The story is told in McDonald’s History of Marshall County of the only prize fight held in Marshall County:
The prize fight was to take place at Baugherville, on the Lake Erie & Western Railroad, about nine miles northwest of Plymouth between Lou C. Allen of Chicago and H.C. Hanmer of Michigan City, middleweights, on the evening of April 30, 1891. That afternoon some of the local boys were told about the upcoming event. “The favored few who were let into the secret were on tiptoe of expectation, and preparation was made to pull out quietly by livery teams about 9 o’clock. The secret was to be kept from Sheriff Jarrell and from those who would likely give him a pointer in that direction.”
It was not easy to get there. “The night was dark and the corduroy road through the woods was more than ordinarily rough. Some of the drivers lost the direct road and went a considerable distance out of the way; others ran into ‘chuck holes’ breaking a spring or a single-tree or something of that kind, but where there is a prize at the end of the goal there is always a way found to reach it. On they went, helter-skelter.
“The prize ring was in a large barn near a sawmill and a lumber yard near the Lake Erie & Western Railroad, a short distance northeast of Tyner. Lumber was piled up and scattered about everywhere, and there were acres of sawlogs and slabs and log wagons. There were no lights about to indicate that there was anything unusual going on, and those who were not familiar with the lay of the land had to feel their way in the dark.
“The Lake Erie fast train from the north arrived at 11 o’clock, bringing the pugilists and about 150 sports (fans) from Chicago, Michigan City and other points along the line, and it was but a short time until the preliminary arrangements had all been completed. A twenty-four-foot ring had been measured off, the building was gorgeously lighted, and in the glare of the kerosine the lamp of Aladdin would have cast but a faint glimmer. The 175 spectators who had each paid an admission fee of $5 were seated about the ring as conveniently as circumstances would permit, and the remainder were stowed away in the haymow, in balcony rows, one above another, from which elevated position they were enabled to look down upon the interesting spectacle before them through the large opening in the center.
“The gladiators were stripped to the skin and took their places in the ring, accompanied by their backers, trainers, seconds, umpires, spongers and assistants.” Also in attendance were a couple of Chicago newspaper reporters. “The doors of the barn were locked and guarded, and the doorkeeper was ordered not to admit anyone under any pretext whatever. Time was called and the pugilistic pounders came smilingly to the scratch. They knocked away at each other with all the strength they possessed. There was no doubt they meant business from the word ‘go.’ The first round was a success, and applause greeted the bruisers as they retired to their corners to be rubbed down.”
But when that many people know a secret, it is hard to keep. “It was late in the evening when Sheriff Jarrett was informed of what was going on. He and his deputies, Eugene Marshall and William Leonard, and Plymouth marshal William Klinger “pulled out from the county seat shortly after 9 o’clock and drove rapidly toward the seat of war. He had the misfortune to break his buggy, which delayed him, and he did not arrive until the first round had been fought.” The sheriff asked the doorkeeper to be admitted. “That distinguished dweller in the tents of iniquity informed them that under no circumstances could they be admitted, whereupon the sheriff jerked the latch off, opened the door, and he and his deputies rushed in upon the pugilists and their assistants, who were standing in the ring ready to commence the second round.
“Then ensued a scene of consternation which no pen can describe. There was a general stampede for the door and in the rush and confusion several were run over and knocked down. Some of the lights were turned out, and for a few minutes it seemed as if pandemonium had been turned loose. Both principals escaped the officers and got out of the building with only their thin fighting suits on. In the melee that ensued, trainer Ed Corey and seconds Con Cavanah and Dick Ford were captured. The remainder got away. Hanmer was so cold with only his tights on that he could not stand it and returned in search of his clothes. He was captured by the sheriff. Allen, the other principal, took the railroad track north as fast as he could run and never stopped until he reached Walkerton, where he boarded a freight trip for Michigan City and made good his escape.
