Part 13

One of the “boys” got gloriously drunk—and bragged a little. The Prohib and the Drunk met in the middle of the main town square. There were a lot of people on the street. Ed Cawood, quite young then, is the only one now living that I recall. The Drunk struck at the Prohib, missed, and fell flat in the street. He had to have help to get up.

Years later, I heard a brother of the Drunk, a highly respected, and ordinarily very truthful man, in telling the story, say that his brother (called by name) beat the Prohib up scandalously. You can’t rely on what the old fellows tell you. You’ve got to know it—or let someone who does know it, tell it. Hearsay, after it passes through a generation is not reliable.

Here I wish to say that, except the grain business, the sidelines enumerated herein were acquired from the long established agency of S. C. Shuemaker, at the same time I bought the newspaper after his death, and that I was not butting in on anyone’s prior rights. Also, I want to say that the ones having those unreasonable notions, had axes to grind.

However, a committee came over to my office, and asked me to join them in Moulton’s office. I gave them $1.00 membership fee, and noted the freshly written by-laws calling for an additional dime for each and every time I might be absent from the regular Thursday night meeting. Keep this in mind.

The members who had no axes to grind were pretty decent. They felt the need of something to counteract the inroads the Goff merchants were making on the local merchants’ business, and decided that a full front-page write-up in The Spectator was desirable. It was promised for the second week ahead. Nothing was said about paying for this service—and no payment was expected.

Henry DeForest told those dominating members that they were acting like spoiled children, or worse—imbeciles. It is really surprising to what absurd lengths some fairly just people will sometimes go in trying to force their will upon others.

Now, Thursday night was always a busy night with us — but it was doubly so the next Thursday night. The Board fellows decided that they could not wait two weeks for the write-up, and asked me to advance it one week. I told them that we would accommodate them it we could get Mr. Abbott to reduce his space, or forgo the advertisement altogether. Mr. Abbott would oblige. And this was the straw that ultimately broke the spinal column of the Board of Trade.

Our full office force burned the midnight oil that Thursday night—and then some. The Board members trudging up to Moulton’s office could have looked in on us and seen that we were having no picnic. But, by golly, we were a little proud of our accomplishments, hoping it would please. And it did. The thing that caused me to lose faith in the Board was that paltry dime assessed against me for missing the meeting.

The prime purpose of the Board was to locate an outside man in the grain business here, backed up by a stronger purpose of one of its members to sell an old canning factory building to be converted into an elevator:—plus one up-and-coming young doctor who was crying for an opposition paper, with political slant. The business was delegated to a committee of four—the canning factory owner, a relatively new doctor, and two other men.

At this time doctors, after petty politicians, were the bane of the local papers. It was considered by the profession unethical for them to advertise—yet, too often, they craved top newspaper recognition when only minor mention or none at all was due. The case in hand was the third, with as many different doctors, with which I had to contend—in every instance for what the paper failed to say about them, or what it did say about some other doctor. But I want to say that our old reliables, Dr. J. W. Graham, and Dr. Thomas Milam, did not fall into this category.

However, the cases I had t o deal with were really mild — mild indeed to the one which threatened to do mayhem, or worse, to the whole office force, when I was printer on T. J. Wolfley’s Spectator. A doctor who had come down from Granada and located in Wetmore, sent word that he was going to pay us a visit at 10 o’clock of a Saturday morning for the express purpose of cleaning out the whole office. The offending item was a week old, and the demanded retraction in Friday’s paper had, as viewed by the Doctor, added “insult to injury.”

Theodore Wolf ley really enjoyed a scrap—and managed to have something on tap nearly all the time. He represented one faction of the local Republicans, and Moulton DeForest, when not a pronounced Prohibitionist, essayed to control another faction. The Doctor, a husky farm-bred boy in the Granada neighborhood, now on honored citizen of Wetmore, was a rantankerous Republican allied with the De-Forest faction—until he switched to the Populist party without losing any part of his rantankerous attributes.

