In the early part of my career, when I was working days at X——, in Nebraska, at Sweeping Water there was a chap called Ned Kingsbury holding down the night job, and as wild a youngster as ever hit the road. One night when I was sitting up a little late I heard the despatcher give Ned an order for a train that ordinarily would not stop there. Ned repeated it back all right enough, and then gave the signal, "6," which meant that he had turned his red-light to the track and would hold it there until the order was delivered and understood. So far, so good. But the reckless little devil had forgotten to turn his red-board and proceeded to write to some of his numerous girls, and the first thing he knew that freight train went smashing by at a thirty-five mile clip, and Mr. Ned knew he was up against it.
In some states a railroader guilty of criminal negligence is sent up for a term of from one to ten years. The smash up that resulted from Ned's carelessness was a catastrophe of the fatal kind; one engineer was killed, and a fireman and brakeman or two laid up for months. He fully realized the magnitude of his offence and promptly skipped away from the wrath that was sure to follow, and nothing more was heard of him in that section of the country.
This all happened a number of years before I went to work in Fort Worth, and one morning I was doing a little "scooping," by working days, and sat down to send on the "DA" quad. I worked hard for about two hours on the polar side, and was sending to some cracker jack, who signed "KY." Shortly after that I changed over to the receiving side and "KY" did the sending to me. I had been taking about ten messages and the conviction was growing on me momentarily that the sending was very familiar and that I must have known the sender. Where had I heard that peculiar jerky sending before? It was as plain as print, but there was an individuality about it that belonged only to one man. All at once that night in Nebraska flashed on my mind and I knew my sender was none other than Ned Kingsbury. I broke him and said,
"Hello, Ned Kingsbury, where did you come from?"
"You've got the wrong man this time, sonny, my name is Pillsbury," he replied.
"Oh! come off. I'd know that combination of yours if I heard it in Halifax. Didn't you work at Sweeping Water, Nebraska, some time ago, and didn't you have some kind of a queer smash up there?"
Then he 'fessed up and said he had recognized my stuff as soon as he heard it, but hadn't said anything in hopes I wouldn't twig him.
"Don't give me away, old chap. I'm flying the flag now and have lost all my former brashness."
I never did.