CHAPTER XIV.

TOM EDISON’S INVENTIONS APPLAUDED ON PLANET MARS

There is no way in which material things can be smuggled into the sacred precincts of the planet Mars. There is no gold, silver or paper money, and nothing to buy, even if one possessed the money, for there are no material pleasures or enjoyments in this delightful spot.

Everyone is on a higher and more ennobling plane and it is only the few who still thirst after the lusts of the flesh who are rendered unhappy, but these are not quite purged of their earthly desires.

It was announced upon the ever-ready bulletin board, viz., the bright firmament of Mars, by the usual magic touch of the wireless wand, that there would be an entertainment given at the Telegraphers’ Tabernacle, the chief feature of which would be a phonographic concert, to be followed by an exhibition of perfect Morse sending. There would also be an exhibition of “ham” sending and a rendition of a scene supposed to have taken place on “Old No. 4 East” upon Mother Earth in the early ’70s.

The records were made by George W. Conkling, the past master of rapid transmission, who very recently joined the Pleiades Club, and Secretary Moxon did not inform his audience how he acquired the records, believing his duties did not extend to giving out state secrets.

Many thousands gathered around to hear the music, and it was certainly worthy to note that the clamor was for the patriotic national anthems. When the “Star-Spangled Banner” was rendered, everyone arose to his feet, many so-called foreigners also, thus showing their respect and admiration for the flag.

This preliminary was the beginning of the real event of the entertainment, and when the dots and dashes came humming over the talking machine much enthusiasm ensued.

“Puts me in mind of the time when I worked the Kansas City duplex alongside of Ed. Foote, with Paul Bossert and Jim Delong at the other end,” said James B. Coulter.

“Yes, it sounds like the way Adam Beidler used to try and paste Emil Shape, on the first Milwaukee wire,” ejaculated Harry McGill, who was an interested spectator and listener.

“I really believe that this talking machine is the same as the one we see illustrated in Telegraph and Telephone Age, and which I was going to purchase just shortly before I took my long flight,” remarked Wm. H. Magehan, of St. Louis, a late arrival.

Selections from the talking machine were again in order, and each individual stated his preference of pieces to be played, and they were courteously taken care of.

Mike Tully asked to have “My Wild Irish Boy” played; Charlie Newton designated “My Old Kentucky Home” as his choice, and Lara C. Boone gave “St. Louis-Louis-Louis” as his favorite, all of which were rendered in the highest style of the art.

Joe Anderson, of Buffalo, would not be content until he had listened to “John Anderson, My Jo-John,” and Billy Thurman laughingly remarked that the occasion put him in mind of the summer evenings in Oregon along in 1883.

Everybody voted the entertainment a big success and all expressed a desire to have a repetition of the programme very soon.

Timothy Collins, who was one of the “Great 8” in Omaha, and who later became a guardian of the peace in Buffalo, passed up the sun-kissed walk, whistling “A Policeman’s Life is Not a Happy One,” and Court Cunningham suggested that record should be procured so Tim could get the right swing to the air, which suggestion was acceded to.

“These talking machines and the telegraph records beat those old harps we used to hear talked of in the Bible,” whispered Dick Tubman to his friend, Sam Cassidy, but the latter scouted the remark, declaring that the music of a jewsharp could not be excelled, and to verify his statement Sam gave a demonstration of an artist playing the jewsharp, which was received with applause.

“I don’t feel like criticizing your choice of music,” said John Leatch, recently of San Francisco, “but you really should turn back to the stirring melodies of California when they sang ‘Empty is the Cradle, Baby’s Gone.’”

“What a chestnut John Leatch has plucked,” echoed Captain James R. Dennis, as he smiled complacently at his old-time colleague.

“Get your partners for Lancer’s quadrille,” came in stentorian tones from the master of ceremonies pro tem, A. R. Pippitt, and many ladies, once familiarly known to the fraternity in Chicago, New York, St. Louis, Omaha, San Francisco and other places throughout the United States, joined hands with their brother operators and were presently whirling on the green sward to the sweet strains of Strauss’ Blue Danube waltz, which followed the more formal square dance.

The music was rendered by the miniature talking machine which had been entertaining the company all evening with songs, band melodies, telegraph records and now came in to be used for dance music.

It was surely a lovely scene and everyone in the vast assemblage had something nice to say about the great wizard of modern times, who has added so much, not only to the comfort of all mankind, but has found it practicable to have every household possess an instrument of joy forever, which will make life on the farm, the shepherd’s hovel, the Indian camp fire, in fact, every place in this vast world, more delightful by the music and delineations reproduced by the modern talking machine.

It was ascertained from Secretary Moxon that the latest advices from Mr. Edison showed he had retired to the top of Pike’s Peak, to be alone with nature and to solve some abstruse problems, and, understanding the vigils of the great inventor, Hankus Cowanus, a knight errant of the key, was detailed to signal the peak in hope of receiving some intelligence from him.

“You can’t do it,” said Fred Moxon. “Your sending never did carry from Chicago to Cincinnati, even in your palmy days. Just leave it to me and you will have an ‘extra’ out next week which will tell you Mr. Edison knows every desire of your little heart and he is going about his Father’s business.”

The matter was allowed to rest there and we will get more reports from these wonderful people later.