Anticipating in advance the proposed call from the Doctor, Wolfley procured a revolver, and he and I practiced shooting the thing in the office, from a distance of ten feet, with target pinned on the leg of the imposing stone. He never hit the target once, but he broke a window pane all of two feet above the stone. He always shut his eyes and flinched before pulling the trigger.

I was supposed to be stationed at the imposing stone, in pretense of performing my regular duties, with iron side-stick—a lethal weapon when expertly wielded—in readiness for my part of the defense, if, and when, the Doctor might extend his belligerence thus far.

The printing office at that time was over the old Morris store on the north side of the main street. A stairway went up on the outside, with turnback to the front porch above. At the appointed hour, heavy feet pounded on the stairs. I had all of one minute in which to visualize my precarious position. With each step on the stairs my nervousness mounted. The irate intruder would of necessity be stationed somewhere between the editor and his foreman. The thing that worried me was my boss’ unpredictable marksmanship.

But it was not the Doctor’s heavy feet on the stairway. He had sent his understudy, Joe Eyman, who also was a husky bigfooted farm-bred boy from up in the Granada neighborhood. Joe fixed matters so that the Doctor and the Editor could talk it out between themselves. And in good time Joe became eligible to write MD after his own name. He then married Hattie Smarr, and they went to Sundance, Wyoming, to hang out his shingle. She was known in later years, in Wetmore, as Mrs. Stalder.

I am not sure if the belligerent Doctor’s grievance was professional or political. Probably the latter—but I do know that he was touchy in a professional way, for he later accounted for one-third of my unfavorable experience with doctors, as earlier mentioned in this writing. His successor in the Granada field had sent in by our Granada correspondent, a dollar’s worth of advertising, in the form of a personal, which had piqued the Old Doctor, causing him to do a bit of rantankerous snorting at me. But I did not rush out and buy a gun. I used the weapon I already had. The paper ignored him—and that whipped him into line in about one year. And he was ever after that my friend—with full ‘appreciation of the silent power of the press. He was a good doctor, and a good fellow—when he was good.

As Populist crusader, the Doctor was a success. His advertised meetings drew big crowds. He always brought in a principal speaker. One time he had two billed for the same night—”Sockless” Jerry Simpson and “Peruna” Jerry Botkin—but he got Mary Ellen Lease, instead. The Doctor and his two very fine little girls, Bertha and Belle, led the singing. The Doctor himself was not a noted vocalist—but he bore down heavily on the refrain of his favorite Populist song, “Turn The Rascals Out.”

Also, let me add that any time the editor of a local paper lets the politicians handle him, he is going to be woefully out of luck. Politics was dirty then. If an editor was a Republican, he was expected to engage in mud-slinging, shying the muck at all and sundry Democrats, regardless of their standing as citizens. The mere favorable mention of Republican candidates was not enough. And if he were true blue, he must keep up a barrage against editors of Democratic papers, and vice versa, a sort of nonsensical exchange of blasts. I steadfastly refused to be drawn into their political scraps. They called me a “mugwump.” But Gov. E. N. Morrell said—put it in writing—that inasmuch as I had succeeded in keeping my political skirts clean that I was a high-minded Republican. My hardest task was to hold down a brilliant and goshawful sarcastic local politician who wanted to engage in muck-raking, over the assumed name “Samantha” in my paper.

Politics was something to be shunned by me—that is, from a business standpoint in connection with the publication of the newspaper. I once went over to Edgerton, in the Missouri hills beyond Rushville, to investigate an offer of $1,000 bonus for the establishment of a newspaper. I struck the town at a time when a teachers’ convention was being held there. The banker, who was on the committee welcoming the teachers, was also on the committee pulling for the paper, and he had arranged the appointment with me. Mistaking me for a professor, he gave me a hearty handshake, and welcomed me along with the teachers getting off the same train. When I got up town, I called at his bank—and was “welcomed” again.