“The spectators – well, they were panic-stricken and, if anything, were worse frightened than the fighters. When the sheriff and his party entered, the rapidity with which that audience dispersed has never been equaled in this part of the country. They did not stand on the order of their going, but they went at once. It was every fellow for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. As soon as they got out of the building they took to the woods as fast as their legs could carry them. They tumbled over one another, went head over heels over saw logs, log wagons and lumber piles, skinned their shins and bruised themselves up generally.
“Those who were in the hayloft, most of them Marshall County fellows, were all captured without an effort. They had climbed up on a ladder which had been removed when the fight began, and there they were, prisoners and unable to make a move for liberty. So, they scrambled back as far as they could and covered themselves with hay, except their feet, which stuck out in irregular sizes all around the first row, and waited further developments.
The suspense did not last long. One of them came near smothering in the hay and yelled out, ‘Put up that ladder. I can’t stand it with this d____d gang any longer.’ The ladder was put up and you would have just died laughing to have seen capitalists, merchants and businessmen, old men and young men, bald heads and gray heads, married men and single men, backing down that ladder with hayseed in their hair, and on their hats and all over their clothes. As they reached the floor, one of them remarked, ‘What in ____ would my wife say if she could see me in this fix?’”
There were probably many married men who would shortly find out what their wife would say. “They were greatly relieved when Sheriff Jarrell informed them that he had no use for them, and they could go about their business.” The four who had been arrested were each fined $50, which was promptly paid. And thus ended the only prize fight ever witnessed in Marshall County.”
I would imagine that most of those married men suffered harsher punishment than the prisoners, don’t you?
It may not surprise anyone that Daniel McDonald was a newspaper owner and editor. His writing style is so highly entertaining. Come on in to read more from his History of Marshall County. The Museum is open 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday.
Excerpted from the 1881 History of Marshall County
By Daniel McDonald
By modern standards, early Marshall County Historian Daniel McDonald (1833-1916) was a man of contradictions. A believer in Spiritualism with a deep confidence in seances, he didn’t have any patience with those who believed in “witches, goblins, ghosts and haunted houses.” The following article appears in his 1881History of Marshall County. Although he doesn’t explicitly say so until later in the article, he definitely gives the impression that he thinks the whole thing is ridiculous. It is lightly edited for length and clarity.
“Many of the “newcomers” of the early days brought with them stories of witches, goblins, ghosts and haunted houses, and believed that supernatural spooks were accustomed to roam abroad at the bewitching hour of night when graveyards are supposed to yawn. That there are plenty of ghosts, in the minds of many, does not admit of a doubt. Hundreds of people have seen them and are able to describe them even to the texture of their hair and the color of their eyes.
“None of these supernatural beings, however, have ever been seen in the daytime. They invariably cavort around at night and are generally found by timid people along some lonely path in the woods, in a graveyard or in some deserted house or barn where some awful tragedy was supposed to have occurred. These spooks have never been known to cause anyone bodily injury. In fact, no one has ever approached near enough to lay violent hands upon them, had they felt so inclined. Upon first sight of a ghost, one’s hair is inclined to stand erect on his cranium, and his courage oozes out of the ends of his fingers. His natural inclination is to get out of the way as rapidly as the nature of the case will admit and allow these midnight disturbers of late travelers to have things all their own way.
“Ghosts are not all alike by any means. In fact, no two have ever been seen whose description is the same. They are almost invariably enrobed in a white sheet and float around buildings, glide along roads and vanish away without any perceptible effort, and dissolve into thin air in the most unaccountable sort of way. Some of them ride great white horses, carrying immense flashing swords, and out of their mouths streams of fire and smoke have been seen to issue like the belching forth of a miniature volcano. Sometimes they ride through the air on great chariots, and sometimes they fly about with wings like sprites from Fairy Land. They never talk – that is – hardly ever. Sometimes low, guttural sounds have been heard to issue from where ghosts were supposed to be, but on examination and full investigation, no definite conclusion could be reached.
