From the March, 1927 issue of Erie Railroad Magazine:
Some months ago Henry J. Dickinson, of Burlingame, Calif., while in the office of John A. Lloyd, in the Monadnock building, San Francisco, "ran across" a copy of a recent issue of the ERIE RAILROAD MAGAZINE. Because he was many years ago an "Erie employe" he was interested in the magazine and now is a regular reader of it and says he "likes it."

Mr. Dickinson is resident agent of the Fire Association of Philadelphia, with office at 307 California drive, Burlingame, Calif. In writing to us he says: "I was one of E.H. Space's clerks in the joint office of the Erie and Atlantic & Great Western railroads, at Salamanca, N.Y., from early in 1879 to December, 1881, when I was appointed division clerk on the Erie's Buffalo and South Western branch under Superintendent Charles A. Brunn. Stayed with 'C.A.B.' until some time in 1887 when I left the Erie service."

Mr. Dickinson says that the sight of the ERIE RAILROAD MAGAZINE "crowded his mind with memories of the long ago," and he is thus led into reminiscence:

BY HENRY J. DICKINSON
There was very little of the romantic about life in Salamanca, N.Y., back in the early eighties (Mr. Dickinson writes), but occasionally some skit helped to lighten the dull routine of our daily duties. I can recall such an incident.

In the Salamanca freight office one of the senior clerks had a habit of wearing while at work one of the most ancient and disreputable-looking hats the sun ever shone upon. This hat was the source of jests and of considerable irritation to all of us, including the agent, who finally gave two of the "boys" permission to use their own judgment in getting rid of it.

It was the senior clerk's practice to hang his "indoor" hat on a convenient peg near his desk when he went home for lunch, and one day, after he had gone, the two conspirators brought in some of the rankest limburger cheese to be found in Cattaraugus county, and cut it into thin strips with which they lined the sweatband of the ancient "tile." Then the office force went out to lunch. When they came stringing back they found the senior clerk had not yet returned; but the hat was there as large as life on the peg and the stench was there, accentuated by the blazing heat of a midsummer day. After a while the senior clerk strolled in, half an hour late. He knew from the overpowering smell what had happened, but he never "turned a hair." Calmly he went to his desk, calmly he reached for the hat, calmly adjusted it to his crown and hitched up his chair and settled down to work, though the sweat rolled down his face in streams.

There was an interval of awe-struck, suffering silence, then there was a rush to the offender's desk, the hat snatched from his head and taken to the platform and burned.

That was the end of that particular hat and of the indoor hat habit. In any mention of the subject afterward, the old man would have it, though, that the "joke" was really on the "boys," and I have always thought he was right.

In the early eighties the general freight agent of the Erie Railroad was R.C. Vilas, one of the two famous "Vilas brothers," the other being H.C. Vilas, of Buffalo. I remember R.C. Vilas well, the more so perhaps of an incident in which I was personally concerned while at Salamanca.

The door leading into the A. & G.W. freight house at Salamanca opened inward, there being no room for it to swing clear of traffic on the platform outside. One day Mr. Vilas, on his way west on No. 3, jumped off the train to see the local agent. Mr. Vilas was in a great hurry and had just pushed the freight house door when something happened. Another clerk and myself at the moment were on the inside of that door, the clerk had a "nasty" corn and I had stepped on it, and he had given me a violent shove against the door, so that when the general freight agent of the Erie Railroad was in the act of entering the door he was struck "head-on" and hurled sprawling on his back on the platform. A traveling bag in his hand went rolling across the platform, and as it rolled it flew open and the contents littered the platform�papers, toilet articles and clothing. Of course we rushed out, helped him to his feet, picked up his scattered belongings and said we were very sorry. Happily for us, the train was leaving and there wasn't time for him to say much, but it was certainly "one sweet miss."

A year or so later, on my way east from California, I ran on Mr. Vilas at Cheyenne, Wyo. He had also been to California and was waiting at Cheyenne for repairs to be made on the private car in which he traveled. As we met, he knew me at once, saying, "You're the young fellow who knocked me out at Salmanaca." Of course, I admitted it and explained the circumstances, and in graciously accepting my apology he remarked, "The thing that perhaps upset me more than anything else that day at Salamanca was the loss of my toothbrush," which article we two "scared" clerks had not been able to retrieve before No. 3 pulled out.

