PLEIADES CLUB
Telegraphers’ Paradise on
Planet Mars

By JEFF. W. HAYES
AUTHOR OF
Tales of the Sierras, Looking Backward at Portland, Paradise on
Earth, Portland A. D. 1999, Autographs and Memoirs
of the Telegraph, etc.

PUBLISHED BY
MULTNOMAH PRINTING COMPANY
PORTLAND, OREGON
MCMXVII

DEDICATORY

To Edgar W. Collins,
Poet-Laureate of the Telegraph; noble, high-minded gentleman;
a true friend; this little volume is
inscribed with a loving heart.

Contents.

PREFACE

In offering the “Pleiades Club” to the public, I have no apologies to make. Some may object to the declarations contained herein, but they are all consistent with intelligent beliefs, and not contrary to fixed or orthodox faith. “There is no death,” and my thought is to strengthen and impress this health-giving idea upon all of my readers. I have undertaken to describe a reign of harmony that exists after “Life’s fitful fever” which is more worthy of credence than the hell afire and damnation espoused by some creeds and religions; and I hope that my telegraph friends will feel better on this score from a perusal of the “Pleiades Club.”

THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE PLANET MARS

Eternity Illustrated.

ETERNITY is an awe-inspiring theme and one which our little finite minds are unable to comprehend. It is a subject, however, which should never worry or distress us, when we stop to realize that we are all living in the eternal now.

Once upon a time, an evangelist, in following up his line of business, rendered a discourse on “Eternity” which would have given one an opportunity for endless mathematics.

“Supposing this earth was a huge ball of steel,” he began, “25,000 miles in circumference and a little bird would pass over it once every thousand years, lightly touching this immense steel body with the tip of its wing. Were you to tell the souls in hades that they would be released by the time the bird had cut a hole through and divided the sphere, there would be great rejoicing among the condemned.”

Knowing that there is nothing lost in God’s creation this little allegory should never make one nervous, for we also know that, like John Brown, our “soul goes marching on,” onward and upward.

Having delivered my text, I will proceed with my story.

Lincoln’s Birthday on Planet Mars.

It was a delightful gathering which assembled at a dinner on the planet Mars given in honor of Abraham Lincoln, on the occasion of his birthday, by the Pleiades Club, composed mostly of old-time telegraph men and their admirers, A. D. 1916.

Numerically, the gathering was greater than that which assembled on any previous occasion on Mother Earth, and viewing the happy, smiling faces of those present, one felt that it was good to be here.

Sounders clicked on every side; all were readable, and harmony prevailed, nobody ever sending six dots for the letter “p” or the figure 4 for a “v.”

President Lincoln presided and much attention was paid to his remarks. The President’s face possessed that wonderfully kind and loving appearance so apparent during life and his voice bespoke his gentle spirit. Earnestly he chatted with some late arrivals on Mars, asking particularly for his old telegraph associates on earth. He enquired about the “Sacred three” and Billy Dealy and many of the boys in the field in the stirring days of the war.

The President was a busy soul, looking out for “his Father’s business,” as he expressed it, and he was the recipient of much reverence from all assembled.

Aaron Hilliker Sings Olden Song.

Music was called for, when to the astonishment of all, the form of A. B. Hilliker appeared at the threshold. Aaron was as full of bonhomme as of yore and responded to many requests by singing “The Old Oaken Bucket,” which evoked an enthusiastic encore.

“What did you sine in the spring of ’73?” queried Jim Largay.

“You should have asked me what I sined in ’53,” replied Hilliker, as he smiled at Professor Morse, who pleasantly returned the recognition.

“The question before the Club tonight is ‘Preparedness,’” remarked General Thomas T. Eckert, “and I would like to see this subject fully discussed,” continued that gallant gentleman.

Biff Cook Makes a Speech.

“Never mind,” interposed “Biff” Cook, “that is all provided for and should our beloved country ever get into a war, it will be one of short duration. It will be a one man’s war against a congress of nations. Why, my friends, the ‘Wizard of Menlo Park’ has all that studied out, but he is not talking about it or giving the idea away.”

“Why,” continued Cook, emphasizing his words, “Tom Edison has it all figured out that in twelve hours’ time he can weave a cobweb of wires on our ocean’s shore to completely annihilate immediately any threatening craft fifty miles out at sea. I wish that I could communicate this information to the timid people down there on earth, for I believe it would do them a world of good.

“I know all about this, for Tom told me about the scheme back there in ’74, when I used to ‘dot on his quadruplex’ along with Eddie Fullum and Billy Landy, at 145 Broadway.

“No, boys,” went on “Biff,” “let’s talk of the wireless. We are all so much interested in that. Why, it was only last week that we all heard New York talking to Honolulu and I tried to break in, but that ‘ham’ in New York would not adjust and we lost our opportunity of being heard. Just think, if he had pulled up his relay just half an inch we would have been in direct communication. If that fellow had ever worked in Cheyenne alongside of Comb Green, when I worked the overland at Omaha, he would have known something about keeping adjusted and the dear old Earth would have received startling news which would have thrown the feat of Commander Peary into the shade.

“Don’t you know, cull,” continued Cook, “that I really believe that our planet Mars may be called upon to perform her good offices in case any hostile nation should attempt to invade the United States, and I believe that Tom Edison has solved that intricate problem.”

With these remarks, “Biff” sat down amid thundering applause.

The St. Louis band, composed of W. W. Cummings, Sidney B. Fairchild, James Nelson and James Murray, then rendered “The Star-Spangled Banner,” after which the audience was addressed on the subject of wireless telegraph.

Professor Zingalli, of Milan, whose name would indicate that he was “flagging” while on earth, gave the assemblage a graphic account of the possibilities of the wireless.