“So far as is known, ghosts live entirely without eating, at least they have never been known to eat anything. They don’t use tobacco either; at any rate they have never been seen smoking a pipe or cigar. They are presumed to not wear clothes, but they usually have modesty enough about them to cover their nudity with a clean white sheet. Just exactly what they are, and what in the name of the Old Nick they prowl around for, no one, however well posted in ghostology, has ever yet been able to tell.
“People who believe in ghosts, however, assert that they are the departed spirits of dead persons who had committed some awful crime while living. In some of the places where ghosts are supposed to hover about, it has been conjectured that vast treasure might have been stolen and buried, and these ghosts are the guardian angels, so to speak, sent to protect the valuables from being discovered and carried away.
“Of course, all this ghost business, in this enlightened day and age, is the merest nonsense, and no one endowed with a grain of common sense believes there is such a thing as a ghost, or that the spirits of dead men ever return to this mundane sphere after they have “shuffled off this mortal coil.”
“All of the preceding has been written simply for the purpose of enabling the writer to speak of a building that is said to have been, in days gone by, a favorite resort for all sorts of spooks and goblins and ghosts, albeit it has long since ceased to attract attention as having been haunted.
“On the place then owned by Charles Ousterhaut, one mile south of Plymouth (just south of Oakhill Cemetery), some thirty and five years ago, there was a barn in which, according to tradition, a man hanged himself with a rope fastened to one of the rafters. Whether this story is true or not cannot be definitely stated, owing to the lack of reliable data. But that is neither here nor there for the present purpose. The story got abroad that the ghost of the dead man had taken up its abode in and about the barn, and numerous passers that way late of nights averred in the most positive manner that the place was haunted, and that his ghost or some unknown apparition answering the same purpose, had been frequently seen flitting around the corners, peeping over the comb of the building, and cutting up all sorts of ghostly didos (mischievous tricks or pranks).
“Many were the stories that timid men and boys told of the remarkable sights that they had there seen with their own eyes, and for many years almost everyone passing that way looked upon the building and surroundings with “fear and trembling.”
“Of course, there were no ghosts there, but the disordered imagination of timid men, women and children, based on the story of a man who had met an untimely end there, was sufficient to produce any quantity of unearthly creatures, and so it took the name of the ‘haunted barn.’”
Marshall County history is full of the tales of the supernatural. We’re open Tuesday – Saturday 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. to find other spine-tingling stories from the past.
The following tales are just a taste of spooky Marshall County. Most of the stories are told as they were written long, long ago.
“The neighborhood two miles east of Lapaz is all stirred up over a ghost story, which is vouched for by a number of persons to be fact. Millian Crum and Nathan Crothers were passing the U.B. church in the Berger vicinity several nights ago, and a figure in a white shroud appeared in front of the church and waved its arms. The movement of the white object also frightened their horse, which ran some distance before the animal could be stopped. Charles Charleston who passed the church at an early hour in the morning also claims to have seen a ghost. The story has caused no little talk in the neighborhood. Samuel Thomas who is not afraid of ‘fire or brimstone’ proposes to investigate the affair and will visit the place with a party of men on Saturday night. Mr. Thomas is of the opinion it is a joke being played by some boys to create a sensation and will make an effort to capture the ghost.” From The Bremen Enquirer, May 11th, 1900.
The Higbee Corner Tavern maintained a good reputation. No doubt there was drinking there, and many intoxicated travelers stopped there, but that did not make a place tough in those days. However, the Thompson Tavern did not have a good reputation and was deserted by the time the Higbee Tavern became popular. It was then known as the “Haunted House.” The story is told that when this old tavern was deserted, cattle and pigs used to roam at will in and out of the open doors. One stormy night the pigs had taken refuge in the old building. Two men were passing there that night, and the one who was the least drunk dared the other one to go into the “Haunted House.” With much bravado, increased by the stimulant which they had had, they reeled in through the open door and stumbled over the pigs. The disturbed pigs made so much noise that the intruders started to run, to get away from the “ghosts,” and never stopped until they reached the Higbee Tavern. Written in 1940 in a memoir by Francis Emerson.