“What’s your politics?” he asked.

“Republican,” said I.

“Your train leaves in one hour,” said he.

I did not know Missourians as well then as I do now. The banker laughingly said, “Stick around awhile—I will talk the matter over with you when I get a moment’s time.” He told me that there were only two Republicans in the township; that I could run the paper as an Independent until election time, and then I would be expected to be a good Democrat—a real old “Missouri Mossback” and no foolin’, I think the order would have been. I judged they did not want a newspaper. They wanted a political “organ.”

On invitation of the banker, I attended a meeting in the school house, which was set in a natural oak grove — and met many sociable and interesting people. In the gathering, there were a lot of pretty girls—and all in all, it looked to me as if it would be a swell place for a young fellow to settle down. But—while I wouldn’t know why I was a Republican, I couldn’t pretend to be something that I was not.

A young doctor from Goff had come here to make his professional start. He first took his old schoolmate, Ecky Hamel, to task for calling him by his given name, demanding that he be addressed as “Doctor.” Ecky had gravitated from country school teacher to printer and reporter, and thought he himself was some pumpkins, too. But I don’t think this was held against the Doctor when Ecky wrote the five-line item that touched off the explosion—caused the Doctor to whoop-it-up for a competing paper.

The offending item merely said that “Dr. Jermane of Holton, who had operated on Lyman Harvey here last week for appendicitis, had died of a like operation at Holton this week.” A Philadelphia lawyer could have found no fault with this—but the local doctor thought it was a reflection on his professional ability. Knowing that he had brought the Holton doctor here to do the job, and knowing also that the local doctor had been duly recognized in the item reporting the Harvey operation, I thought he had no kick coming — and let it go at that. And anyway, Mr. Harvey had also died of his operation.

The complaining doctor was a hustler, socially a good fellow, very much on the way up in his profession, when a catastrophic repercussion reduced him to the level of the ice-man. As attending physician, he had brought into the world an illegitimate child whose birth was a great embarrassment for its little mother and the maternal grandparents. And on a subsequent call at the country home he discovered the child was missing. I am not familiar with the details at this stage of the affair, but rumor had it that the doctor turned sleuth and dug up the fact that the child was buried in the back yard.

The home folks, older members of the family, contended that it had died of natural causes—pneumonia, I believe. The doctor was wholly within his rights when he reported the matter to the authorities—but he did not prove an apt witness in court. Two older doctors from the north part of the county, combined and “proved” in effect, on the witness stand that the young doctor did not know enough about such matters to make a case.

In the ice business in a southern Kansas town the fellow made good. And though the “injured” doctor had kept on whooping-it-up for a competing paper until he did, with the help of some disgruntled politicians, put me out of the newspaper business, I’m glad to say he was not one to carry a grudge beyond the time of its actual usefulness to him. Just for old friendship’s sake, he wrote me from the office of his artificial ice plant—owned jointly with his brother—complimenting me on one of my articles in W. F. Turrentine’s Spectator. This note on the background of the doctor is given here for reasons which will appear later.

J. W. Coleman, publisher of the Effingham New Leaf, having conceived the idea that a string of local papers along the Central Branch, would be the motive power to land him in a fat political job, came here to negotiate with me for the Spectator. My paper was not for sale. The doctor and the political boys combined to persuade Mr. Coleman that a second paper would be preferable. It would seem the MD and PB’s did not want to crush me on the spot—or maybe it was their idea of one huge joke to let me die a slower death. In either event, it was the wedge that pried me loose from The Spectator. I sold to Coleman. I did not permit this to cause me to break with the Doctor and my political friends — as there was the outside chance that they might have been misquoted by the over-anxious purchaser. And then, too, it was not long before I really liked it. It afforded me time to give my full attention to other more congenial matters — for getting married, for instance. The wife said it was a great stroke of good luck for me.

