Bertrande H. Snell,
author of the following articles, a native of
Parish, Oswego County, N.Y., was
a telegrapher all his working life.
For many years he was employed by
the New York Central Railroad, and for
33 years was a telegrapher for Western
Union in Syracuse. One of his
columns, dated Jan. 30, 1949, outlines
his career in a way only he could
write it:
"The first person singular
pronoun, is going to come in right handy
during today's blast, because I
am minded to discourse to you a little
on a very uninteresting and pallid
theme - myself. You see, something
happened to me last week which changes
the complexion of many familiar
things around and about me.
"A few days ago my Western
Union boss called me into his office and
recited a few salient facts of which
I was already aware.
'The old Morse code,' he remarked,
' is all shot to hell. In almost no
time at all, we're not going to
have any. Our modern system of
telegraphy has given Mister Morse
the final coupe de grace; he is now
defunct, obsolete, and completely
knocked for a loop. So, arrives now
the moment when some of you oldtimers
who have stuck so closely to your
key and sounder will have to go
way back and sit down.'
"Then, in a few (but not few
enough) well chosen phrases he offered me
a voluntary retirement from the
vanishing field of dot-and-dash.
As the solemn tones of John's voice
fell upon somewhat deafened ears,
the walls around me seemed to fall
away, the speaker's voice faded, the
rushing years tumbled backward -
and I stood, once more, a teen-age
youth in the office of the railroad
depot at Parish.
"It was in the late winter
of 1899. I had graduated from Parish high
the year before; and now I
had come to the depot to see genial Bill
Shaver, the station agent,
in regard to matriculating as a telegraph
student. Bill grinned widely at
my request and freely admitted that he
could find room for one more.
"At the time, he already
had three students - Roy Nutting, Burnell
Miller and Loyal McNeal - but he
was the kind of man who dearly loved to
lead the helping hand. So
the next day I started on my careen (I mean
career) as a telegrapher - and now,
50 years later, almost to the day, I
have come to the end of it.
"After graduation from Bill
Shaver's "School," I worked on the Hojack
for a few years; but a certain irrepressible
restlessness, combined with
the fact that Trainmaster Jimmy
Halleran tied a can on me, set me to
wandering from one railroad to another,
looking for "something new."
From the east to the west, so far
as Wisconsin, and south to the Texas
borderline I traveled, working on
no less than 14 different railroads
in a span of two years.
"It was a great life, my friends,
a wonderful life, but you gotta be
young to fully appreciate
it. That's why I'm free to tell you that
I'll do it all over again the very
next time Mister Morse and I come
back!
"In 1905 I kinda 'settled
down' on the Pennsylvania division of the
New York Central, where I spent
12 happy and carefree - if not
profitable - years in and around
Williamsport, Pa., and the adjacent
county of Lycoming. Coming to Syracuse
in 1917, I threw in with Western
Union and here I have been ever
since.
"I have learned to love Syracuse
and its people. The passing years have
only served to increase that feeling
to the point where it is hard for
me to imagine a better community
in which to spend one's days (and
nights).
"Thus I sat and dreamed as
the Boss finished the details of his gentle
heave-o; and behold! I awoke
to find myself a pensionaire. Or, as Bill
of Avon puts it, "A lean and slipper
pantaloon." Come to think of it, my
good, old dad had a phrase which
carries the idea to its ultimate. He
used to say:
'Generally speakin', a man
don't know how much until he's 60 - and
by that time, it's too darn late."
But let's not dwell upon that
just now; because if the good Lord and
you readers spare me for another
two years or so, i intend to come up
with a diatribe on "How It Fells
to Be an Unrepentant Failure." So
stick around, folks - the
worst is yet to come!
"To say that I am leaving
my old organization without regret would be
untrue, but this same regret is
thickly studded with the jewels of happy
remembrance. I have tried to make
as few enemies as possible; and as
for myself, I hope no slightest
thought of enmity or envy toward anyone
in Western Union (Or anywhere else,
for that matter.). They're a fine
bunch of boys and girls, all the
way from superintendent to caretakers.
May they all live long and happy
and flourishing as the evergreen tree
in the vale of happiness."
Bertrande Snell commenced
his column in the Syracuse Post-Standard on
Jan. 13, 1945 and continued it until
shortly before his death on June
26, 1949. For years his column was
expanded from four to six days a
week. The weekly columns were
of a light-hearted nature, making note of
birthdays, anniversaries, etc.
His Sunday columns were primarily of a
reminiscent or historical nature,
which included railroad stories.
His writing days ended on
the morning of June 25, 1949 when he suffered
a stroke at his home at 326 S. Crouse
Ave. in Syracuse. At the time he
was striken he was working on his
column and a partially typed page was
still in his typewriter when he
was taken to the hospital. Also beside
the typewriter were his notes he
had written with a soft pencil on news
copy paper. He died on June 27,
1949 at the age of 67.
Mr. Snell was survived by
his wife, who he always referred to as
"Milady Helene;" two sons, Harold
of Syracuse and Gerald of New
Brunswick, N.J.; a daughter, Mrs.
