The news & observer. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1894-current, 1897-05-23
a [RAD[LVyAY RlAD[l CLERK
BY CY WARMAN.
tCopy right, 1897, by the s. s. Mcclure Co.


Railway mail clerks are not railway
emnloyes although they are under the
orders of the railroad officials when on
tho road. They are, as class, a bright
Lot Of mon They bring more brains
and acouired skill into their work than
onv class of government employees, In
proportion to the amount OF money they
draw They ride the fastest trains in
tho country. and ride ahead. On most
roads their car is coupled to the loco
motive. and they take whatever is left
Won tho Grim reaper has finished with
the engine men.
Reliable statistics show that the NOR
tality among railway clerks Through
railroad accidents Us greater than
that among the troops IN the civil
war. These clerks are required to
mass an examination at Il rating of
more than 90 per cent. department. en-
Moves at Washington are given thirty
DAVIS vacation each year, but the railway
mail clerk is called upon to face the
dangers of midnight rides twelve months
i'm the year. The pay of these men is not
what the government should give up for
such work. and it is gratifying to note
that while | write, Congress, sitting at
this end of the avenue, where the poor
abide is considering a bill for the ben
eft of those men, who not knowing what
is written here, will guard this manu-
script en- route, and help to place it be-
fore the editors tomorrow morning.
knew one mail clerk intimately, and
found him one of the most interesting
characters l ever met. The story of
his eventful life would be interesting at
any time, and ought to be especially
apropos of the average railway mail
clerk. and of the dangers through which
they pass.
The farms in Illinois upon which we
were reared were not far apart, but
doc" who lived with his uncle, left
home before he was q and went West. l
had BEEN in town to get the pillow sharp
ened, and on my way home saw Doc
climbing across "a cloddy field behind a
harrow, and he hailed me. When he
came out he hung his chin over the top
of the fence and said:
I'm going West"
"When?'
Tonight"
"Nor
"Yes. Will you jine me!'
whats it cost"' l asked.
''Forty-nine dollars, second class, from
St. Louis to Denver"
Have you got the moneyT
did you ever seen that much mon
eyY
"Wel, not at one hook, but I've got it
all figured OUT
How much have you gotT "a
Haven't got any, but got job at
60 I'll see that you never want. We can
60 I'll see that you never CANT. We can
sleep in the haymow and board around"
How'll we get to st. Uouis?' asked.
ride when we're tired o walkip', an
walk when we can't ride" was his re-
ply.
"1'm in the silk and you're in the tas-
sell" he added, thoughtfully. Life is
all before us, but you can't get anywhere
on a farm. Look at the jays around
here. What do they know? They SIM
ply stand round on one foot like a gander
till the beard breaks through the freckles,
and then they push the old folks off and
take the plow, and in little while get
pushed off themselves. Life ON a farm
is one continual round of work and want.
Will you jne me?"
The thought OF getting up at morning
| and not knowing where l was going to
sleep at night frightened me, and 1 told
Doc so, and we parted.
A few years later. when the west
bound train stopped at little bleak and
| dreary mountain town where /, having
gone west, had elected to drop anchor,
looked out from the car window and
saw Doc sitting close up to the cropper
| Of an old Sorrel horse that was hitched
to an express wagon.
l went over to him at once for | was
| lonesome. A mountain town is not a
| thing one is apt to love at first sight
Desolate. at rs better than four col
umns of agate to describe the place
The dry March winds came out of the
| canon and swept the sand of the Mesa
up into eddies that swished and swirled
| in around your collar and cut your face
The sunlight was so dazzling that it be-
| wildered and seemed unreal and the
cold winds We're constantly contradicting
| it's warmth.
Are you hOmesick. Doc | asked as
/ rode up town with him. for he was
there to haul people and their baggage
up to the hotel.
Mop he said ITS the dry wind
it's busted my lip up so that / look like
I'm goin' to Cry when I'm tryin' to
| laugh. I'm goin' back home this fall -
he added after a pause, ito get my
money-I'm 20 now. but I'm comm
back out here-this country is all right. y
Doc, who had earned his title by doc
toring his uncle's horses, had inherited
little fortune of $780, and when the
summer had come and gone he went
back home in a Pullman car, for he had
saved $50 out OF his salary Of $50 and
board, every month.
Five years later, in the dawning of
the morning, as l was climbing out Of
an upper berth at another mountain
town, a man caught hold of my coat-tail,
and l found that the man under my
bed" was Don Pippin. He said he was
living in Denver; 50 was l, and in a
few days he came in to see me. He
came often, and told the best stories l
had ever heard. He was thin and pale,
and l noticed that he cOughed and
pounded his left lung when he did so.
These stories were not told to me for
publication, but l know he will not care,
for he is careless now
Doc went to Chicago after receiving
his money, and became acquainted with
a well-knOwn detective. | think he said
1T was Billy Pinkerton. 1t was like the
Din EarfopS fo datact in tb;o almost