“Why, my friends,” he said, “this science is still in its infancy. Were I to tell you of all its possibilities, you would not believe me. The day is sure to come when all you gentlemen will have an opportunity of talking to your loved ones on earth by means of the wireless telephone. There will be a million circuits running into Chicago, none of them interfering with the other. Every hamlet in the country will have a wireless telephone and telegraph instrument. Trains will be run by wireless, ships will use wireless as a motive power and city car lines’ power will be usurped by the ever present wireless.”

“Then I would not have to walk any more from San Francisco to Chicago, would I?” ejaculated the irrepressible “Bogy.”

“Cold day when you ever walked,” laughed Hank Cowan, who sat opposite his former colleague. “That ‘con’ told me a different story; yes, you walked all the way, of course you did, but only from one end of the car to the other.”

This sally caused much merriment among the members of the Club, which gave way to a speech entitled “The Future of the Telegraph,” specially prepared for the occasion by Col. Mark D. Crain.

The meeting then adjourned subject to the call of the secretary, who was none else than that prince of good fellows, Jim P. Doody.

CHAPTER II.
FOURTH OF JULY ON PLANET MARS

THERE was much commotion on the planet Mars.

As closely as the most patriotic mathematician could reckon time and compare it with a corresponding period on the Earth, it was Fourth of July and the dwellers on Mars decided to celebrate in a “sane” manner.

Everybody to their own liking and the American members of the Pleiades Club determined that this should be the occasion when Colonel Marquis Delafayette Crain should address them on “The Future of the Telegraph.”

The club members began gathering at an early hour, forming into little knots in a semi-circle around the speaker’s stand. It was a “get acquainted” meeting, too, and the committee of arrangements was kept very busy.

“Yes, I have known Bert Ayres for many years and copied press from him many a night,” said O. A. Gurley, as Mr. Ayres was introduced. Merry sallies passed between the two gentlemen, when the gavel sounded with a loud rap and the master of ceremonies introduced Col. Mark D. Crain, the speaker.

Loud and enthusiastic greetings followed this introduction and the Colonel smilingly acknowledged the welcome.

Colonel Crain Delivers Address.

“I am to speak today upon the future of the telegraph,” he began, but he was interrupted by Ed. Parmalee, who asked him to change his topic to the “past” history of the telegraph.

“Cannot do it just now, as I am all primed with my topic, and some other time will do; besides, you know, we are now in Eternity and we have all the time there is.”

The Colonel then took up his manuscript, which he began to read:

“The telegraph has made astounding progress during the past five years,” he began, “but there are much better things in store for the employes than ever before.

“For instance, a device has been invented which practically annihilates time when it comes to taking messages off the wires.

“A typewriter with the standard keyboard is used, but the combinations are numerous. To an expert, ten words are written with one touch of the key and a fifty-word night letter will be written by simply touching five different keys on the typewriter. It all depends upon knowing how, and you know,” remarked the Colonel merrily, “we get paid for what we know, and not for what we do.

“You can now see that it will take but ten seconds to receive a fifty-word night letter, but the toll to the public is just the same. The companies, however, are willing to divide the earnings with the operators and a new schedule of salaries has been made as follows:

“Operators will receive ten mills for each message handled, but they are required to handle at least 500 messages every hour, their work being confined to five hours a day.

“You see their wages will therefore be $5 per hour, or $25 per day for five hours’ work. The company will not permit an operator to work more than twenty days a month, so the maximum salary for each operator will be $500.

“The company will furnish three meals a day—”

“Did I understand you to say ‘free meals a day?’” broke in Jake Tubman, who sat near the speaker.

“I should have said three free meals a day,” laughingly replied the speaker, and, continuing, “and automobiles will call for and return each employe home.

“The chief will meet each operator at the door when he quits for the day and ask him the state of his health, how he enjoyed his work, and if he has any grievance to relate. The manager, too, will greet operators all at the landing of the elevator and ask them if they care to ‘draw’ today.”

“Oh, my, that strikes me about right,” cried out Fred Loomis, and many others showed their appreciation of the innovation.

“All operators will be treated with much consideration and distinction, especial attention being given to pacifying all recalcitrants and smoothing out all kicks and complaints which may arise, but it is thought the programme outlined will wipe out all differences.”

Colonel Crain’s speech was followed with wild applause and a big demonstration. The band played “Happy Days” on the harps.

After order had been restored, Colonel Crain was asked to speak on the “old timers,” it being remarked that he should be quite at home on that topic.

“Yes, I know a few of them,” began Mark. “They came and went when I was in Kansas City, and we always had a delightful time.

“Let’s see, there was Jim Delong—”

“Present,” interrupted the voice of Mr. Delong, amid applause.

The speaker continued:

“Yes, there was Billy Spink, too—”

“Here also,” broke in the familiar voice of Mr. Spink, who received an encore.

“Then there was Frank Farley, Dan Martin, Billy Foy, Jim Cook, Milton Geowey, Harry Smith, John Topliff—”

“Don’t forget me,” broke in Fred Swain, as he swung into sight on the arm of Bob Rankin.

“I’m not going to overlook you,” continued Crain; “I remember the time you wanted to take a trip with me from the window of the tenth floor of the Chicago office, without an aeroplane.”

This remark evoked much merriment among the old timers of Chicago.

“Well, gentlemen, it is a great pleasure to meet and greet you all here today and to realize that we do not have to put a sub. on and that all the wires are always working O. K.”

“That is because you have the pick of the construction department,” smilingly remarked M. C. Bristol, and the assemblage acquiesced.

“Let’s get back to the original text,” said Billy West, who had been deeply interested in Mr. Crain’s address. “I would like to hear more of the future of the telegraph and I greatly enjoy hearing Colonel Crain’s remarks.”

“Yes, here are a few pages that the Colonel overlooked,” said secretary Jim Doody, handing the same to Mr. Crain.

“Ah, yes, I have something else to say and a little story to relate which, I think, you will all be pleased to listen to.”