I had weathered one brief, and I may say clean siege of competition, which had proved that the town was not large enough to support two papers. P. L. Briney, with his two daughters, Bertha and Olive, wholly on their own—that is, without MD’s or PB’s moral support—established and published the Enterprise for about one year. Unable to make a go of it, Mr. Briney sold the whole outfit—exclusive of the girls, of course—to me for $125, his first asking price.

Mr. Coleman did not last long enough here to do the political boys any good. He got off on the wrong foot in an early issue. He attended a recital given by Edith McConwell’s music pupils—and ridiculed it. Our people did not like to have their kiddies ridiculed—nor their music teacher either, who was once a kiddie here herself. However, after a few issues by Coleman, Art Sells, also of Effingham, took charge, and gave the people—not the politicians—a very satisfactory paper. Coleman gave up his political aspirations, sold his two papers, and took the job of City Editor for the Atchison Daily Globe. However, Coleman’s successor, W. F. Turrentine, held forth twenty years longer than the fourteen years that I had published the Spectator before giving up the ghost about five years ago. The idle plant is still in Wetmore.

To give a clear picture of the grain situation I should explain that Mr. Baker, of the Greenleaf-Baker grain firm, of Atchison, had asked me why would it not be a good idea for me to build an elevator here? I told him that I did not think there would be business enough, from year to year, to justify me in so doing—which, I might say, was a fact fully demonstrated in later years. I pointed out that with the large feeding interests here; and in the north territory, particularly at Granada, where the Achtens sometimes bought as much as one hundred thousand bushels of corn for feeding cattle and hogs; that practically all the south territory was in pasture land; and with two elevators at Goff and- two at Netawaka, we could hardly expect to draw trade away from them without making costly inducements, as we were now doing in our track buying.

Mr. Baker said, “Well, then, I’ll build one for you. It will save you paying a premium to get the corn, and make it more convenient for you to handle it.”

I think the Board members did not know this at the time of organizing. But the committee, composed of the man who had a canning factory building to sell, and the doctor who wanted a competing newspaper with political slant, both uncompromisingly for the Goff man, and two other men who had a tendency to view things in their proper light, met with a representative of the Greenleaf-Baker firm in ‘the opera house here. The spokesman for the committee told Frank Crowell, Mr. Baker’s brother-in-law, and member of the firm, that they preferred to locate their man Reckeway, because it would bring another family to town and consequently make a bit more business for the local merchants. Mr. Crowell told them that we would like to have their friendship and co-operation—but, regardless of whether or not they located Mr. Reckeway, that his firm positively would build the elevator as planned. The two silent members on the committee packed power enough only to delay action.

As it is now all water over the dam, with not even a trickle of cankerous aftermath, it is not my purpose to show up the old Board of Trade boys in a critical light—but it was evident that they were not being guided by the Golden Rule. They knew the Greenleaf-Baker people were going to build an elevator, when they located their man. They knew also that in normal crop years there would hardly be business enough here to sustain one elevator. As a sort of excuse for them pulling for the Goff man, the spokesman said to me, “You know, if we don’t get our man located this year, we may never get an elevator. We have never had a corn crop like this before, and we may never have another one.” It was not strictly a Christian act—and I suspect they never had any regrets for having turned the trick. It was apparently their way of building up the town—and, incidentally, securing a buyer for an old canning factory building.

The Canning Company, a local organization, having failed to bring in the expected returns, and having accumulated debts in excess of its ability to pay, had liquidated, the building going to the highest bidder, one Theodore Wolfley by name—uncle of Editor Theodore Wolfley. Then, later, it was planned by the holders of the worthless canning factory stock—and others—to try to recoup their losses by the establishment of a cheese factory, with an eye on the old building as a prospective site. It was then that the present owner hopped out and bought the old canning factory building, hoping to turn a neat profit. But the cheese factory promotion fell by the wayside. It was then patent to the purchaser that he had over-played his hand. Knowing these facts, one can better understand his sudden anxiety for an elevator—for the good of the town.

