After much correspondence the yardmaster succeeded in having the pay of switchmen raised to four dollars in the Leadville yards, and in a little while had a reasonably sober gang chasing the three yard engines that had been sent up to do the work of four.
Things went fairly well until the foreman got drunk one day, and had to be discharged. The wronged man went over to the Cadillac and told his troubles to the barkeeper. His tale was overheard by a lucky miner who had just sold a prospect hole for ten thousand. This miner, with the liberality of a man moved by spirits, proposed that the two open a saloon-restaurant. He would furnish the money, the yardman the experience, nerve, and good-will. The offer was accepted. They bought a storeroom that had cost six hundred for sixteen, and in less than a week from the day of his dismissal the ex-foreman posted the following notice above his front door:—
“Wanted—Seven swift biscuit shooters, any sex, creed, or color—Wages, six dollars a day.”
Thirty minutes later seven of McGuire’s switchmen were switching in the “Green Café.”
Later one of the men went back and brought the foreman from the yards, who was installed as yardmaster in the new restaurant. The manager became the “G. M.,” and the talk was railroad talk and nothing else.
The “switch-list” was not printed, but was shown orally to each patron as he took his seat.
“Ride ’em in, ride ’em in,” called the yardmaster to a couple of switchmen who were pitching plates of beans through a narrow window from the kitchen to the dining-room.
“Drop the dope down the main line;” and one of the men shot a yellow bowl of butter on to the centre table.
“Sand on No. 1—north spur,” called the head waiter, and before he had finished a sugar-bowl was dropped upon the first table to the right.
“Pull the pin on that load on No. 2 south,” yelled the general manager. The yardmaster and one of the switchmen lifted a fat man from the sawdust floor and put him in a back room to cool.