Silence once more reigned as the speaker began:

“The telegraph stock is away up, Western Union selling for $495 and Postal $415. The companies are studying the advisability of segregating a portion of their stock for charitable purposes, which idea is under consideration by the executive committee.

“An operator will be retired when he has reached the age of thirty with a pension of five years’ salary in advance to enable him to go into some profitable business.”

“I’m glad I am not on Earth to witness such dreadful extravagances,” interrupted Russell Sage, who had been an attentive listener.

“Those are my sentiments also,” cried Jay Gould, who had arrived in time to hear the last part of Colonel Crain’s address.

“My remarks will close with a little story about one of our most distinguished members. The story may not be a new one to you who are here present, but it is a good one,” and Colonel Crain paused.

“Oh, go ahead,” shouted the audience; “let’s have the story.”

“It was about a quarter of a century ago on the planet Mars and a great commotion was going on at the gates. There had been an unusual exodus from Earth, the accommodation train bringing with it many millionaires, all ready to become citizens.

“One man hurriedly left the train and began elbowing his way through the surging crowd.

“Addressing the doorkeeper, the newcomer asked to be admitted instantly, but was told that he must take his turn.

“Indignation filled the newly arrived, who exclaimed, ‘My name is Jay Gould and while on earth I could buy my way in at any place. I did not bring any money with me, but I can give you a check for any amount you say. I want to get in quickly, so just say how much money you want.’

“The doorkeeper paused for a moment and replied: ‘A million up here counts for one cent and a second of time is the same as a thousand years.’

“‘All right,’ exclaimed Gould, ‘just tell me how much money you want to let me in.’

“Again did the doorkeeper stop to think, finally ejaculating, ‘One hundred millions.’

“‘Here is a check for it,’ said Gould.

“‘Wait a minute,’ replied the doorkeeper.

“This conversation occurred about twenty-five years ago and it is evident that Mr. Gould did not ‘wait a minute’ as suggested by the doorkeeper.”

This story was received with a tumult of applause by the entire assemblage, after which the meeting adjourned.

It was understood that the next meeting would be addressed by a number of southern operators, who will relate their telegraphic experience while on Earth.

CHAPTER III.
DIXIE DAY ON PLANET MARS

IT WAS certainly a choice gathering of spirits who flocked together at Telegraphers’ Tabernacle to listen to the doings of the boys from Dixie who were members of this honorable body.

Fred B. Moxon, courtly and affable as of old, called the meeting to order.

Mr. Moxon explained that the meeting was called for the purpose of having a pleasant time and everyone was cordially invited to say something.

“Is Bob Irwin, ‘Canada’s fastest man,’ present?” came an inquiry from Dave Ryan.

“No, Bob and Aleck Sinnot went a-fishing this morning down to Hesperian canal, but we expect to see them back very soon.”

“I say, Dave,” queried Kentucky George Ellsworth, “how about that story that Brother Topping tells about you when you were on General Bragg’s staff? Did the General really cease hostilities on a certain occasion till you could be located?”

“Just you read United States history and get better acquainted with me,” testily replied Ryan. But a smile speedily lit up the old war horse’s face when he recognized the president of the meeting.

“Well, if there isn’t Fred Moxon, whom I left in St. Louis in 1875. Glad to see you, old boy; do you remember how you used to paste me when I was down there in Galveston? I tell you what, to take you and fight those native mosquitoes was a bigger job than fighting under General Bragg.”

“Yes, Dave, you remember how that old Long Horn wire used to work and how those repeaters at Denison would rattle? The man in charge of the Denison repeaters went to sleep one night and I could not hear you break.”

“I never broke in my life,” interrupted Ryan.

“That’s right, too,” agreed Moxon, “and the only way I knew you were getting me was to ask New Orleans.”

“Same old stunt,” broke in Cy Whitaker, who just arrived and took a seat in front.

“Why, here is Ed Whitford, is he in our class?” asked “Fid” Powers.

“Yes, he is eligible, for he worked two winters in New Orleans. Let him sit down, as I have one on him,” suggested Dick Babbitt.

“Sit down, Ed, you are welcome at our festive board. I want to tell the boys of the joke you played on me once upon a time.

“I dropped into the Chicago office to get acquainted with the boys and see what new things had been introduced. Whitford was always the master of ceremonies in the Chicago office, doubtless because he could always see a funny side to everything.

“‘Look at this big ground wire,’ said Whitford, pointing to the iron pillar, which ran from floor to ceiling, the only obstruction in the big room. ‘Yes, this is the ground wire which grounds every wire in Chicago and ofttimes holds millions of volts. There is enough electricity in the ground wire at this minute to completely annihilate an entire army if applied in the proper way; yes, this ground wire is one of the institutions of Chicago.

“‘Want to see some good receiving? Well, come here and witness the finest operator in the world. He can copy 100 words behind, as I will show you.’”

“Going up to Jack Carroll, who was receiving a special from Luke Fisher, at Omaha, Whitford grabbed Carroll’s hand, which he shook for two minutes, Fisher sending at top notch speed.

“Releasing his hand, Carroll took up a new sheet and began to copy just as if he had not been interrupted.

“‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ ejaculated the spectators, but we did not know that Jack had a time in squaring himself with Luke Fisher to get him to repeat the missing portion.”

“Yes, Ed, you were always on hand like warts when it came to going to the annual reunion of the Old Timers, too,” said Billy West, who arrived at this juncture, high hat and gold-headed cane.

“Glad to see you again, Bill,” shouted many voices.

“Gentlemen, let us quit shop talk for a few minutes and see what the latest is from the seat of the great European battle ground.

“I say, Mr. Chairman, can you tell me if Ethiopia has joined the allies,” questioned Jim Taylor, a recently arrived colored employe from Minneapolis.

“Yes, you bet; I could make out a battalion marching north and they were carrying the national flag of Ethiopia,” remarked Charlie Newton, as he sauntered in.

