Part 9

It would, perhaps, be too much to say that in this unusual show of attention Mr. Henry had hopes of bringing about a change in his mother’s estimation of his girl. But never doubt he had hopes, enduring hopes, that in riding the thing out something favorable would turn up. The way I had it in mind, Mr. Henry did not want to break with the family—nor did he have any intention of ever giving up his girl. This awkward situation made it inadvisable for him to bring her here.

One time, after I had gotten myself rather too deeply in the mining game for comfort, Mr. Henry told me that he also had, some years earlier, taken a flyer in mining with his old partner, Seth Handley, at Grass Valley, California. But when the conversation was terminated, I was of the opinion that he had, in fact, only put his sweetheart on ice, so to speak, for safe keeping against the time when the family winds might blow less raw. And had the Aristocratic Augusta Ann have passed on before the girl I think Mr. Henry, divorcee or no, would have cast his religion to the winds—as did The King.

Somehow, I don’t like the divorce angle.

Seth Handley’s sister died at the little mining town of Grass Valley, in California, where her brother was a prospector. Mr. Henry went to Omaha to meet the Union Pacific train bearing his old partner, Seth, and the remains on the way back east for burial. On his return home, Mr. Henry was visibly shaken. It was a sad day for him. Few people here ever knew just who it was that held such a strangle hold on Mr. Henry’s affections.

From my early association with Mr. Henry and Seth I got the impression that there was more between them than just being partners. Later, I had it from one or the other of them, maybe both, that the girl in the case was Seth’s sister. Their implement house and yard was just across the street from our home, down by the tracks, on “Smoky Row.” And though less than half their age, my mother said I was always under foot when they wanted to go about their work. The year was 1872. But if I were not under foot at the moment when Seth wanted to go hunting, he would come to the house and ask me to go along. He would shoot anything that could fly. And Seth remembered, years later. He sent his respects to me from Omaha by Mr. Henry. At that time I was “helping out” in the DeForest general store.

I suspect there were some things the aristocratic Augusta Ann did not know about her favorite son. While vacationing in Colorado Mr. Henry, with the Handley girl—who was supposed to be in California—rode horses on the trail to the top of Pike’s Peak. Miss Handley rode a sidesaddle, the ancient kind where the lady puts her left foot in the stirrup and throws her right leg over the left fork of the split pommel—and holds on for dear life. That was at a time when it was considered vulgar for a lady to straddle a horse. Also it was before the cog-railroad mounted the Peak, even before the time of the carriage road up the north side of the mountain.

Mr. Henry’s eyes sparkled when he told me it was a wonderful trip—one I should not miss—and though a little difficult coming down, especially for the ladies, he said he enjoyed it immensely. That was quite understandable. Love had come to Mr. Henry wrapped in trouble. Here now for a day at least he was bound by no thongs. Here, with the girl who was the most precious one in the world to him, his spirits could soar—unhampered, up to the clouds.

Under Mr. Henry’s oral guidance, I also made that trip all by my lonesome—that is, without my girl. Later, I went to the top again with THE Girl, and I can tell you there was a difference. We were in love, a maid and a man—intoxicated with the joy that only the first love of the young knows. And the clouds came down to where one could almost reach up and touch them—just as Mr. Henry had said they would.

I have learned, as doubtless Mr. Henry had learned, that the show spots in this old world of ours take on beauty and meaning when you have someone along—preferably THE ONE—to help you enjoy them. It’s truly a situation where two hearts can beat as one. And it’s worth a million to see the shine come into her eyes.

Might say here that it was while on an editorial junket to Colorado Springs—with THE Girl—that I made this great discovery. It was her first trip to the mountains, and the shine was in her eyes—big. I’m glad that memory holds the picture of the girl, who, in all her radiant loveliness, walked by my side all through that week with but one tiny shadow to flit across her faultless blue sky.

