In these days of Federal and State supervision and regulation of railroad management, with now and then an aldermanic chamber or a county board of supervisors trying its hand at the game, there is sure to be special counsel, generally known as the commerce or commission counsel, assigned to the complaints and hearings. For intricate, involved, or unusual cases the road may go outside of its own ranks and hire special counsel—lawyers who are specialists in the very thing involved.
Just as the big and tactful attorney stands back of the railroad’s president, so there crouches at his feet the claim-agent of the company, who is its watch-dog and its scenting hound. Back of this claim-agent, who must have achieved a reputation for keen-sightedness and marked ability before receiving his position, is a busy company of claim agents, at headquarters and every division headquarters upon the system. Together, these form a militant organization that stands with the legal department to defend the railroad’s treasury against indiscriminate raiding.
Sometimes, because the work dovetails in many ways closely with that of the operating department, these claim-agents work under the order of the general manager and the division superintendents. A sly old fellow who once headed a big road in the Middle West once explained the reason why—in the case of his property—without even a trace of a smile.
“John says,” he was speaking of his own general counsel, “that a claim-agent can’t be yanked up before any of these touchy bar associations and charged with unprofessional practices if we can show cases—that they’re just railroad men and not lawyers, at all.”
That was an exaggerated case. As a rule, the young claim-agent has abundant need to be upon his mettle. The public, with an inborn itching against the corporation, keeps him upon that mettle. The man who has had a slight bump upon a railroad train—to make an instance—hunts out the claim office at headquarters. He gets quick treatment and mighty courteous treatment. If he can prove himself in any way entitled to a reimbursement, he gets it—in cash upon the spot. Likewise he signs a release—a most ponderous and impressive document. When his “John Smith” goes upon that document he has, in its own magnificent phrasing “in consideration of money received” released the railroad company from all obligation to him from the beginning of the world, the fall of man and the decline of the Roman Empire up to the very moment of the signing.
He goes home, pretty well satisfied with himself. It was only a little bump at that. A twenty-five cent bottle of arnica had made him physically himself once again; and as for his suit, well, that was pretty well worn, anyway, and three dollars to a tailor would make it a good “second best” for next winter. He feels that the ten dollars that the railroad gave him was pretty abundant compensation.
But wait until he sees his neighbor. The neighbor almost froths at the mouth when he hears of the transaction—of the impressively worded release that was signed.
“You’re a chump,” he says. “You could have gone to bed, stayed there a week and they would have been glad to give you a hundred.”
After which the man looks upon his ten dollars with contempt and a feeling of injury, and becomes a corporation hater. Or perhaps he was really hurt and had some sort of a bill from his doctor and his druggist, lost time to be compensated at his job. The railroad has figured these together and paid him the sum, with the signing of the release as a necessary feature of the transaction. The thing was not very serious, we will say, in this instance also, and the hundred dollars that he received was really a fair compensation. Now watch the neighbor, who it happens is a pretty shrewd attorney:
“Let me take the case, even now,” he urges slyly. “I’ll get a verdict of five thousand for you, if you are wise, and we will divide the proceeds.”