Connecticut western news., 1889-11-06
LARRY THE BUGLER.
HE SOUNDS REVEILLE FOR RED
 HOOK POINT.
The Neighborhood Rise and Retire by
 His Bugle.

o'clock by the watch. The music echoed sharply for blocks around, and brought the New Yorker to stand still at the junction of Sullivan and Conover streets. Right off are the big wharves by the river side. Right in front of him were two big rows of tenements that shelter, so the neighbors say, nearly 400 tenants. In every window light twinkled brightly, making the building stand out con- spicuous against the black background of the stormy sky. A dozen of the big cluster of lights went out together a few minutes after the bugle sounded, and then one after another the others went out abruptly until the whole TOW of buildings was left in darkness. The lights in other buildings around about went out similerly, leaving the New Yorker standing awhile mystifed. He walked into liquor store at the corDer and sought enlightenment "What's the matter with all the ights?" he asked.
 "Nothin','' was the reply; "Larry's sounded 'taps,' that's all."
 "Who's Larry"
 The bartender's eyes opened wide with astonishment, and he stared at the stranger full half a minute before he found his voice again. "Well, I'll be blowed!" he blurted out. 'EDon't know Larry, neigh? Your education has been neglected. You'd better go up the street right off and make his ac- quaintance. sLarry's' character, he is.,
 Three doors up the block at 137 Con over street stood a three-story brick building, with an eating saloon on the ground floor. Plants in pots bloomed in the windows on either side the open door. From the sidewalk the New Yorker saw three dogs and two green parrots playing at a table, at which sat a slim, wiry built man, with light curly hair and moustache, who was busy polishing cavalry bugle. He looked about forty years old. His wife was bustling about the kitchen, cooking steaks at the stove for some stevedores who had come in to get late meal.
 "Am Larry?" the man said in e. hearty way in answer to a question. 'sYes, Pm Larry, and Pm the fellow that blew the bugle call and put out the lights. Have to do it every night. If didn't all the women in the neigh borhood would come in here and give me good licking. They have done it before this, too."
 The curly-haired man was Lawrence Grob, 8 veteran of the rebellion. He is 45 years old, and almost every day for the last nine years he has blown his brass bugle every night at o'clock sharply, rain or shine, and again every morning at exactly 6 o'clock. He has long borne the nickname of "the town clock of Red Hook Point" The working people who swarm in the ten ements around the eating saloon get up to breakfast to the morning music, and tumble into bed at night at taps with the regularity of soldiers in camp.
 Larry Grob is son of the late Dr. Martin Grob, who used to preach for years in Essex street, in this city, and the bugle that has been called his o'clock" is one that he carried when he served on the frontier under "Bufalo Bilr' Cody in the First United States Cavalry. He has still another bugle, that is bigger, and decked all out with red silk tassels, that he got when he enlisted in the Sixth Corps, under Gen. Sedgwick, on April 21, 1861. He left the service after fifteen years, but kept up the practice of sounding "reveille' and "taps" when he opened an eating saloon. Ever since he moved to Conover street, nearly ten years ago, the tenement dwellers have been able to dispense with timepieces at their homes, and have trusted to the music of the bugle to keep them posted on the time for retiring and rising.
 In clear weather Larry sounds the call from the roof top of the house, and the bugler at Governors Island sends back an answering call. The echo of the answer can be faintly heard on calm nights by the tenement dwellers.
 A fortnight ago Bugler Grob was taken sick and was unable to blow the usual reveillc. When he got out again the wife of one of the workingmen ill the Sullivan street row boxed his ears in the grocery store.
 "She here," she cried impetuously, "you didn't blow that bugle the other day, and my man overslept himself and lost days work by bein' two hours late at the steamer"
 Bugler Grob is not the only one in the eating house that can blow bugle musically. A tall, faxen-haired maid en, with big, blue eyes and perfectly sound lungs in her trim body, gives the reveille and taps just as sonorously as