And while she had, with justification, came near showing temper one morning, when, in following the crowd, I had innocently led her away from the historic grave of Helen Hunt-Jackson, on the mountain above the Seven Falls, down the gravel slide, thereby ruining a pair of new shoes for her, she was still THE Girl that made all the difference. Compared with some of the other women who took the plunge, her squawk was mild indeed—and most ladylike. The well-dressed women in that day wore high kid shoes and silk stockings.

The gravel slide is—or was—about three hundred feet downslope from the grave, along the mountain at a left turn, where all join hands, stick feet in the gravel, stand erect, pulling first one foot up and then the other to avoid being swamped, while the whole mass slips away to the canyon several hundred feet below. And there you were—right at the trail, with the laborious climb down the seven flights of steps avoided.

The mutilation of those new shoes at a time like that was truly a disconcerting thing to befall the “perfect 34” girl—we had ‘em then—who had only the day before been declared the neatest dressed and most attractive woman in the editorial party. She had form, poise, personality—and a wonderfully good dressmaker. However, before the day was done, she evened the score—and gloried in it.

The Association members held their annual meeting in the parlors of the Alamo Hotel that evening, and through the courtesy of my good friend, Harvey Hyde, of the Holton Signal, I was nominated and elected vice-president. This gesture cost me. Any one of the editorial party could have testified that Mr. Harvey had joyously climbed down off the “water wagon” on his first trip to Oldtown—Colorado City — halfway between Colorado Springs and Manitou. That I was paying for the whisky without participating in the drinking thereof, I cannot deny. But if I should say that he never gave me as much as a smell of the stuff, I would not be telling the truth. By pre-arrangement, Harvey’s wife was sharing her room with my girl, and I wars sharing my room with Harvey—and there was nothing I could do about it. A bargain was a bargain—and neither of us had the faintest notion of welshing.

When the speech-making was getting dangerously close to the vice-president’s turn, I slipped out. Motivated by strictly personal interest, Mr. Harvey followed. And though I did, later, get away with the acknowledged best write-up of the outing, I couldn’t have said one word in that meeting, with the Pike’s Peak Press Club in attendance, for all of Cheyenne mountain, with the famous Seven Falls and the gravel slide thrown in—and THE Girl knew this.

Also, as it turned out, my girl carried off the acknowledged speech-making honors—following some very fuzzy ones. I never could understand why relatively smart people would insist on pushing the ill-equipped fellow out into the open. When the call came Major J. F. Clough, of the Sabetha Republican, president elect—the old piker had just delegated another to do his talking—said, “we must hear from the vice-president; someone please fetch him back in.”

The Major, who, incidentally, in partnership with Theodore J. Wolfley, established the Wetmore Spectator, in 1882, and therefore was a sort of godfather to my paper, looked over to where THE Girl was seated, with Mrs. Hyde and other women including his own daughter, Miss Bay. Then THE Girl raised her 118 pounds up to her full 5-6 height, in her scuffed shoes, saying, mirthfully, “He has gone out with Mr. Hyde. You’ll not see HIM again tonight.”

The applause, started by the ladies—all of whom had scuffed shoes, and instantly taken up by the men, all of whom had gotten from their women a neat and not a gentle telling off—was enough to frighten THE Girl. The shine having already gotten back into her eyes, THE Girl, in associating me as of the moment with Mr. Harvey, was actually trying to cover up for me for running out on them. But the inference, nevertheless, pointed toward Oldtown.

There were some in the party who were not bona fide editors—that had worked transportation through the newspapers. A Wetmore shoe merchant had made a deal with a county paper. The outing was a courtesy gesture of the railroad—principally the Rock Island.

Might say here that the next year—1892—the Association arranged with the Union Pacific for transportation to Salt Lake City, concluding the outing again at Colorado Springs—and it was almost a complete sell-out on the part of the newspapers. We were short ticketed to Grand Island, there to meet the through train carrying a Company representative who would ask us some questions about our papers, and supply us with passes for the round trip. When he came to me, after working pretty well through the cars carrying the “editors,” he laughed and said, “You are the second newspaperman I have found, so far.” I told him he should find at least one more who knew the password. My partner had been coached. Though not present himself, Ewing Herbert, of the Hiawatha World, was elected president. And though a mighty good newspaperman, he did not seem to have’ influence with the railroads. Our Association never got another complimentary outing. But, personally, I remained in good standing with the railroads, and got everything asked for—all told about 250,000 miles of free travel. In addition THE Girl—Miss Myrtle Mercer—had a Missouri Pacific pass, and Moulton DeForest, our proofreader, had one for nearly ten years. Newspapers do not get them so easily now—if at all.

