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.