The September 1, 1910, issue of The Plymouth Democrat reported that Henry Kelver had a “thrilling experience” on Dixon Lake. He was in the middle of the lake when he saw a dark looking object in the distance approaching his boat. “The water parted into waves on either side of the object as it came nearer…its head looked like that of a big black dog and its eyes snapped ferociously. Just below the blue water of the surface was a big black form, about the size of a wheelbarrow and there seemingly were a hundred pairs of legs wiggling and paddling beneath it. Within two or three rods of the boat the monster turned, dove and disappeared.”
“A terrible murder was committed two miles south of this place on Sunday night last. The circumstances that led to the horrible deed were about as follows: About 4 o’clock Sunday afternoon two men, aged about 30 years, called at the house of Mr. Mikel Hisey and requested to stay until after the rain, which was falling. After sitting in the house about an hour they started to leave. One of the men was of medium size and tolerably well dressed, and the other larger and very rugged. Mr. Hisey thought no more about them until in the morning in passing an old house used for a stable, he heard someone groaning, and going in and up on the loft, where he had some hay, he found the better dressed man with three gashes cut in his head through the skull, and the brains oozing out. The man had been stripped of pants and coat and left with nothing on but shirt, vest, and boots. The boots were both made for one foot. The instrument used to accomplish the deed was a cutter from a shovel plow. Medical aid was summoned, but nothing could be done for the man. He was beyond help, and, of course, could not speak to tell of the deed. He died during the day; nothing being left by which he could be identified. His companion no doubt had done the deed. It is supposed the murderer took the train at Argos, going south, as a man answering the description, with black pants too short by several inches, was seen getting on the train in the morning. Mr. Hisey thinks they were carrying a small bundle when at his house. All possible steps are being taken to secure the arrest of the murderer.” From the October 2, 1873, Plymouth Democrat.
Long before the entertainment overload of today, Marshall County youth had some interesting ways of creating their own fun. They did have theaters, but much of the time, they relied on simple things dictated by what was at hand, our location and the weather. The following collection is from oral histories in our archives.
Performing Arts
“The Orpheum Theater cost a nickel. It was on, oh, just a little way north of Washington Street on Michigan, where the old Orpheum was. They’d have Saturday afternoon matinees for a nickel. And there were shows, there were some outside shows, tent shows, down on, in the area where the fire station parking lot is now, on the corner of LaPorte and Center Street, just a block south of the library.” Stanley Brown
The Orpheum Theatre in Plymouth, Indiana.
“About playing piano for the silent movies in Plymouth – When I played, I played for the big sum of $3.00 a week, and six nights a week, 7:00 to 10:00 on the weekdays. On Saturday nights it was seven ‘til 11:00, and it was nickel shows, you know, every night, and we had songs. They used to have sing-a-song, you know, and the words, and the little ball would bounce up. And I’d play for that, and that song came along with the film. We had a girl or boy, a singer, and that was all they done, was sing that song at every show.” Etta Steiner
“We had travelling stage shows quite often. They would come and book a week’s time at the opera house.” Beatrice Pickerl
Seasonal Fun
“We had sleigh ride parties and bobsled parties. And on the bobsled parties whenever you went under a streetlight, you got to kiss the girl that you were with. There were not very many streetlights in those days.” Morris Cressner
Sleighing party for city kids, 1916.