Their prospect, W. M. Reckeway, who had been operating the Denton elevator at Goff, likely misunderstanding the Committee, gave out an interview in the Goff Advance, saying that they had bargained for the Worthy dump, and that it was his intention to build a modern up-to-date elevator in Wetmore, but J. T. Bristow had slipped in and bought it away from them—the inference being that the good people of Wetmore who had longed for an elevator for lo these many years, would now have to take what they could get—something less than would have been the case had Bristow behaved himself.

Had this been true—the way I look upon such matters — it would have been both shrewd and legitimate business on my part, though it would have left an ominous smirch on Mr. Worthy. But it was far from the truth. The Board Committee had not bargained for the Worthy dump.

As has been pointed out, the Greenleaf-Baker Grain Company had already planned to build an elevator here for my convenience, as a shipper—but of course the company was not in the market for the old canning factory building. My Company, as well as their prospect—not the Committee — wanted a better location. Mr. Baker instructed me to buy the Worthy dump, solely for the location.

Knowing the canning factory owner like a book, I did not even suspect that they would consider the Worthy location. And as a matter of fact, the Board Committee apparently did not want the Worthy dump—only, at any rate, as a last resort. When I called on Mr. Worthy, he said, “I’ve given the Board of Trade fellows an option on it for $200, good until noon today. Come back here promptly at twelve o’clock. Now don’t wait until after dinner,” he warned. The Committee went to Mr. Worthy after one o’clock, asking for an extension of the option. That old canning factory was still in the way. And the owner did not exactly pat me on the back, but looked as if he wanted to when he learned that I had bought the Worthy dump. I did not get the doctor’s reaction to this—but I do know that, though we continued on friendly terms—we never had any clashes — he continued to “harp” for a competing paper, with political slant.

Mr. Reckeway, being handy with hammer and saw, converted the old canning factory building into an elevator in time for the fall business. The people, including the Board of Trade boys, had an erroneous notion that an elevator operator could pay more for corn than the track buyer, and while the reverse is true, they had located their man with this belief. Then that new man did give me a merry chase—in fact he put me completely out for a spell. He paid more for corn than I could get for it. How come? Well, the BT boys gave credit to the old canning factory. They were wrong of course.

It may be a little early to bring this in—but Mr. Reckeway was making some profit on the sale of a carload of flour he had brought in, but he could not count on a repeater in this line, for he had already been told by the canning factory vendor—who sold flour in his general store at substantially higher prices—to cut it out. It was made plain to the fellow that he had not been brought here to compete With the home merchants.

I’ll get around to aft explanation of how and why Mr. Heckeway bid up the price on corn—but this seems the opportune time to slip in a line about the entry of a business which led all competition. And lo, the man was from Goff, the town which had furnished me a competitor in the grain business, and a politically minded doctor who wanted a competing paper—and ironically enough, the town whose advertising merchants, C. C. Abbott, John Wendell, and George Bickel, were the thorns that had been pricking the Board of Trade boys’ sensitive hides.

Mr. C. C. Abbott, the live merchant—the man whose advertisements in my paper had given so much concern at the Board of Trade’s first meeting, and was the cause for that elaborate write-up, had moved in on them with a complete new stock of general merchandise, locating in the old Stowell brick building, the present Catholic recreation hall.

Now, let ‘em kick!

The energetic efforts of the dominating member of the Board Committee to close a deal for the sale of that old canning factory building had, unwittingly of course, also paved the way for the entry of some live competition for himself.

Mr. Abbott became my best advertiser. Legitimate, too. He paid, in trade, three to five cents a bushel premium for ear-corn, and turned it to me at the market price. Also, there was a general come-down of prices in the other stores. Now was I, or was I not, working for the best interests of the town?