“What am the flag of Ethiopia?” asked Taylor.

“Why, it is a picture of a watermelon cut in halves on one side of the flag and a ham bone on the other side,” laughingly replied Newton, and a burst of merriment ensued.

“I have been practicing with mirrors,” began Moxon, “and I find that I can bottle up and concentrate enough of the sun’s rays to completely vaporize any intruding battleship 100 miles at sea. We turn on our searchlight, which is equal to a billion candle power and signal for her to turn back. Upon her refusal to do so, the bottled up energy of the sun is turned on and presently a smoke arises which in five minutes is lifted and nothing can be seen of the unfriendly man o’ war.

“I am in telepathic communication with my old partner, Jeff Hayes, who is still a resident of the terrestrial sphere, and we are able to convey much intelligence in this way to each other. I have already given him the dope on this new idea and you will find that the matter will be given the widest publicity on earth.

“I notice we have with us Col. Tally Mann, once of Sherman, Jack Taylor of Galveston, Ed Davis, David Flannery, Charlie Patch, Jim Stacey, Jack McDonald, Jimmie Rust, Jack Sinclair, Jack Graham and Phil Fall.”

At the mention of each name a cheer went up, each gentleman arising and making a graceful bow.

Bob Irwin, “Canada’s fastest,” put in an appearance now with a string of Dollie Varden trout which he stated he had caught over in the Hesperian canal.

“No, I did not subsidize any small boy, either,” warmly remarked Irwin, “for I am a fisherman from way back.”

“Yes, you used to catch catfish on the Mississippi below St. Louis,” said John Topliff as he bobbed to the front.

“I never contradict my chief operator; you taught me that stunt,” retorted Irwin, and all the St. Louis contingent laughed to the echo.

“I never liked that story Dick Babbitt propagated about David Flannery. You remember that one about ‘Jobs and Positions.’ I never liked it and I am going to tell Dick so.”

“I plead guilty,” said Babbitt, adding “and I throw myself upon the mercy of the Court.” This remark was made with mock solemnity, which evoked an “Aw, forgit it” from Davis.

The band, of which Ed Leloup was the leader, discoursed some stirring Southern melodies, after which the meeting took the form of a general social feast, many introductions being made.

There was no bickering, no quarreling, no riotousness on the planet Mars. Surely everyone was supposed to forget all these ere they could remain in peace in this delightful haven of rest.

Everything was so harmonious here that few cared to leave its delightful precincts until lapse of time urged him for a higher climb.

To the lover of music, music was everywhere; to the student of literature, the universe was an open book, always ready to instruct an earnest student; to the inquirer after the arts and sciences, Mars gives ample opportunity for study and advancement, but to the person who makes inquiry after the pleasures of a flesh, a big and emphatic “No” is given. Mars and its inhabitants are built on different lines.

Pardon being asked for and granted for this diversion, Chairman Moxon announced that the next meeting would be held under the auspices of the old Chicago office, which announcement created a whirlwind of applause.

Lara Boone and Hank Spencer then sang, “Oh Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight” and the meeting passed into history.

CHAPTER IV.
CHICAGO TAKES A HAND

IT WAS Chicago day on the planet Mars and from every quarter of our nearest starry neighbor came flitting the individuals who at one time or another worked in the Chicago telegraph offices.

It did not matter what company was the employer, railroad or telegraph; all were as welcome as the flowers in May and all felt at home.

There were many familiar faces and it will be our privilege to mention many of the dear denizens of this happy stopping place, where all is peace and harmony and where our telegraph and railroad friends obtain their first taste of heavenly happiness.

Al Baker presided over the meeting and announced that James E. Pettit would be temporary secretary for the Society of the United States Military Telegraph Corps.

“Why not make John Brant secretary for the Old Timers’ association also; it would look so much like olden times,” said Col. John J. Dickey, and the suggestion evoked much applause and presently both gentlemen were at their desks wielding their pens just as they used to do on earth.

Al Baker’s Speech.

“They used to call me the ‘old preacher’ when I was night chief operator of the Chicago office,” began the president, Mr. Baker.

He was interrupted by Fred Swain, who remarked that they had often heard A. B. Cowan relate incidents showing his tendency toward Biblical lore.

“Yes, I have heard the story,” replied Baker. “It occurred on the occasion of a big storm in Chicago, but we are here today to talk ‘shop’ and I hope we will hear from many of our friends present, for we can tell something interesting, each one of us.

“I have a few preliminary remarks to make and I hope our beloved secretary, Mr. Brant, will report me as correctly as possible.

“I want to convey to the telegraph people on old Mother Earth that it is a psychological fact that if they would only make their profession a life-long business, similar to that of a doctor, dentist, lawyer or minister, their condition while on earth would vastly improve. They should take advantage of all the education obtainable in their line, through reading and studying text books on electrical matters and endeavor to qualify themselves for higher positions which are bound to come.

“It will not be long ere the prevailing company will build into Mexico, and, in fact, cover South America. Those fellows down there need somebody to show them how to telegraph and I guess there would be a great number of good tutors in New York, Chicago and St. Louis, and just fancy the revenue that would be derived.

“The opening of this southern country would give every ambitious and capable man in the service an opportunity of shining as a superintendent or in some other official capacity.

“You remember, boys, how they used to sing after the war of the rebellion a ditty about ‘Uncle Sam is rich enough to buy us all a farm.’

“Well, the telegraph company is rich enough to make all capable men a superintendent in South America.

“Of course you understand, boys,” he continued, “that the subject we are discussing will not interest us personally, for we are all now ‘about our Father’s business,’ but it is a happy thought to know that our loved ones on earth are going to be provided for.”

Mr. Baker’s remarks were greeted with much delighted applause and Secretary Brant stated that he had made a stenographic copy of the same, which he would hand to Fred Moxon, who in turn would transmit it by telepathy to his friend on the terrestrial planet.