“You’d listen the first morning of cold weather, the first snowy, icy morning, see if you could hear Uncle J. T.’s sleigh bells. Uncle J. lived north of town (Argos), probably a mile and a half, might be two miles. And Uncle J. always had his sleigh out first, and he was the only person that the children of the town, that I knew best, could go riding with without running home and asking their parents. But if Uncle J. had his sleigh, we would go with him, and he’d take us a very nice fast ride down to the Nickel Plate Railroad.” Beatrice Pickerl
The Joy In the Everyday
“Used to be a train come in and my brother and different ones would walk over to Tyner to see it come in, and I believe every Friday or Saturday night from South Bend. That was a big thing. It was called the Cannonball. It would come in at 10:00. And the depot was right below our house here. That was their entertainment, was to come and watch the Cannonball.” Ray Jacobson
“They had the old [gas] street lights in Plymouth, and a man had to go around with a long pole and pull them down and light them by hand. He’d put a match to them and put them back up. Kids at night, after they got that light lit – one of our forms of fun was catching bats. There used to be a lot of bats around. They’d fly around those lights. We’d throw our caps up and every once in a while, we’d get a bat in them.” Stanley Brown
Bourbon street scene with gas street light.
Social Get-Togethers
“What progressed into hockey we called shinny. We used sticks and tin cans.” Homer Riddle
“We used to have spelling bees at the school house. And we’d spell, and the old people as well as the young would be in that, don’t you know. They’d all stand up and then when you missed a word, you sit down, and then the last one that stayed up got a prize.” Alta Listenberger
“We used to have box socials. The girls would take a box of food and then they’d auction it off and the boy that bought it, he wouldn’t know whose he’s buying, don’t you know, because they’d decorate these boxes up beautiful. And then the boy that bought them would eat with the girl. He wouldn’t know ‘til he got the box unless she’d tell him or, you know, the girl he liked would tell him which was her box. But otherwise they kept that a secret. Sometimes you’d eat with an old man. I’ve ate with old men, you know, some old farmer, instead of eating with the boy I wanted to eat with because he paid the most for the box.” Alta Listenberger
Learn more about everyday life in Marshall County by visiting our Museum!
The archives here at the Marshall County Historical Society and Museum are full of stories of people living their daily lives, throughout our history. This article, first published in the Marshall County Independent, on February 4, 1898, on page one, shows the interest locals felt in the gold exploration in far-off Alaska. The headline was “Frank Thomas Writes Home,” and we have lightly edited for clarification.
SKAGWAY, ALASKA, January 7, ’98
John W. Thomas, Plymouth IN
Dear Parents,
Well here it is 1898, and I am 3,500 miles from home, my people and friends at Plymouth, though that does not count much in a fast-going age as this. Everything passed off here during the holidays as usual. Just as it did at home perhaps, only that outside appearances here recognize no holidays, or Sunday, all days are alike to this surging throng. Everybody is hurrying hither and thither as if they had lost something and were trying to find it, possibly lost a dog. There are so many dogs here it would be hard to find one unless he had a special mark, and they all have special marks. There are dogs everywhere here, and I never thought that a dog was as useful an animal for drafting as they are. Dogs are worth money here now; a good dog can pull from 100 to 500 pounds on a sled depending on the condition of the roads and the dog of course. They usually work them six in a team single file, and they go on a trot most of the time. They are using all kinds of dogs, but the big long-haired fellows are the best. Except for perhaps the native dog, Friskies as they call them, are the best of all as they can stand more hard knocks and go longer without feed. They look just like gray wolves and are fighting half their time at work or play.