Also, there were five girls in the Colorado Springs editorial party. The secretary, Clyde McManigal, of the Horton Commercial, had written the single editors telling them to bring their girls along—that the Association had arranged to have a chaperon look after them. The chaperon proved to be a grass widow, a newspaper owner in a nearby town—and right off she found herself a man. The fact that he was a married man, a shoe merchant from my home town, by the way, made no difference—not until they got home.

Mr. Henry had come to the Spectator office, bringing copy for a change of his advertisement, and tarried a few minutes to converse with me about our Colorado outing. I showed him the proof of my write-up. He said he would not take time to read it just then, but he marveled at the four fine wood cuts illustrating the Pike’s Peak trip—and marveled some more when I told him they were engraved right there in the office by my brother Sam.

Might add that editor Clough said in his paper, the Sabetha Republican, “The Wetmore Spectator has a genius in the office in the person of the editor’s brother, a wood engraver. Last week it published engravings of scenery about Pike’s Peak equal to any we have ever seen. They are true to nature and finely executed.” He said, further, “We also notice that nearly all the papers gave the Spectator credit for having the best write-up of the excursion.” Think maybe those engravings had influenced some of the decisions.

Might say that Sam became so good at it, that John Stowell, former owner of the Spectator, sought to get him a job with the Government in Washington—and he came very near doing it too. Stowell, an impulsive little Englishman, had the happy thought that as he was making his appeal for the boy direct to the Government, that a print of a ten-dollar bill would be an impressive sample. It was a lifesize masterpiece. Do I need tell you that Sammy’s Uncle Sam informed them that if they didn’t destroy that cut and all prints immediately, somebody would surely get a lasting job? Uncle Sam did, however, compliment Sammy on his work—said it was good, in fact, too good.

Mr Henry also had a few words with Alex Hamel, who, besides being the type-setter, was editor-in-chief during my absence. Henry said, “Ecky, I’ll bet you helped John write that one.” Alex—he was called Ecky by nearly everyone — said truthfully, “No—Myrtle did.” But Ecky had slipped in a few sentences about the authoress of “Ramona,” which bit of history had not appeared to the eye when I viewed the large pile of pebbles marking her grave.

Being the smarter man, Ecky got the credit for writing my best feature stories during our newspaper regime back in the 90’s. But Ecky died in 1899, and I’ve not been able to find a dependable ghost-writer to take his place. However, Ecky did write some really fine feature stories for the Spectator, using the pseudonym, “Xela Lemah” Alex Hamel spelled backwards. And Ecky was a poet, too. The following eight lines appeared, unsigned, in my paper, Sept. 1, 1893. It is one of many of Hamel’s poems that were widely copied by other papers and credited to the Spectator. To fully appreciate it now, the reader would have to know the then generally accepted panacea for bellyache. At that time an epidemic of “summer complaint” was going the rounds. Now, properly signed, this is the only injection of writings by another than myself to appear in this volume.

A Summer Idyl.

Jem. Aker Ginger is my name;

I have a way that’s takin’ —

My seat in summer’s in the lap

Of dear Miss Belle A. Aiken.

And Watt R. Melon is the chap

Who, by schemes of his own makin’,

Secured for me the stand-in with

My darling Belle A. Aiken.

—Xela Lemah.

As against Ecky’s classic eight lines, my own most widely copied writing consisted of only nine simple little words—words well put together, timely, and not wholly my own: “It once rained for forty days and forty nights.” It was a prolonged rainy spring, with farmers kept out of their fields so long as to cause much uneasiness. West E. Wilkenson, of the Seneca Courier, pronounced these nine words the best piece of writing coming from any of his contemporaries in many a day.

