part 29 (1/2)
”Well,” I replied, ”I wasn't taking any chances on the matter.”
Then he laughed loud enough to be heard a block away and said, ”Why, that pistol hasn't been loaded for six months, I was just running a bluff on you, and you bit like a fish.”
Good joke, wasn't it? We had our drink, _and his message was sent by one of the day force, at eight-twelve A. M._
The Morse telegraphic alphabet is exactly the same the world over, and yet each operator has a peculiarity to his sending, or ”stuff,” as it is called, that makes it easy to recognize an old friend, even though his name be changed.
In the early part of my career, when I was working days at X----, in Nebraska, at Sweeping Water there was a chap called Ned Kingsbury holding down the night job, and as wild a youngster as ever hit the road. One night when I was sitting up a little late I heard the despatcher give Ned an order for a train that ordinarily would not stop there. Ned repeated it back all right enough, and then gave the signal, ”6,” which meant that he had turned his red-light to the track and would hold it there until the order was delivered and understood. So far, so good. But the reckless little devil had forgotten to turn his red-board and proceeded to write to some of his numerous girls, and the first thing he knew that freight train went smas.h.i.+ng by at a thirty-five mile clip, and Mr. Ned knew he was up against it.
In some states a railroader guilty of criminal negligence is sent up for a term of from one to ten years. The smash up that resulted from Ned's carelessness was a catastrophe of the fatal kind; one engineer was killed, and a fireman and brakeman or two laid up for months. He fully realized the magnitude of his offence and promptly skipped away from the wrath that was sure to follow, and nothing more was heard of him in that section of the country.
This all happened a number of years before I went to work in Fort Worth, and one morning I was doing a little ”scooping,” by working days, and sat down to send on the ”DA” quad. I worked hard for about two hours on the polar side, and was sending to some cracker jack, who signed ”KY.”
Shortly after that I changed over to the receiving side and ”KY” did the sending to me. I had been taking about ten messages and the conviction was growing on me momentarily that the sending was very familiar and that I must have known the sender. Where had I heard that peculiar jerky sending before? It was as plain as print, but there was an individuality about it that belonged only to one man. All at once that night in Nebraska flashed on my mind and I knew my sender was none other than Ned Kingsbury. I broke him and said,
”h.e.l.lo, Ned Kingsbury, where did you come from?”
”You've got the wrong man this time, sonny, my name is Pillsbury,” he replied.
”Oh! come off. I'd know that combination of yours if I heard it in Halifax. Didn't you work at Sweeping Water, Nebraska, some time ago, and didn't you have some kind of a queer smash up there?”
Then he 'fessed up and said he had recognized my stuff as soon as he heard it, but hadn't said anything in hopes I wouldn't twig him.
”Don't give me away, old chap. I'm flying the flag now and have lost all my former brashness.”
I never did.
CHAPTER IX
BILL BRADLEY, GAMBLER AND GENTLEMAN
Telegraphers are, as a rule, a very nomadic cla.s.s, wandering hither and thither like a chip buffeted about on the ocean. Their pathway is not always one of roses, and many times their feet are torn by the jagged rocks of adversity. I was no different from any of the rest, neither better nor worse, and many a night I have slept with only the deep blue sky for a covering, and it may be added--sotto voce--it is not a very warm blanket on a cold night. 'Tis said, an operator of the first cla.s.s can always procure work, but there are times when even the best of them are on their uppers. For instance, when winter's chill blasts sweep across the hills and dales of the north, like swarms of swallows, operators flit southwards to warmer climes, and for this reason the supply is often greater than the demand.
I was a ”flitter” of the first water, and after I had been in Fort Worth for a very short while I became possessed of a desire to see something of the far famed border towns along the Rio Grande frontier. So I went south to a town called Hallville, and found it a typical tough frontier town. I landed there all right enough and then proceeded to gently strand. Work was not to be had, money I had none, and my predicament can be imagined. Many of you have doubtless been on the frontier and know what these places are. There was the usual number of gambling dens, dance halls and saloons, and of course they had their variety theatre.
Ever go into one of the latter places? The first thing that greets your eye is a big black and white sign ”Buy a drink and see the show.”
Inside, at one end, is the long wooden bar, presided over by some thug of the highest order, with a big diamond stuck in the centre of a broad expanse of white s.h.i.+rt front. At the other end is the so-called stage, while scattered about indiscriminately are the tables and chairs. The air is filled--yea, reeking--with the fumes of bad whiskey, stale beer, and the odor of foul smelling cheap tobacco smoke, and through all this haze the would-be ”show,” goes on, and the applause is manifested by whistles, cat calls, the pounding of feet on the floor and gla.s.ses on the tables. Occasionally some artist (?) will appear who does not seem to strike the popular fancy and will be greeted by a beer gla.s.s or empty bottle being fired at his or her head.
Now, at the time of which I speak, my prospects were very slim, and as nature had endowed me with a fair singing voice, I had just about made up my mind to go to the Palace Variety Theatre and ask for a position as a vocalist. I could, at least, sing as well as some of the theatrical bygones that graced the place. The price of admission in one of these places is simply the price of a drink. I felt in my pocket and found that I had one solitary lonely dime, and swinging aside the green baize door, I entered.
”Gimme a beer,” I said laying down my dime. A small gla.s.s, four-fifths froth and one-fifth beer, was skated at me by the bartender from the other end of the counter, and my dime was raked into the till.
Then I stood around like a b.u.mp on a log, trying to screw my courage up to ask the blear eyed, red-nosed Apollo for a job. Some hack voiced old chromo was trying to warble ”Do they miss me at home,” and mentally I thought ”if he had ever sung like that when he was at home they were probably glad he had left.” The scene was sickening and disgusting to me, but empty stomachs stand not on ceremony, so I turned around and was just about to accost the proprietor, when Biff! I felt a stinging whack between my shoulders. Quickly I faced about, all the risibility of my red headed nature coming to the surface, and there I saw a big handsome chap standing in front of me. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered, straight, lithe limbs, denoting herculean strength, a ma.s.sive head poised on a well shaped neck, two cold blue eyes, and a face covered by a bushy brown beard; dressed in well fitting clothes, trousers tucked in the tops of s.h.i.+ny black boots, long Prince Albert coat and a broad sombrero set rakishly on one side of his head. Such was the man who hit me in the back.
”h.e.l.lo, youngster, what's your name?”
Rubbing my lame shoulder, I said, ”Well it might be Jones and it might be Smith, but it ain't, and I don't know what affair it is of yours, any way.”
”Oh! come now, boy, don't get huffy. You've got an honest face and appear to be in trouble. What is it? Out with it. You're evidently a tenderfoot and this h.e.l.l-hole of vice isn't a place for a boy of your years. What's your name? Come over here at this table and sit down and tell me.”