“We will now listen to the Chicago Glee Club,” remarked President Baker, and vociferous cheers went up as the forms of Sam Bracken, Al Babb, Jim Delong and Harry Smith appeared, each bearing a harp of a thousand strings.

Some of these gentlemen could not warble a note while on earth, but were now students of music and harmony, and well did they acquit themselves, even indulging their audience in a little rag time.

Al Babb was particularly happy in his illustrative Indian war dances, scalp dances and the like.

Applications for membership into the Chicago branch of the Pleiades Club brought out many hundreds of new and old faces, and as time was no object to them it was decided to hold this as a continuous meeting until everyone was ready to acquiesce in adjournment.

“Boys, I am interested to visit the next ‘mile-post’ in our eternal flight,” remarked “Dad” Armstrong as he came on the platform to shake hands with President Baker.

“I would like to go up to Jupiter for a month or so,” continued Armstrong, but he was interrupted by Ed Whitford, who exclaimed, “Better go a little slow, Dad; you know if you climb upwards you cannot come back, for it is just like the butterfly and caterpillar. You have to keep a-going if you start,” and here Whitford paused and presently sang that good old hymn, “I’m a pilgrim, I can tarry but a while.”

Armstrong, to the delight of the club, concluded to tarry a while longer.

“I notice we have Henry C. Maynard with us today,” said the president. “Will he kindly step to the front?” Cheers rent the air as Mr. Maynard’s familiar figure mounted to the platform.

“I say, Brother Maynard, do you remember the night you told me, along about eleven o’clock, that you could now dispense ‘without’ my services?”

The speaker was Billy Wallace, and his remark occasioned much merriment.

“Oh, yes, I remember very well,” returned Mr. Maynard, “but you know that I did not care so much for the queen’s English as I did to see the ‘C U B’ was promptly handled on the overland.

“I am very glad to see this happy throng,” continued Mr. Maynard, “and I am perfectly willing to have ‘Chicago day’ last for an entire year, for I believe there would not be one dull moment during this period.

“I will have occasion to address you quite often during the meeting.”

“Can you tell me, please, who it was that got ‘and a city’ for ‘audacity’?” questioned J. DeWitt Congdon.

“I am the ‘guilty’ man, for I got that the same night that the young fellow in Galveston reported that Tom Brown, a negro, was found ‘quilty’ of murder,” exclaimed Charley Hazelton, who sat near “c g.”

“We will be glad to hear from Pete Rowe and listen to some of his wild and woolly experiences in Elko, Nev.,” said the president, “but we will hearken first to a song by Les Bradley, who will favor us with ‘Pat Clancey’s Shovel.’” The song was rendered in the most inimitable style by Bradley.

CHAPTER V.
PETER ROWE’S PROHIBITION SPEECH

THE AUDIENCE at the meeting of the telegraph people assembled in session at the Pleiades Club on the planet Mars to listen to remarks from Peter A. Rowe and others, were quite on the qui vive in anticipation of something out of the ordinary and they were certainly well rewarded for their patient waiting.

Mr. Al Baker, who was presiding, introduced the speaker of the day, for “there is no night” on the planet Mars, and Mr. Rowe was well received.

“I have been asked to relate my experience out in the West, but I think that I would prefer to say something upon a subject nearer my heart,” Mr. Rowe began.

“I did go it some while on earth and were I inclined to be remorseful, I would be very unhappy indeed, but up here in the second heaven we have all learned that remorse is as much to be dreaded as is hate, malice, envy, revenge and a hundred more kindred vices.

“Every sin is forgiven as we turn from it and now I have nothing to regret for any shortcomings that I may have had while on Earth.

“To get back to my topic. I notice on the bulletin board that there is a connection between this mile post on our heavenly flight and my former friends on Earth and I would like to have your secretary quote my remarks for the benefit of those who are still tempted in the manner I was, while on Earth.

“I am rejoiced to know that the South has gone dry, and I am thankful, too, that the West is following in the same line, and were I again a legislator from Cook County, Ill., I would preach from the house-top and from the hill-top, the great good of national prohibition and I would not cease a moment till I made Chicago a ‘dry’ city. I feel that I would have the hearty thanks of the telegraph and railroad companies and also of all the telegraph employes once the bill became a law and all were inured to it.

“Our people on Mars are true blue and there is no insincerity to be found in our ranks. We have all been purged of that and we all feel the better for it.”

Mr. Rowe continued in his happy vein to relate his experiences while he was manager at Elko, Nev., when that office was a repeating point, his remarks evoking many merry rounds of applause.

He was very much in earnest in his statements on prohibition and his listeners were greatly interested, Mr. Fred Moxon taking the notes down in shorthand for the benefit of his earthly friends.

The band played, “Father, dear father, coom heim with me now,” and a bright little star was placed in Mr. Rowe’s crown, Mike Burke all the time whistling enquiringly, “Will there be any stars in my crown?”

“While you are on the subject of ‘lifting’ the craft, I wish some one of our gifted speakers would say a few words upon the ‘Telegraph and Telephone Life Insurance Association.’

“I notice the sentiment on the subject is general,” said Chairman Baker, “and that it is highly approved of by all of our friends assembled. Much good work along these lines is at present being done in the Chicago office, which I am proud to say never takes a back seat from any place when it comes to doing things right. The present Chicago agent for the Telegraph and Telephone Life Insurance Association, Mr. Edward F. Hatch, has many applications to his ‘wampum belt,’ as Hawkeye Bill would put it, and this same spirit should be more manifest all over the country. Just see what immeasurable good the association does.”

“All these remarks are well timed and I agree with the speakers, but let us have a little fun now. Can’t Sam Bracken get out his stalwart nine from the Chicago 1883 bunch and play W. H. Cummings of St. Louis a game of base ball?” Thus spoke Fred Catlin and many left the club room to witness the game, which was played with much spirit, Chicago, of course, winning with a decisive score.