George Booth of New Hartford, N.Y.;
three step sons, J.H. Huff of Toledo,
Ohio, Elmer Huff of Syracuse and
Dorman Huff of Holland, Ohio; seven
grandchildren nd three
great-grandchildren. Following funeral
services Mr. Snell was interred
in Pleasant Lawn Cemetery, in his
home town of Parish.
Syracuse Post-Standard, June 28,
1949
Bertrande Will Be Missed
To the Editor of The Post-Standard:
Bertrande is dead. He left
us on rather short notice, which was quite
unlike him. Barely a week ago I
met him on the street where we chatted
for a few minutes, and he wanted
me to go to lunch with him. I was
headed for home for that, so we
went into the editorial department at
the Post-Standard, and visited a
few minutes longer.
Probably but few of his readers
knew his real name. It was Bertrand
Harry Snell. We always called him
Bert. Like my own, his early ancestors
probably were among the Palatines
who came to this country in 1710. This
name is found in the lists of these
people; and I understand that
several Snells, who probably were
descendants, have their names
inscribed on the honor roll of the
Oriskany monument.
I shall have to confess that
although those of my own forebears are
also said to be there. I have never
seen this battlefield memorial
except in pictures. I mentioned
his apparent ancestry and the
Revolutionary War service to Bert
one day some years ago. His gravity
and response were characteristically
humorous: "Yes, sir, and they wee
where the bullets were the thickest!
- biding under the ammunition
wagons." But to all accounts there
was no hiding.
Bert and I, still having some
difficulty believing that our own
independence had been achieved,
carried on the conflict through many
long years of service with the Western
Union in this city; fighting
life's battles shoulder to shoulder,
and sometimes, in a friendly way,
with each other.
But Bert was always my staunch
friend, despite some unimportant points
of philosophic disagreement now
and then. He always eventually conceded
that I was right - probably because
my superlative obstinacy offered no
alternative!
When I retired from the telegraph
service in 1936 it was Bert who saw
to it that I was presented with
a beautiful gold watch suitably
inscribed: and he, himself, made
the presentation.
He and I were country boys
learning telegraphy about the same time on
the old "Hojack," he at Parish,
i believe, and I at Cigarville, now
Clay. I didn't know him then, nor
of that fact until I met him some
years later. He had some newspaper
experience before coming to
Syracuse. He wrote good verse. Among
his poetical compositions,
"Ingetrude of Helsingfors," stands
out as a vibrant, heart-throbbing
tale of Viking love. The man who
could read it and not want to discover
a continent - or another Ingetrude!
- is completely immune to the lure
of adventure:
"So deep of chest, so round of thigh,
So flaxen
haired, so blue her eye,
She looked - and cravens turned
to Thors
For Ingetrude
of Helsingfors."
I shall miss him and his writings;
his reminiscences of his railroad
days, his "Uncle Noel," and such
tales as The Battle of Clapsaddle
Pond." Some of these are in my scrap-books.
But I find that I am about
five years older than Bert, and
soon.
I too, shall rest with none
- and persecuted Dalatine.
Syracuse
EDWIN H. YOUNG.
(Editorial) Post-Standard, June
28, 1949
Bertrande H. Snell
Bertrande was a man worth knowing.
Quiet and unassuming, with a rare
sense of humor and a deep understanding
of human nature, good and bad,
he was a fine companion.
We'll miss him here at The
Post-Standard, with which he was associated
for many years indirectly as a Western
Union telegrapher ad directly as
a columnist. His work was a columnist
began in 1945 and became popular
immediately. But it is a characteristic
of him that his work was
improving constantly. His writings
had reached a high degree of
excellence, but even so he would
never have been satisfied.
Bertrande had built up a wide
circle of readers even before he started
his column, "Just Around the Corner,"
however. He earlier wrote many
poems for the Morning's Mail; they
attracted attention because of their
rolling rhythm and pungent expression
of thought.
He had a gift not only for
expressing his thoughts with poetic and
epigrammatic feeling, but also possessed
a keen eye for the unusual,
quaint or bizarre. His columns benefited
from these gifts.
He was happy in his field
and it is too bad that he was stricken at a
time when he was so firmly established
in his field. His death is a
serious loss to us and to those
who enjoyed his epigrams, observations
and poems so much.
Syracuse Post-Standard,
Sun., Sept. 23, 1945
Just Around the Corner
By Bertrande (Bertrande
Snell)
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 away
- at which lasttask 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 caches 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 andhe 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
Just Around the Corner
By Bertrande Snell
____
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 ben bitterly
cold, the thermometer falling to
25 below zero in this section, but when
the 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, nd 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
violet 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!"
Post-Standard, July 7, 1946
Just Around the Corner
By Bertrande (Bertrande Snell)
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
Just
Around the Corner By Bertrande
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.
-----
Syracuse Post-Standard,
Jan. 27, 1946
Just Around the Corner By
Bertrande Snell
____
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 waste, 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.par 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
nd 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 heavy -
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
Just Around the Corner By
Betrande Snell
____
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 Nefane 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,
smoke 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. Pleas, 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
Just Around the Corner
By Bertrande Snell
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 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
from a 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!
Page
2