He Never Came Back.
Whilethe writer was on a long journey recently he was often entertained by his old friends at their commercial clubs or other hospitable resorts and an evening of genuine enjoyment was always sure to ensue.
At Ashland, Oregon, Frank Routledge, the genial manager of the Western Union Telegraph Company tendered a smoker, at which were present some 30 telegraph and ex-telegraph men, all glad to get together for an evening.
Story telling was in order, and as most of the guests present had traveled a good deal in their time, the tales told covered every known topic.
“I’d like to know something about ‘Bogy,’” exclaimed George Eubanks, an erstwhile telegraph man and now a banker of Ashland. “I have heard so much about ‘Bogy’s’ great ability, but have never heard it corroborated. Can anyone present tell me if it is really so that he could copy 50 words behind, all night?”
“Bogy” was a character whose real name was Henry Bogardus, and he was one of those itinerant operators who are never content to remain in any one place more than a week. He made annual pilgrimages to the Pacific, and in his peregrinations would become acquainted with most every railroad operator on the roads that he traversed. “Bogy” had a way of convincing these humble knights of the key that he was a most extraordinary operator which impression assisted him materially in evading the inter-state commerce bill.
It was up to the writer to tell a story about “Bogy,” as he had seen him later than any of the rest of the assemblage.
About the year 1893, “Bogy” arrived in Portland, and straightway appealed to the telegraph manager for a loan of $1, which was speedily forthcoming, for nobody could refuse “Bogy.”
An hour or so later, he repaired to the operating room, where he sat down to the Walla Walla wire, proceeding to get off business on the double quick.
“Who sent for you and what’s your name?” queried the chief operator.
“Oh, that’s all right, young fellow, I’m Bogy, and I refer you to our manager,” and the imperturbable artist proceeded sending to Walla Walla.
The manager informed the chief that “Bogy” was all right, that if he did no good he would do no harm, and to let him continue his work.
“Bogy” worked all day and evening and clear up into the night, only stopping when there was nothing left for him to do.
The soft side of a bench was a tempting bed for this weary traveler, and, as he liked to sleep near the tick of the telegraph instruments, permission was granted him to take the bench into the battery room.
Several days slipped by, “Bogy” working night and day. He certainly enjoyed working; it was a pastime with him.
Saturday came, and with it the usual pay-day and “Bogy” received his emoluments with the rest of the men.
“I want you on at 6 P. M. tonight,” said the chief operator, “you will take the Associated Press news tonight.”
“I’ll be here when the clock strikes 6 and I’m going to show you something in the line of telegraphing the like of which has never been performed here before,” and “Bogy” assumed a very important air.
He was on hand promptly and sat down to the San Francisco wire, where Billy Williamson was displayinghis musical Morse. It was coming very fast, but beautiful as an opera to listen to.
Picking up the manifold sheets, he discovered the carbons were not straight and he began to adjust them, San Francisco sending right along.
“I say,” began the night chief, “when are you going to start in to copy? You are now 100 words behind.”
“Cease from annoying me, I often copy 300 and 400 words behind. Now, just wait till I locate my stylus and I’ll show you what no other man can do,” and “Bogy” began a search for the missing article.
Williamson had now sent two full sheets and the night chief was very nervous fearing an unlooked for denouement, but “Bogy” was impassive.
The missing stylus was at last found and “he” squared himself for his grand feat, much to the relief of the very much excited night chief. Fully 400 words had now been sent but “Bogy” looked wise.
“I say, my boy,” addressing the night chief, “I’m going out for a few minutes, but let him send just the same. I’ll keep it all in my head till I get back, and when I return you will see something in the way of telegraphing that you never dreamed of before.”
Saying this, “Bogy” went out into the dark and—never returned.