It was pleasant to note the absolute democracy of feeling pervading the denizens of Mars; there was no feeling of seeming superiority displayed by any one person over another; all were equal and on the same level and plane. Former superintendents were pleased to hob-nob with their linemen and chiefs and operators linked arms like brothers and all differences and distinctions were wiped out forever.

Is it not too bad that such a feeling is impossible, or seems to be so, on Earth at the present time?

Conversation, visiting and “get acquainted” knots of telegraph men and women now ensued and it was good to notice the many familiar faces of those who came loitering along to take part in the happy meeting.

There was Emil Shape, so well known a few years ago in Milwaukee; George Brigham, from Toledo; John W. Moreland, from San Francisco; Commodore Haines, from Los Angeles; John Henderson, from Portland; John and William Grier, from Salt Lake; ex-manager Snider, from Cheyenne; Frank B. Knight, from Omaha; James Swan, from Minneapolis, and many others.

John Henderson, who was acquainted while on Earth with all of these gentlemen, was kept busy in introducing one to the other, his introduction being accompanied by a humorous sally. Mr. Henderson was in a very pleasant spirit and greeted the Grier brothers most affectionately, calling upon Tom Kehoe, Joe Hurley, Mike Burke, Mike Conway and W. B. Hibbard to come and take a seat close by where they could all talk uninterruptedly.

Oh yes, here is Joe Sears; the last time I saw him he was in Pioche, Nev., and here is George Millar from Austin, and James Farrell, from Carson, and Tom Booth and “Graphy” from Virginia City.

And now that we are all gathered together and have all the time that there is and we have no work to do at the office, we will enjoy ourselves to the utmost by relating our experiences for the benefit of those who are left behind, knowing that all of our remarks will be carefully chronicled in the Telegraph and Telephone Age through its special correspondent on the planet Mars, Fred B. Moxon.

Then followed a series of story telling, of experiences, humorous and pathetic.

The news had been received of the generous Christmas present given to all employes by the Western Union Telegraph Company, which fact occasioned many pleasant remarks from its former operators, accompanied also by a doleful remonstrance from the former stockholders of the company, who could not understand the occasion of this uncalled for extravagance.

A committee composed of Frank Jaynes, William B. Hibbard, Colonel J. J. Dickey and E. P. Wright, framed resolutions of appreciation to be transmitted to the president of the Western Union Telegraph Company, Newcomb Carlton, indicating the feeling existing among the former co-laborers now on the planet Mars toward that company.

The meeting is still in session.

CHAPTER VI.
CALIFORNIA ELECTS A PRESIDENT

WHILE the telegraph boys of Chicago were enjoying themselves and making merry, a great noise was heard up the line, and a cloud of dust was discernible, acting as a precursor of the California contingent, who had just learned of the recent election on Earth and desired to share their honors with their brothers there.

“You’ve got to come to California if you want to elect a president,” exclaimed Commodore R. R. Haines, so long known to the fraternity during his life at Los Angeles.

“California creates wonders and now it is going into competition with Ohio and is developing presidents,” sang out James Gamble, and at the mention of his name, there came a mighty applause from all in the grand stand and bleachers.

“I am glad that California is diversifying its products, for if we are to give to the world only our product of native sons we will be having too much competition from among our oriental neighbors,” quoth Frank Jaynes, handsome and blithe as ever.

“Well, we have come to celebrate California’s part in the election of 1916 and let us do it up right,” interrupted Geo. Senf, “and I believe the Chicago club will excuse us for butting in.”

“Welcome, Gentlemen,” said President A. L. Baker, “and we invite you cordially to sit at our merry round table and partake of the intellectual feast which we always have to offer a brother telegrapher.”

Among the California contingent came a number who had visited San Francisco, tarried awhile and returned to the effete East. Some flippantly remarked that they “beat” it East.

Among this number were the following gentlemen: Jeff Prentice, John Moreland, Harry Converse, David Crawford, John Yontz, William Skinner, George Millar, James Farrell, William Cohen, W. J. Wallis and many other bright lights in the telegraph sky.

Dr. O. P. S. Plummer, the first telegraph superintendent in Oregon and dear old James H. Guild, were there hob-nobbing and both bright and happy.

“I am figuring on getting up a telegrapher’s tournament up here on the planet Mars,” said Johnnie Henderson.

“Are you figuring upon giving your audience an exhibition of ‘slow’ sending?” asked Billy Dumars, but John denied the soft impeachment and declared that he believed the talent up in Mars would put the earthly inhabitants to the blush, and the idea was taken up and talked over until everyone was enthused. The day of the tournament was fixed for Washington’s birthday.

“I will show them how I used to send in the spring of ’73,” said Marsh Greene.

“Yes, and I will give them an illustration of fast work, right off the reel, as I took it from C. F. Stumm for the edification of Professor Morse,” exclaimed Louis A. Somers, as he carelessly toyed with a very noticeable medal pinned to his coat lapel, bearing some mystic telegraphic symbols.

It being all settled about the tournament, its date and place, the club resolved itself into its original form and several hours were devoted to getting acquainted with the president-makers and welcoming them to this haven of rest.

“Bug” sending versus hand sending was taken up and discussed, the old-timer advocating the old style and giving his reasons therefor, but this was all dissipated when a coterie of “bug” men rallied to the support of their favorite weapon, giving some startling illustrations of the efficacy of their machine.

“It puts you on your mettle,” cried one. “You never know till you make the sense if it is going to be ‘pome,’ ‘home’ or ‘some.’ It keeps your brain active and working and does not allow you to get mentally lazy with your work, which, unhappily, is too much the case with all telegraph operators.”

“You have your nerve to make such a statement, but I really believe you are more than half right after all,” said George Baxter, “for I know myself that it is easier to sleep than to think.”