In many trips across the continent during the last forty years I have rarely failed to meet some former Erie Railroad men -� some of them prosperous business men, long since retired from railroad service; others well known politicians, and still others "caught on the flywheel" of circumstances and still in the railroad "game" in one capacity or another.

In the first-named class is A.W. Stead, who came to California many years ago and established what is now a profitable undertaking business, for people do die out in this glorious country, reports to the contrary notwithstanding. I did not meet Mr. Stead until I came here from Buffalo a couple of years ago. He is a well known citizen, with large property interests, and in excellent standing.

About 1882 or 1883, a year or so after I entered the Erie's employ at Salamanca, Mr. Stead was a freight brakeman on the Newburgh branch of the Erie. He tells me the following story:

"About 1869 Van Brown was station agent and postmaster at Craigville, Orange county, N.Y., the first station north of Greycourt, on the Newburgh branch. Brown was a farmer who had a hair lip and lisped. Two of the passenger conductors running opposite to each other were Furman and Flint. Hugh Williams was the engineer who "pulled" Furman. Williams also had a hair lip, but neither he nor Brown had ever met and neither knew the other's personal infirmity.

"One day Williams was at work under his engine, fixing an eccentric, and not in very good temper, either. Brown had a date in Newburgh that morning and was in a hurry to get there, and seeing Williams under the engine ran up to him and said, 'How mu-mu-much longer will it be be-be-before the train will leave for New-New-Newburgh?'

"That was more than Williams could stand on top of his engine troubles, so he grabbed a wrench and out he twisted from under his engine, mouthing and stuttering until he fairly frothed, and yelling, 'You blankety-blank pup; if you m-m-mock me, I'll kill you,' he chased Brown round and round a woodpile, and when he couldn't catch him threw the wrench at him and also sundry pieces of wood and stones. Finally Williams was quieted and Brown, pale as death, took refuge in the train, saying, 'I didn't know that engineer had such an affliction as that.'"

A.W. Stead while on the Erie belonged to Lodge 146, Brotherhood of Railway Trainmen. After leaving the Erie he established the Keystone Burial Co. in Jersey City, N.J.

In the days before the United States had become gridironed with a network of railroads, the names of many managers and business "go-getters" of the great railroad properties became household words. Take the Erie in the eighties: Hugh J. Jewett, president and receiver; George R. Blanchard, vice-president; John N. Abbott, general passenger agent; E.S. Bowen, general superintendent; R.C. Vilas, general freight agent; Oliver Chanute, chief engineer, the same Chanute who designed one of the great railway bridges across the Mississippi river and later was one of the country's pioneer aviators; B. Thomas, superintendent of transportation for the Erie,'and later the chief operating official of the Chicago & Western Indiana Railway. At one time or another I met them all, and also others whose names I cannot at the moment recall. These men were among the "giants" of the railroad world. The one man among those named with whom I was best acquainted was E. S. Bowen, for some years the general superintendent of the Erie and before his retirement, from ill health, the third or fourth vice-president.

Mr. Bowen was a handsome, distinguished looking man, erect in carriage, of soldierly bearing, immacculate in dress, of grave and dignified demeanor, yet the soul of genial hospitality when he chose to be. He had two sons; one long since passed away, the other, E.I. Bowen, well known division superintendent of the Erie, a true son of his sire and, I am glad to say, a lifelong friend of the writer.

Here is a little story told to me years ago by a nephew of E.S. Bowen about Hugh J. Jewett, and I give it here simply as a sidelight on the character of Mr. Jewett, one of the best known railroad executives of his time, a scion of a famous colonial family, an Ohio lawyer, a representative in congress and in one national campaign seriously considered as good "timber" for the democratic presidential nomination.

One summer Mr. Jewett went to Europe for a holiday with a small group of Erie officials, including E.S. Bowen, his nephew, William A. Simpson, of Pennsylvania, and his private secretary. One evening shortly after their arrival in London they were all gathered in Mr. Jewett's suite of rooms at the Laugham hotel, when Mr. Jewett turned to his private secretary and said, "Billy, I think we'll pack up and go home on the next steamer." After a moment of amazed silence: "Mr. Jewett, what is the matter? Are you ill? We've only just come." "Oh, no, I'm not ill," replied Mr. Jewett; "I'm perfectly well, but I won't stay in a damned place where I can't get Bourbon whiskey or chewing tobacco." Then the secretary said, "Why didn't you tell me, Mr. Jewett, that you wanted Bourbon whiskey and chewing tobacco? I can get them both within a block of this hotel." "How do you know?" Mr. Jewett asked. "Because," said the secretary, "I've had them, myself." "All right," said the chief, "if you can get them, we stay; if not, I'm going back to New York." Needless to say the private secretary got "them," they were satisfactory, and the party pleasantly finished their holiday before their return.