Brevity—saying a lot in few words—did it.

I do not mean to brag about this, for the item was largely a quotation, as any good Bible student would know. If I really wanted to brag, I would tell about the four times in one year my writings in the Spectator were selected and reprinted in Arthur Capper’s Topeka Daily Capital—maybe it was J. K. Hudson’s Daily then—as the best article of the week appearing in any of the four hundred newspapers in Kansas. Selecting and reprinting a best article was a weekly feature of the Capital for one year.

I “crowed” a little about it then, and P. L. Burlingame, a school teacher—principal of the Wetmore schools in the late 80’s and lawyer thereafter in partnership with his brother-in-law, M. DeForest, in offices across the hall from the Spectator office—said that I should have been content to let the other fellow “toot my horn.” But the Capital’s readers were not my readers—and I figured nothing was too good for the home folks. Always I write for the home folks.

Alex Hamel’s stories were more academically put together than anything I could write. Ecky was a school teacher. Also he was my very good friend. And it would be ungrateful of me not to acknowledge his able assistance — though his technique was rather too highbrow for my background, and I had to reject many of his literary buildups. Ecky’s writings were clothed in rhetoric and spiced with learned quotations, while I had to get along with bare limpy grammar. But then, in newspaper writing, it is not always academic learning that counts. However, it doesn’t hurt any—if one does not try to make it the whole show.

And moreover, one cannot get too much of it—if one learns at the same time to “carry it like a gentleman.” Firsthand knowledge of the matter one chooses to write about, when presented in an interesting and readable manner, even though devoid of the earmarks of higher education, always scores high.

For example, the late Ed. Howe, “The Sage of Potato Hill,” (his country estate), publisher of Atchison Daily Globe, and writer of numerous magazine articles, and a highly acclaimed novel, “The Story of a Country Town,” once told me that he had never studied grammar a day in his life. Like Mark Twain and Damon Runyan and Charles Dickens, Howe’s education really began when he entered his father’s newspaper office at the age of thirteen years.

Now, since I have brought the name of this successful author into this writing, I would like to tell you a little more about him—and his. Ed. Howe was the father of three noted writers. Jim Howe, now living on a ranch in California, was a top overseas correspondent throughout the first World War. Gene Howe is publisher of the Amarillo (Texas) Daily Globe—and a magazine writer. And Mateel Howe-Farnham wrote a book. Before writing her story, “Rebellion,” Mateel’s father advised her to select characters from real life. And this she did. It was said in Atchison that Mateel made her father the main character in her book; that she was a bit rough in her delineation—and that she painted the picture so well that everyone in Atchison knew without further telling. This may be true to a certain extent — but I hardly think a dutiful daughter would have gone the limit in portraying her father uncharitably. Ed Howe was my friend—and I don’t hold with those rumors. Doubtless, Mateel padded, and built her rebellious character into a personage that did not exist. But her “homey” line made the story. It was a big success. Mateel’s “Rebellion” won the $10,000 Bok prize—and become a best seller.

Mateel was living in New York City, while her father was in Atchison, Kansas—and thus widely separated they could not compare notes. Ed Howe was asked by Mateel’s publishers to write a foreword to the story. For this he got big pay—I believe the amount he received was fifteen hundred dollars for an equal number of words. I think also that the liberality of the publishers was influenced less by the Sage’s fine wording of his contribution than it was by his veiled admission that he had been flailed rather unmercifully by his daughter.

Here, I should maybe pick up a few hanging threads and backstitch a little. My entry into the newspaper field was purely accidental. Being a chum of the junior partner of Clough & Wolfley, who were preparing to launch The Spectator, Theodore Wolfley invited me to stick around — said I might learn something. Mr. Clough, obviously recognizing my need for it, observed “There’s nothing like a newspaper connection to bolster your education.”