“Yes, and it is more blessed to send than to receive,” broke in Al Stoner, who had been an interested listener to the discussion.

“Yes, the ‘bug’ has come to stay until I have improved my flash light key, which will send and do its own receiving at the rate of 1,000 messages an hour,” interposed Nick Burke, and his audience smiled a little bit unbelievingly.

“We will have a song from H. C. Maynard,” but he asked to be excused, as he believed he was getting signals from the Earth.

“Oh, nothing but echoes from Verdun, you ought to know that,” said Albert J. Desson as he came in arm and arm with Dan C. Schull, both of Cleveland.

Some unthinking people may wrongfully accuse the writer of a seeming levity in dealing with the people who have gone before, but they are certainly in error, for that is furthest from his intentions.

Our once earthly friends dwell in a different thought, with different aspirations and desires, none of which is of the Earth, earthy. They retain only their happy state of consciousness, and have no remorse or nuts to crack, on this side of Jordan.

Much favorable comment was heard about the Christmas present given the employes by the prevailing earthly telegraph company and many complimentary remarks were made concerning the present organization and its management

“The telegraph is in its infancy,” remarked Gen. Anson Stager, “and I have been taught many things I never dreamed of in my philosophy, Horatio, and I am willing to admit we were all asleep to the business end of the telegraph in 1876, but it is coming now and the only rival of the telegraph will be Uncle Sam and his fast mail.

“New usages will constantly be made of the telegraph, new innovations instituted, a more modern system of delivery will be found and speed will be added to efficiency and accuracy.

“I remember when we thought gross earnings of seven millions were startling and it is hard to realize that the present figures show nearly ten times that amount. Well, good luck go with it,” and Gen. Stager took William Orton’s arm for a stroll down to nature’s canal, hard by.

The San Francisco boys sang, “It is a long way to California,” and it seemed evident that they wanted to talk more about California’s share in electing a president than ordinary shop talk.

“Do you think the company will further increase the boys’ salaries in California because that state elected the president?” asked Bob Hamilton.

“Well, they certainly should, because there is nothing too good for California,” replied Ed. Fleming, who was on hand with Thomas Reynolds, taking in the sights.

“Sure thing,” said Johnny Lowrey, who strolled in at this time. “You are right, there is nothing too good for a native son.”

“Gentlemen,” said President Baker, “there is only one thing that we cut out up here on the planet Mars, and that is all mention of politics. Religion we will discuss at any time, because we know that religion is nothing more than getting acquainted with your Maker.”

“Those are my sentiments, Mr. President,” said D. W. Knapp, who had just arrived on a late California express and who proceeded to shake hands with the old San Francisco friends.

“I have much to tell you of an interesting character,” said President Baker, “but I find that the California boys have taken away most of our audience to go down to the canal to see the sights, so we will call this meeting temporarily adjourned.”

CHAPTER VII.
ECHOES FROM GOTHAM

THE PLEIADES CLUB, of which so much has been written lately, seems to possess some value based upon the fact that it brings to the attention of the old and new-timers the names of former prominent telegraph people, those who excelled in the art of telegraphy and those who possessed qualities that made them shining marks in the eyes of their contemporaries. It is the intention of the author to cover those sections of the country where there were well-known members of the profession. Of course it must be remembered that the exceptional operators of ye olden days sooner or later gravitated to the large telegraph centers, such as New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, St. Louis, Boston, San Francisco and a dozen other cities which have housed at one time or another the brilliant operators of the past, those who have left their impress on the fraternity that will not be effaced for many generations to come. These old-timers have left their record in printers’ ink. The younger-timers, as they advance in years, become the old-timers of tomorrow. Thus history repeats itself.

The eastern coterie of members of the Pleiades Club without hesitation called upon Alfred S. Downer to preside over the gathering of the New York contingent. Manager Downer, who wielded the scepter of authority in the general operating room at 195 Broadway, New York, for so many years, was now on a level with those who worked the way wires in his office. His brother, David R. Downer, who was never known to utter a stronger swear word than “My stars,” was the assistant manager. He related that he had reprimanded hundreds of operators for making errors, then he himself was found guilty of putting down “Admiral Jones, Commander Nasty Yard, Brooklyn, N. Y.” He admitted that to the day of his retirement from the service this “Nasty” Navy error had haunted him. The incident was remembered by the old New Yorkers present, among them being Morris Brick, James H. Largay, David B. Mitchell, Leslie Bradley, J. H. Dwight, A. S. Brown, Thomas Kennedy, Thomas Dolan, Fred. W. Baldwin and many others. This last-named gentleman had fastened to his belt many practical jokes he had “pulled off” while on Earth. In fact, it was a dull day or busy one at the wires, whatever the case might be, when Fred. Baldwin failed to disturb the serenity of the otherwise calm atmosphere of the operating department with his mirth-exciting pranks.

Sometimes he was known as “Old Man Kav,” and it is to the credit of the latter that he coaxed every new arrival in the office to work extra the first day or night as the case might be for “Old Man Kav” without compensation. “Old Man Kav” may have been a myth but he was an expensive one to the new arrivals. There never was so much sickness or dire distress attached to anyone compared with the excuses advanced by “Old Man Kav” to work the new comers or rather introduce them to the New York fraternity, persuading them by carefully worded notes to work for him.

The New York force was large and it necessarily had its quota of cranks. When they became generally known as such their lives were made, to say the least, unhappy at times. John Lenhart frequently found the desk at which he worked fumigated with limburger cheese, but who performed the ceremony no one could ever find out.

Every new man on the force was instructed by note signed “Old Man Kav” to hand his worn-out pens and penholders to irritable Tom Kennedy, the wire chief, but to discover who issued such instructions was more than the office detective could find out.