One of the most genial, lovable fellows I have ever known was George H. Tillier. Prior to the time I knew him, in the middle eighties, Tillier was employed in the office of the Erie superintendent of transportation, either under Mr. Thomas or Mr. Blackham. When I first met George Tillier he was chief clerk to the superintendent of construction of the Buffalo division of the West Shore Railroad. His brother, W. J. Tillier, was, I think, chief clerk to the superintendent of transportation, Erie Railroad. George Tillier passed on many years ago.

George Tillier told me the following story: Once there was a man named Lewis -- "Ras" Lewis -- a trainmaster or chief telegraph operator for the Erie at Jersey City. "Ras" was a man of immense bulk. He weighed around 400 and broke down every ordinary kind of chair until they had a chair made especially for him at the Jersey City shops, a chair, as George Tillier said, that would hold an elephant. That settled the chair matter.

One day an Erie "boy" who lived at Paterson and worked in the same office with "Ras" Lewis came in, wearing a "sprazzy" new suit of clothes which caught Lewis's fancy, and the two then entered into a conspiracy to beat the Paterson tailor, whereby and whereunder the owner of the new suit was to call on the tailor and tell him that one of his office associates was so well pleased with the suit that he wanted one just like it, of the same material and at the same price, to all of which the tailor, in due time, readily agreed without inquiring as to the size or "measurements" of the prospective customer. Before leaving the tailor's the Paterson friend of "Ras" Lewis said, "Oh, by the way, as I am liable to forget the details of this deal, suppose you make an agreement in writing, sign it, and give it to me so that my friend may drop in and look you over at his convenience." Which the tailor did.

The next day big "Ras" Lewis called on the tailor and presented the agreement. The tailor took one look at him and "threw one fit after another," saying, "My God, man, I haven't got enough cloth in the store to fit you out." But "Ras," flourishing the written agreement, stood his ground and never batted an eyelash, and finally the tailor gave in and agreed to make the suit at the agreed price, and make it right -� and he did, but ever afterward that tailor's watchword was, "Never again."

From the September, 1927 issue:
[The Magazine is again indebted to Henry J. Dickinson, of Burlingame, Calif., for reminiscences of old days on the Erie Railroad, supplementing an article contributed by him to the issue for May, 1927. From early in 1879 to December, 1881, Mr. Dickinson was a clerk in the joint offices of the Erie and Atlantic & Great Western railroads at Salamanca, N.Y., and then for half a dozen years he was division clerk on the Erie's Buffalo & South Western branch under Supt. Charles A. Brunn. Mr. Dickinson continues his story.]
By HENRY J. DICKINSON

Of the superintendents of the Erie at Buffalo, back in the '80s of the last century, I remember best Charles A. Brunn, W.J. Murphy and Charles Nielson.

Brunn ("C.A.B.") comes first in my experience and my personal regard, since most of my railroad work in the '80s was with him as division clerk at Buffalo, N.Y.

Charles A. Brunn lifted himself from obscurity, practically, "by his own bootstraps." A strong, virile, dominant character. A big man, physically and mentally.

It was said of him that when the Erie took over the stretch of track between Buffalo and Jamestown, built by James Adams and John F. Moulton and known as the "Buffalo & South Western Railroad," a valuable feeder for the Erie, Brunn was included in the sale. Whether he was or not, the fact remains that the Erie management, in his retention, secured the services of an able, hard-working executive, loyal to his company, his duties and his friends and honorable, in his dealings with all men, both in and out of the service, until for him "the curtain dropped and the lights went out."