The weather is fine here; there is just a little snow, hardly enough for good sledding, but I see they are using bob sleds instead of wagons. They are now sledding up along the river with small hand sleds and are using the ever indispensable and useful dog, as well as horses to sled over the summit. People are coming in on every boat. There has been a number of boat loads landed here within the last two or three weeks. Three, the Elder, the Seattle and Topeka boats brought over 1,500 people for Skagway and Dyea, and the rush has not commenced either. Two more steamers are now due, and they will be crowded to full capacity. They say that nearly all the boats on the Pacific coast are going to run up here next summer, and a number are coming around Cape Horn and some from Europe. If there are 500,000 people coming to Alaska and the Northwest Territory this next summer. Four out of five will land at Skagway, which is an assured fact according to estimates made here, and if that does not mean a boom for Skagway, then it does for Alaska. There are a number of people coming out from Dawson every few days. I have seen men who I knew on the trail this fall and most of them give very flattering reports about the weather down the lakes and river. They say it is very cold but dry. Not very much wind, especially where they are sheltered by the mountains. They report also that provisions are very scarce and that many more will have to come out of the country before spring. These men came all the way on ice. Some of them have dogs to pull their grub and blankets and have to pull enough to last them out. They all agree that it is a tough proposition and further say that it is an absolute impossibility for anyone to move an outfit down on the ice. As it is all one can do to move as much as it takes to last them while they are coming out. So, I think the best and safest thing anyone can do is to wait until the ice breaks up in April or May and go down in a boat which will be much the quickest and the cheapest. You wrote me that there were a number of people coming from Plymouth and vicinity. I shall be ever so glad to give them all the information concerning the trail and country that I can. Many will go via St. Michaels, that is much the easiest way, but it is much the costliest as well as much the longest. Those who go down by the lakes as soon as the ice breaks up will reach the gold fields fully a month earlier that any steamers can get up from St. Michaels. In the spring it will be comparatively easy to reach the lakes with an outfit from here (Skagway) as the wagon road will be completed to the summit and from there one can sled for 15 miles on Summit Middle and Shallow Lakes and from there to Lake Bennett. There is now no good sled trail.
People are now moving goods over at one tenth the expense that it cost us last fall. To say nothing of the labor and exposure, as well as the risk of life that we were subjected to. No doubt we ought to be whipped for being so crazy and foolish to attempt to cross a trail as this Skagway trail when we went in, but how could we know until we had gone beyond a return limit. I wonder now that men could endure the hardships we were compelled to undergo. Horses died by the thousands from the effects of incessant, chilling rains, exposure and lack of rough forage, as it was impossible to carry hay along. Usually when a horse went down in the mud he had either given out or had a broken leg and had to be shot. It rained about 21 days out of 30 while we were in the Pass. Our outfit consisted of eight horses, about 6,000 pounds provisions, tent, tools and clothing for four men, but now it is different. That amount can be moved over the summit in possibly five days on the wagon road now nearing completion.
But please don’t understand me as advising anybody to come who has not already made arrangements to come. It is all a gamble, with the great majority of people who go in, and anybody intending to come must consider that there are many chances to lose as well as win. They will have to take even chances with possibly 500,000 people who will go down the Yukon either ahead or to follow after, all in the next spring and summer.
Father, I wrote the foregoing thinking you might want to publish a little. I did not want to write much to the papers concerning this country, nothing flattering in the least. I don’t want to influence anyone who would not come otherwise. It will be a lottery with everybody, especially the tender foot with small or insufficient means who have many more chances to lose than to win.
I am sure there will be plenty of work here in Skagway this summer, wages depending entirely on the amount of laborers coming in. Common labor $1.50 and board, skilled labor $4 and $5. Now don’t have any fears, Mother, about robbers and foot-pads (robbers in foot) bothering here; they have to lay low and nearly everybody carries a revolver, and grafters are afraid to act. As long as I have been in the country, I have never seen a quarrel or a fight. Well, goodbye from your loving son, Frank L. Thomas.
In fall 1957 I was a first-year cadet at Culver Military Academy. Our family then lived in Hamilton, OH, where my dad was employed as director of engineering for Baldwin-Lima-Hamilton, the amalgamation of Baldwin Locomotive Works, Lima Locomotive Works and other companies. At the time I had little knowledge of – or appreciation for – Dad’s close personal association with senior officials of most eastern railroads, including the mighty Pennsylvania.
My folks visited me on the weekend of Culver’s annual “Fall Festival,” during which Dad mentioned that Sunday evening he’d be going on to New York for a meeting of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. He planned to catch the Broadway Limited at Plymouth, Being 15-years-old and having read all the copies of Trains he brought home, I was expert enough in “things railroad.” I knew that PRR’s flagship passenger train was really hot stuff. My excitement rose knowing I’d soon see this railroad icon up close.