No married operator in the New York force thirty or forty years ago was considered first-class until he had purchased in one of the suburban New Jersey or Long Island towns a home of his own. It was not a difficult task to him to figure how six good laying hens could yield a sufficient number of eggs, the profit on which would pay for his home in five years. One of these lightning calculating operators had drummed up quite a few customers for his fresh-laid eggs. He brought them to the office each morning, hid them away until noon, when he delivered them to his customers. It did not take long, “Old Man Kav” said, for him to size up the hen merchant’s tricks. He speedily made arrangements with a local egg dealer to furnish him with a few dozen eggs that had seen better days and some previous years. As the fresh eggs arrived each morning and the unsuspecting owner was busy at his wire, the old-time product was substituted for the strictly fresh variety. The reader can imagine the nature of the language that was exchanged during the following week between the embryo egg merchant and his customers, some of whom were officials of the company, more vividly than anything we can say. The office detective again failed to locate the guilty party and the egg merchant speedily went out of business.

Tom Finnigan, who barricaded the entrance to the operating department with his portly form, was a character different from anyone else that ever graced the New York telegraph ranks. His utterances were dry and crispy and served to keep the “good fellows” on the force supplied with ample material as a basis for their jokes. It was Tom’s duty to announce to the manager those at the door who wished to see him. One day a Texas operator was an applicant for a position. Tom reported his arrival to Manager Downer, who asked Finnigan if the fellow looked as though he was a good, fast telegrapher. Finnigan quickly responded “I think he is. He tells me he came up from Texas on a cyclone.” The manager, turning to Finnigan, said, “You have my authority to hire him.”

Chairman Downer was an attentive listener to all that had been said concerning his management and he nodded affirmatively as the old stories were retold.

It will be interesting to relate how the improvident telegraphers in the olden days spent their money. They were paid every Friday. With the extra work that was forced upon them they earned from $20 to $50 per week. On Friday night their suppers cost them two to three dollars; on Saturday night one and a half to two dollars and a half; on Sunday night a dollar to a dollar and a half; on Monday night from fifty cents to a dollar; on Tuesday night from twenty-five cents to fifty cents, and on Wednesday and Thursday nights, ten to fifteen cents. Frequently money had to be borrowed to pay for Thursday’s meal, but as the office boys could be depended upon for a “touch” the old-timers never went hungry.

The formalities were brought to a close to give the former New Yorkers an opportunity to greet their old employer.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE PLANET MARS ENJOYS A
TELEGRAPHERS’ TOURNAMENT

AS THE planet Mars has more than 600 days to its year, and as time is of no moment in that delightful abode, Washington’s birthday could be celebrated anytime convenient to the members of the Pleiades Club, and accordingly the telegraph tournament was scheduled to come off when all preparations were completed.

Such bustling, hurrying and skurrying was seldom witnessed on Earth and the telegraph man was in evidence everywhere. Visitors were apprised of what was in store and even the laity took a great interest in what was about to transpire. In addition to talent from the United States and Canada, there were applications from foreign countries of operators who had been noted in their profession in their respective lands.

The unanimous choice of a president was Fred Catlin, of New York, who demurred a little, as he hoped to be a participant or judge, but finally acquiesced, and was duly installed as president.

The committee of arrangements was composed of the following well known gentlemen:

R. H. Rochester, A. S. Brown, Dave McAneeny, J. H. Dwight, John Brant, Court Cunningham, Marion H. Kerner and D. Harmon.

The judges were composed of the following:

Madison Buell, G. W. Gardanier, W. B. Somerville, Belvidere Brooks, C. H. Summers, E. C. Cockey and J. C. Hinchman.

The usual exponents of “bug” and hand sending were present to demonstrate the advantages of their respective methods, but there were many present who had never heard of or seen the “bug” and were anxious to see its merits tested.

“I will be on hand with my first typewriter, constructed in 1868, and will undertake to show how I copied the president’s message that year,” said E. Payson Porter, and the Chicago members of the club applauded loudly.

“Yes, and I will bring my old register with me, that I used for so long when I was manager at Akron, Ohio, and show you how I copied so much which never came,” remarked ex-manager Allen, formerly of Akron.

“And I will give you an illustration how to read by the ‘back stroke,’” said W. H. Kelsey.

“All right, gentlemen,” interrupted Fred Catlin, “we will be glad to hear from all, but we have to get down to business and appoint several important committees to carry out this good work.

“In addition to the usual programme in such cases, there is also going to be an illustration of ‘ham’ sending, also a demonstration of a beginner at the key.”

At this juncture, two young men entered the room, each carrying a typewriter and a Martin vibroplex, similar to those used upon the terrestrial planet.

“We are going to give a preliminary exhibition of what the youngsters can do with a ‘bug’ and ‘mill.’

“To be sure, it does not require as much activity or muscle to telegraph nowadays as it did formerly, when we were compelled to make twelve to eighteen copies with a stylus.

“We are now in an entirely different class than we were formerly and the results are greater than they used to be.

“The operator of twenty-five years ago was necessarily, in some respects, the superior of the present generation, but he could not possibly turn out the work that is being performed daily and hourly by his latter-day brother with such ease and speed.

“While our younger brothers are getting their instruments in order, we will rig up a Morse set and have W. L. Waugh give us an illustration of his beautiful sending while William T. Loper will demonstrate how he used to take fourteen copies of manifold with a stylus in the olden days in St. Louis.”

“Yes, I used to see Billy Loper do this when I was night chief in St. Louis and he certainly did it well,” said Charles J. Lawson, who sauntered in from the rear, when he heard Mr. Loper’s name mentioned.

While the audience applauded the expected treat, Messrs. Loper and Waugh squared themselves for the fray.

Like shot poured into a funnel, clicked the dots and dashes, Mr. Loper methodically and with the greatest ease copying the perfect Morse with his favorite stylus on fourteen manifold sheets, in his own beautiful characteristic writing.