So inseparably identified was he with the Erie, he was called by his friends "Charles Erie Brunn," and he always spoke appreciatively of the title. E.S. Bowen, then general superintendent of the Erie, used to refer to Brunn as his "rough diamond," and the designation was apt, for underneath an exterior that could be rough when there was reason for it �- and often there were reasons a-plenty �- there beat the "diamond heart." He lies at rest in beautiful old Forest Lawn, in Buffalo, his troubles over (for his last days were made miserable by physical suffering), his journey done, and well done; done with honor, courage and efficiency. If every blade of grass over his grave had a voice, it could tell of many a generous kindly deed performed by C. A. Brunn without ostentation, without blare of trumpet, as he passed down through the years from the days of his splendid dynamic young manhood "to that bourne from which no traveler returns."

Probably one of the worst pieces of track on the Erie before the advent of the air-brake was the five-mile stretch from Dayton Summit to Gowanda, N.Y., on the Buffalo & South Western branch. The grade, if I remember, was 135 feet to the mile, and from first to last that piece of track cost the Erie considerable. There were some bad wrecks on the hill and the railroad men all dreaded it.

The day before Christmas, in 1881, I think, I was standing on the station platform at Gowanda, bound for a Christmas dinner at Salamanca, when I heard a runaway train rumbling down the hill. As the train passed the station it was going about as fast as wheels could roll. On top of one of the box cars I noticed a brakeman, apparently frozen to it. At the west end of the Gowanda yard is a creek, and just before the train reached the bridge it jumped the track and smashed into the bridge, tearing it loose from the shore end and going down with it into the bed of the creek with a mighty roar. At the moment of the derailment, the brakeman was hurled from the top of the box car, landing in slush ice, mud and coal in the creek bed (the train was carrying several cars of coal), scared half out of his wits, badly shaken up but unhurt save for some bruises and a sprained ankle. How that brakeman escaped death no one knew.

He was a recent importation, it appeared, from the Emerald Isle, and this was his maiden experience in railroading in the "states." The next day he limped into the office for his time, remarking, "If that was a sample of American railroading, I want no more of it." I can't say that I blamed him.

When I was division clerk of the Buffalo & South Western and while on my return from East Buffalo where I had been on a hunt for a witness in a coming lawsuit, I stopped one day for rest at a flagman's shanty. The flagman was well known to me. I had often talked with him and enjoyed the play of his Irish wit and his quaint philosophy.

This flagman was an inveterate pipe-smoker. Always he carried a disreputable-looking clay pipe and he never gave up one until it had become so black and evil smelling as almost to call out the board of health.

As I stepped inside his shanty door, the moment had come for him to discard his old pipe and break in a new one. Out of the open window he gave the old pipe a toss, but the throw lacking force the pipe only just cleared the window sill on its way to the ground. The next instant came a grunt, a yell of pain and language shocking even to a seasoned railroader.

Rushing to the window we saw a strange sight. A young Irish lad, a car chalker, had found a cool spot on the shady side of the shanty directly beneath the window, and sat there more than half asleep, with back against the shanty, and as the weather was hot he had very little on, his shirt being open for its full length. The almost red-hot pipe, tossed out of the open window, fell directly between his shirt and bare skin, and there he was dancing around, tearing at his clothes and creating an atmospheric disturbance I have rarely heard equaled. In getting to his feet his violent muscular movements had sent the hot pipe traveling down his trouser leg until it came out at the hem. When it was all over, the young fellow sat down suddenly and just naturally "squalled" with fright and pain -� a case of overwrought nerves. The pipe had hit him when he was practically asleep and he awoke to find a red-hot "coal" next to his "hide."

We did what we could to soothe the excited lad and I walked home with him, a short distance away. As for my flagman friend, never again, he vowed, would he toss a clay-pipe outdoors without first making a survey of the premises.

On the Buffalo & South Western, in the early '80s, was a way freight conductor named "Mike" Collins. He was the best way-freight man we had. In his mind he carried a mental picture of every mile of main line track and all the side tracks on the division. He knew every cat, dog and grasshopper between Jamestown and Buffalo and was friendly with all of them. He had no enemy in the world except himself. His love of whiskey was of the devastating kind which nearly tore him to pieces while it lasted; then he would straighten up and stay sober for a long period. When the next "call" came, however, it was as if some imp of darkness had snapped his finger and "Mike" would drop every other thought or purpose in life in his haste to obey the summons. It was an incurable habit with him. Poor fellow! He has long since passed away.