Major Clough had brought along from Sabetha his foreman, George Fabrick, to get out the first few issues. Then, after Fabrick had gone back to Sabetha, a printer came over from Falls City—but Will Allen played pool most of the time while here. Allen stayed ten weeks, went home for a visit, and failed to come back. Then the “Devil” took over. It was as simple—and raw—as that.

The Spectator passed through several ownerships — Lawyer F. M. Jeffries, Don Perry, John Stowell, Curt and Marie (Polly) Shuemaker. I worked for all the separate owners—but there was a time between Jeffries and Perry that publication was suspended for over a year. The newspaper business in small towns was not very remunerative in those days. To keep going, the publisher often had to take up side lines, but Jeffries rather overdid the matter—and failed, even then. He made a pretense of keeping up his law practice, taught the Hayden school, walked three miles out and back, and, after a few week’s help from me, tried to do all the mechanical work, with only the help of his inexperienced wife.

The ownership had reverted back to Wolfley, and so remained, camouflaged, through the Perry regime, which also was of short duration. Perry was a good newspaperman — when sober—having conducted the Seneca Courier-Democrat for a number of years. Jake Cober, also of Seneca, was his first printer here.

One evening Don Perry came rushing up to the office—-that is, moving as swiftly as he could make the stairs, in his cups, otherwise very drunk, saying, “They are after me — I want to make you safe.” I had drawn no wages, and the amount due me was $127.00. He grabbed up a piece of yellow scratch paper and penciled a due bill for the amount, and said, “There now, my patient friend, you’re safe—that’s as good as gold,” with emphasis. And the surprising thing is that, though he could not have paid cash for another half-pint of booze, that yellow memento, regarded worthless, was indeed good as gold. But the payment would have fallen on my friend Wolfley—and that might have complicated matters between us. I decided to forget it—and went to Centralia to work for Bill Granger. And The Spectator went into suspension again.

Then, after I had worked as compositor on the Seneca Tribune, (with Wolfley again), the Centralia Journal, the Greenleaf Sentinel, the Atchison Daily Globe, the Atchison Daily Times, and the Kansas City Daily Journal—subbed for Harvey Hyde—I became owner of the Wetmore Spectator, buying it from Polly Shuemaker after Curt Shuemaker’s death, in December, 1890. And my education, so long neglected and retarded by circumstances, had now begun. Let me say here and now that I cherish the memory of Theodore J. Wolfley, from whom I derived, at an impressionable age, the still unshakable conviction that a newspaperman is a pretty good thing to be.

Not aiming to brag, I led the “pack” on the Atchison Daily Times with more type set in given time than any other printer. It was back in the 80’s when everything was handset. On learning that a new daily newspaper was to be launched in Atchison, I wrote to John N. Reynolds asking for a position as compositor. He replied that all cases had been filled. He said he liked the tone of my letter, and maybe there would be an opening later. I went down to Atchison anyway the day before the first issue was to come out. Reynolds said he wished I had applied earlier; that he had been told by a Globe printer—probably Charley Gill or “Doc” Tennal—that I was a swift, printer’s term for a fast type-setter. After a little more conversation, he said, “Come back here tomorrow morning—if any one of the printers fail to show up a 7 o’clock, you shall have his case.” A printer who had the night before celebrated on the prospect of a new job, came in five minutes after I had gone to work.

And while I made more money than ever before, setting bravier type—(8-point now) at 30 cents a thousand ems, had I known in advance the low character the Times proved to be, I think I should have let that disappointed celebrant have his case. Conducting his paper on something like iconoclastic order; not exactly image smashing, but unquestionably an attacker of shams—I am now thinking of “Bran’s Iconoclast,” published at Waco, Texas, about that time — Reynolds dug deeply into the private lives of Atchison’s truly great.

A prominent Atchison banker was reportedly out gunning for the editor. The Times office was in a large second floor room on the south side of Commercial street. An open stairway, the only entrance to the printing office, came up from below in the rear of the building. Reynolds, facing the stairway, always with a six-shooter tucked in his belt, worked at a flat-top desk halfway between the head of the stairs and the printers’ cases against the windows in the front end. It was watchful waiting for the eight printers.