On Sunday afternoon we drove to Plymouth, arriving well ahead of Dad’s estimated arrival time of train 28. Since the Broadway Limited was scheduled to run non-stop from Englewood to Fort Wayne, the public timetable showed no station stop at Plymouth, although the county seat of Marshall County was a busy railroad junction in the late 1950s. In addition to the Pennsy’s very busy main line between Chicago and the East, the PRR branch between Logansport and South Bend crossed not only the main line but also Nickel Plate Road’s Argos-to-Michigan City branch.
Plymouth Tower was manned around the clock. I dutifully deposited Dad’s luggage on the platform and proceeded to the tower to check the Broadway Limited’s progress. Eyeing my Culver uniform, the veteran operator, who probably had seen it all, finally responded to my query: “Son, the Broadway doesn’t stop at Plymouth.”
Applying my vast knowledge of Pennsylvania train numbers, I retorted, “Sir, No. 28 will stop here tonight to pick up my father, who’s waiting in the car.” Figuring there was no possibility I could be correct, he calmly pulled the scissor phone toward him and contacted the Fort Wayne Division dispatcher:
DISPATCHER: (shuffling through papers): Well, YEAH, Gene. Got a message 28’s to pick up a Mr. Van Schwartz on the rear car. It was on time out of Englewood. Give me an OS when he leaves.
“OPERATOR: Plymouth, got a rumor that 28’s gonna stop here tonight.
OPERATOR: Been around this road for 34 years, never seen this before.
DISPATCHER: Me neither, Gene. Me neither.
Maybe, just maybe, Gene was going to take this upstart 15-year-old seriously. After all, he was part of the plot to stop the Pennsylvania Railroad’s premier passenger train at the small town of Plymouth. Still skeptical, he reached for the handset of Pennsy’s inductive Train Phone system.
OPERATOR: Plymouth to No. 28. Ya gonna stop here tonight?
ENGINEER ON 28: That’s right, Plymouth. We just hit the diamond at Hamlet and will be there directly. Have this guy ready for us to grab him.
OPERATOR: Been around this road for 34 years, never seen this before.
ENGINEER ON 28: Me neither, Gene. Me neither.
OPERATOR: (to me): Your father must be somebody to pull this off. You get him ready, or I’ll catch hell for the delay.”
I smiled, waved, and headed out the door and down the tower steps. Our family name was not to be sullied by delaying the Broadway Limited.
The orange glow of the setting sun on the western horizon soon was replaced by the orange glow of an eastbound headlight. The air filled with blue smoke from heaving braking as three E units thumped over the crossing diamonds. There is no way this train would stop on the platform! The growl of the passing Es was quickly followed by the subdued interior lights of Pullmans, a double-unit diner and more Pullmans – the scene made even more magical by the clouds of brake-shoe smoke. As the observation car approached, Dad positioned himself to board the train.
In a technical sense, Operator Gene’s worst nightmare – the Broadway Limited stopping at Plymouth, IN – did not happen that night so long ago. The Broadway only slowed down to pick up my father! As the observation car drew near, I spotted a burly Pullman porter on the bottom step of the vestibule, right arm extended. In one deft move, the porter scooped up Dad – luggage and all – and deposited him on the step next to him.
From my vantage point, I could see the rear trainman yank twice on the communicating cord (handset radios were still years away). Six 567 diesels roared an answer as the veteran engineer accelerated the Broadway out of town. The observation car’s name, Mountain View, was clearly visible, and I turned east to watch the marker lights and illuminated Broadway Limited sign quickly disappear from sight. The entire event had taken less than a minute!
I never knew what Operator Gene reported to the train dispatcher regarding the “delay” to No. 28 and, in retrospect, I doubt the event ever made the next morning report in the sacrosanct halls of PRR’s Philadelphia headquarters. As I learned in the years to come, some things are better left unsaid or unreported.
(Note: So when the engineer said,” Have this guy ready for us to grab him,” that was exactly what he meant!)