In his caboose "Mike" was wont to carry a pet raccoon, which, like other coons, was inquisitive and destructive. "Mike" knew that, of course, but he was much attached to the coon and refused to give him up. Now "C.A.B." had given Collins several chances to reform, for the "super" knew his worth and wanted to save him. Finally, the "super" served notice on "Mike" that he would give him just one more chance; but, when "Mike's" bell rang the next time, "Mike" obeyed the call, as usual. Leaving the coon in charge of the caboose, "Mike" went about his business of accumulating a "load," while Mr. Coon proceeded to make mince meat of everything he could find in the caboose, and among other things tore up and chewed up the train reports.

In due time "Jersey City" began calling for the train reports, which were not to be had, nor "Mike" Collins, either. After many days "Mike" was located and came to the "super's" office for report and discipline. Among other things "C.A.B." said to him, "Collins, I want those train reports. Where are they?" No reply.

Question repeated, with greater emphasis. Reply same as before. Finally, Collins, who had been standing before the irate chief, looking down and turning an old coonskin hat or cap aimlessly over and over in his hands, looked up and said without a flicker of a smile, "Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Brunn. That damn coon ate 'em up."

Which was practically the truth, but did not save the erring conductor, for that was the end of "Mike" Collins with "C.A.B."

Among my associates in the Erie service, back in Buffalo in the '80s, were two men that will always have a special chink in my memory, as I had opportunity to become familiar with their never-failing industry, sense of honor and devotion to the interests of the Erie Railroad. These two men were familiarly known as "Mike" and "Tuck," and they were a great pair to draw to.

I would, however, at this day, question the propriety of so addressing them, since "Mike," otherwise William M. Corbett, has been for many years president of the Kansas City Terminal Railway Co., and "Tuck" is Jason C. Tucker, prominent for many years in executive affairs on the Erie Railroad.

To me, they will always be "Mike" and "Tuck," for the privilege of so addressing them is indissoluably interwoven with scenes and incidents of far away and long ago, when we were all young fellows together, struggling for a foothold and for an enduring place in the sun. While the "never-ending flood of years" has no doubt made a couple of "domes" I wot of rather apparent, slackened speed and transmuted in the crucible of time the browns and blacks of youth into the sober grays of years, no changed conditions, no lapse of time, has the power to destroy or lessen the atmosphere of mutual regard of over forty-five years' standing. To the courage, zeal and energy of just such men as the two I have named is due the phenomenal success of the great railroad properties of this country.

From the November, 1927 issue:
[Here is a third installment of Erie Railroad reminiscences, written by Henry J. Dickinson, of Burlingame, Calif., who from early in 1879 to late in 1881 was a clerk in the joint offices of the Erie and the Atlantic & Great Western railroads, at Salamanca, N. Y., and then for half a dozen years division clerk on the Erie's Buffalo & South Western branch, at Buffalo, N. Y.]

By Henry J. Dickinson
In a former article I spoke at length of my old "boss," Superintendent Charles A. Brunn. I now want to say something about two other Erie officials, W.J. Murphy and Charles Nielson. W.J. Murphy was Erie superintendent at Buffalo, afterward general superintendent of the Erie, and at his death, if I remember correctly, vice-president of the Cincinnati, New Orleans & Texas Pacific Railway (the Queen and Crescent).

Of Murphy's railroad career prior to his arrival in Buffalo, back in the 80s, I know nothing, but in the range of my railroad experience, if ever a man immolated himself on the altar of duty, W.J. Murphy was the man. It was the keynote of his success as an executive; certainly it was not his bonhomie, his comradery, for he had less of that than the ordinary run of men; but he had acquired, rightly, the reputation of "going over the top" in practically everything he undertook, so that the lack of a magnetic personality was not a factor of much consequence to the Erie rail chiefs in the days I write of.

If Murphy couldn't warm up to a certain plan, or give it his support, he never hesitated to say so. He was blunt, quick-tempered, outspoken, with the courage of his convictions; and they were generally worth listening to, and his superiors knew it.

It would not be fair to his memory to say of this very able railroad chief that he ever "hurled himself headlong" into anything. Nothing would he do without first studying the problem, but once his mind was made up and he was headed for a certain objective, he spared neither associates nor himself until he had "won out" or "lost out."

Murphy was not a great personal favorite with his staff, but there was not a man among them that did not trust him to the limit.

CHARLES NIELSON
Charles Nielson, an Erie Railroad superintendent at Buffalo, left the service before I did, and made a connection with a New York concern. Later he was superintendent of the Cincinnati Hamilton & Dayton Railroad, and then was fourth assistant postmaster general of the United States under Grover Cleveland. If now alive, he must be very old.

I remember hearing that with the outgoing of the Cleveland regime Nielson stayed on in Washington to look after railroad legislation, an occupation he was well fitted for temperamentally and by reason of an educative equipment superior to that of the general run of railroad executives of that day.

If I ever knew anything about Nielson's antecedents, I cannot now recall them. His individuality I have never forgotten. He was of fine physical presence, six feet or more tall and broad in proportion, wore a full beard, "English fashion," was always carefully dressed, an easy, natural conversationist, knowing about art, music, politics, international affairs -� well bred and a man of the world.

Toward his staff on the Erie Railroad his attitude, while not easily familiar, was sufficiently genial to win regard and cooperation always. An excellent storyteller, he had the gift of mimicry and a retentive memory which often aided him in getting what he wanted where others had failed. My recollection is that he was the first Erie superintendent at Buffalo to get official permission to fit up a passenger car as a private car for his own use.

When I heard that in the after years in Washington he allowed his hair to grow long �- a snow white mane -� and affected black velvet coats, I said, "That's Charles Nielson!" He could carry off with grace and dignity what in many other men would only be ridiculous.

WILLIAM A. HAVEN
William A. Haven was division engineer of the Erie at Buffalo when I was transferred there late in 1881. Haven and Robert Harris were boys together in Portsmouth, N. H., and lifelong friends.

When Robert Harris became president of the Northern Pacific Railway he asked Haven to undertake the work of building the Northern Pacific's subsidiary lines in Montana. Haven accepted the offer and took as his chief aid his own assistant at Buffalo, Soren M. B. Kielland, a Norwegian engineer of high standing.

Haven and Kielland spent half a dozen years in the Montana construction work and then returned to Buffalo. When the Lehigh Valley Railroad bought the Tifft farm of 300 acres in Buffalo, Hayen and Kielland had charge of the construction at Buffalo of the Lehigh's Great Lake terminals, wharves, freight houses, coal docks, ship canals and the like, and the work they did is a monument to their ability, energy and integrity.

Harris and Haven built the first mile of railroad track laid within the confines of the state of Texas. Haven was chief constructing engineer of the Wisconsin Central Railway, and also, I believe, the Vermont Central and the Buffalo, New York & Philadelphia line, now a part of the Pennsylvania system. He had a brilliant mind but his business judgment was poor when it came to his own affairs. He has been dead a long time. He should have been a millionaire; he died a pensioner.

Kielland is still living and has been for many years the chief engineer at Buffalo for the Lehigh Valley and Buffalo Creek railroads. He long served as vice-consul for Norway at Buffalo.

Both Haven and Kielland were my warm personal friends, and their families, also. I hold the living friend as high in honoring regard as I do the memory of the one that is gone.

COMING DOWN TO THE PRESENT
One of the valuation engineers of the Erie Railroad today is F.W. Dalrymple, with office at 71 West Twenty-third street, New York City. Although he is my cousin, it has occurred to me that a brief reference to him might prove of interest to ERIE RAILROAD MAGAZINE readers. I am writing this without his knowledge.

Dalrymple and I were born in Lock Haven, Pa., and much of the time of our boyhood was spent together. I feel safe in the assertion that our regard for each other is entirely mutual.

As a boy, he was forever pulling off some "stunt" that had us all "scared pink" from fear some terrible thing would happen to him; but it never did. For example, he had a disconcerting habit of diving off a raft into the river and then swimming under water for a long distance, until we thought he never would come up. One day after diving he did not come up where we could see him; we were almost frantic; finally we found him calmly sitting on the trunk of a distant water-logged tree and holding on to one of the branches.

Another day he climbed half way up the school house flagpole, which was 245 feet high, reversed himself and hung head down. When he "got good and ready" he reversed himself again and slid calmly down.

A graduate of Lehigh University, Dalrymple was an athlete who won numerous medals. He is a skilled mathematician. Not long after graduation he became roadmaster of the Bradford division of the Erie Railroad. Then in turn he was city engineer at Hornell and Jamestown, N.Y., and Bayonne, N.J., and for about ten years chief sanitary engineer at San Juan, Porto Rico. An honorable and constructively useful career. He has "made good." I am content to shine in his reflected light, in the certainty that as a "potent, grave and reverend seignior" his days of terrifying "stunts" are over.

From the December, 1927 issue:
Memories of Cheerful Yesterdays on the Erie
By Henry J. Dickinson, Burlingame, CA

Among my friends of the old days at Buffalo, there is none whose memory I hold higher in honoring regard than Joseph Deuel, who was for many years the "D.F.A." of the Erie Railroad with his office in the old "A.F." or Louisiana street freight house of the Erie Railroad at Buffalo, N.Y. "Joe" Deuel was the personal friend of every one of us young fellows, and as the incidents of the swiftly-flying years had served but to add to our sense of regard for him it was but natural that it should finally crystallize into a concerted plan to remember him with some appropriate gift -- preferably on some birthday anniversary -- the presentation to be in the nature of a surprise. The gift selected was a handsome gold watch and chain.

We had, of course, to make a confederate of Mrs. Deuel, not only because it was her natural due as a housewife, but because of a mysterious "1/8," that for some reason or another succeeded in getting itself included in the program and of course had to be properly "camouflaged" until the time came for its appearance. After the first man had arrived at the house, the others followed in rapid succession until the whole lower part of the house was "a-swarm" with his friends, but long before this point had been reached "J.D." realized that he was in their hands and that for the time, at least, the house was theirs.

Brunn, Corbett and Tucker were there, and I think, Edward F. Knibloe, chief train dispatcher of the Buffalo division. I don't recall who made the presentation speech, but if "E.F.K." was there it's "dollars to doughnuts" he was called upon to make it.

Great "speechifyer," that man! And Joe Deuel! Well, Joseph was in trouble. He gulped, choked and sputtered until Brunn sang out, "Damn it, Joe, shut up; you've talked long enough."

"Joe" carried his watch to the end of his days and never tired of telling how it came to him.

* * *

Charles Nielson, one time superintendent of the Buffalo division of the Erie Railroad, was a good story teller and mimic, and through reading, observation and experience had a wide range of subjects to choose from. This is one of his stories:

Once Nielson was one of a group of railroad men who were guests on the private car of William A. Baldwin, for many years general superintendent of the P. & E. division of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Others in the car beside Baldwin and Nielson were A.J. Cassatt and Frank Thompson, of the "Pennsy," and Robert A. or Harry E. Packer (or both) of the old Lehigh Valley "royal family." They were headed for Philadelphia and were rolling fast, to enable one of the party to keep an important engagement.

Mr. Baldwin was short in stature and much inclined to stoutness. I have reason for mentioning this, as you will see farther on. The name of the colored cook on the private car was Frank Thompson (the same as the "Pennsy" magnate).

Mr. Baldwin was fond of soup, and Chef Thompson, knowing this, laid himself out to produce the finest specimen of the "soup-erior" art of which he was capable, and incidentally that was "going some." The chef was just in the act of placing a plate of the hot soup in front of A.J. Cassatt when the car struck a curve and away flew the fiery fluid, much of it down Cassatt's neck and over his clothes. After the electrically surcharged atmosphere had been quickly and properly clarified, a distinguished railroad man was seen tearing his clothes off, and every one from Frank Thompson, the chief, to Frank Thompson, the chef, was helping to alleviate Mr. Cassatt's suffering. Mr. Cassatt did not have with him a change of clothes, and as the only suit in the car not on some one's back was an extra suit belonging to Superintendent Baldwin, he had either to put that on or sit around in his "undies." Quite naturally, he chose the former expedient, but as he was physically much larger than the man whose suit he put on, the emergency trousers came half way up the calf of his leg, he couldn't button the vest, and the coat sleeves occupied the same relative position on his arms.

Mr. Cassatt wired to Philadelphia to have his valet meet him on arrival with a complete outfit. So that was that!

William A. Baldwin afterward became the executive head of the Buffalo, Rochester & Pittsburgh Railroad. I knew him well when his headquarters with the "Pennsy" were at Williamsport, Pa., which city was my own home for many years.

* * *

This morning I found a memo on my desk, saying that J. Murray Larned is the engineer of way of the Pittsburgh Railways, with office at 435 Sixth avenue, Pittsburgh, Pa.

Murray Larned was from Baltimore. He was the maintenance of way man on the Buffalo & South Western division of the Erie, back in the eighties, and as I recall it at this late day, when C.A. Brunn was transferred temporarily to the Eastern division of the Nypano at Meadville, Pa., he took Murray Larned with him. Mr. Larned was an amiable and able man. One who did not know him well might have thought him sleepy, because of his southern drawl and an eye-trouble, afterward corrected, but when he began to talk about his line of work, one found there was no "sleeping sickness" there, not a bit.

* * *

In the joint freight agency of the old Atlantic & Great Western and Erie railroads, at Salamanca, N.Y., back in the eighties, one of the clerks under E.H. Space, joint agent, was Eugene R. Allen. "Gene" was a handsome chap, a favorite with his associates and easily in the front rank with his work. I can well remember the envy with which I regarded his work on the "freight pool" statements. In my palmiest days I never hoped to be able to do such work as that.

When I left Salamanca for Buffalo, in the winter of 1881, I lost track of "Gene" Allen, except as I heard about him occasionally through friends. With pleasure in after years I heard of his advancements in the Erie service and much regretted to learn of a condition of health which, if continued, would of course prove detrimental to the higher posts of duty toward which he was evidently headed, and in the instance of a man like "E.R.A." this was a thing greatly to be regretted by his old friends, among whom I am glad to number myself, always.

* * *

At the time of which I write, William J. Hurlbut, better known then as "Billy," was chief clerk to "Joe" Deuel, of whom I have just written you. Afterward Mr. Hurlbut became president of an iron works at Youngstown, O., and for aught I know may be yet. He was a genial, whole-souled fellow in those old Erie days and I wish him well wherever he is.

* * *

I have often thought of the Erie man of mystery at Salamanca, N.Y., who one day late in 1880, or possibly early in 1881, dropped in at the joint freight agency of the old Atlantic & Great Western and Erie railroads at Salamanca, where I was on the force, along with E.R. Allen, now secretary of the Erie Freight Agents' Association. Perhaps Mr. Allen may remember this incident.

The unknown came in a box car to Salamanca and in appearance was a tramp, dirty, ragged and hungry. He went to E.H. Space, the joint agent, and asked for work. Mr. Space asked the man a number of questions, to which the stranger replied not at all. That is, he refused utterly to tell who he was but said he was familiar with practically all departments of freight office work and could prove it if given an opportunity to do so. When a sample of his penmanship was asked for, he surprised Agent Space by the rapid, easy flow of words and figures from his pen and in beautiful writing.

Mr. Space put the man at work and the office force "passed the hat" and outfitted the stranger with everything he needed from "skin to sunshine," even to getting him a line of hotel credit at the old Krieger house until his pay check should come in.

I remember the man very well. A grave, dignified gentleman in word, action and appearance. His resentment at any curiosity regarding himself was so quickly and strongly apparent that usually his look made it unnecessary for him to make any reply to personal questions. The questioner, abashed, apologized, and that ended the matter.

The man made no friends, fraternized with no one, kept his own counsel, and as far as humanly possible segregated himself from society. His work, as I recall, was always done well. He worked out a draft for an interchange car report that was so great an improvement over the then existing method that it was at once accepted. He was always on hand when the office opened for business, never asked for a day off, saved his money, preserved his financial integrity, in short, he "paddled his own canoe" and never left it. Once in the possession of a steady job and under the benign influence of its pecuniary returns, though small, and with no social ambitions or obligations, he emerged from the condition and appearance of a "down and outer" into that of a well-groomed business or professional man of the period.

Then one day, after the lapse of many months, he dropped out and quietly melted into the unknown. So far as I know, Salamanca never heard more of or from him. While he left a "clean slate" behind, a record of work well and truly done, no one could say with truth that he was missed, for he was such an unsocial being, kept himself so aloof, that his associates in the office, while they respected him, had no regrets at his passing out of their ken.

If I remember correctly, he gave his name as McArthur, or something very like it, but of course the name was assumed. Until the other day I had not thought for years of the Salamanca man of mystery. Well educated and an omniverous reader, he was likely a college or university man. He was not a drinker or a "dope fiend." From such a man one would not look for a sordid, miserable story. Through no fault of his own, perhaps, he had become temporarily a bit of the world's wreckage. I prefer to think that of him.