I do not recall what it was that started the fight. Perhaps it was the old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists were continually fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping voice—I think it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a brother Englishman on the mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody blighter!” They were on the south side of the street in front of John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow started to run away. He dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the street almost in front of my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The big man who had taken the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt. Then multitudinous inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill Liebig—fell in without waiting for an invitation.
It was a battle royal—everybody hitting somebody, anybody. Blood and blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, flowed freely. When the battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, were prone upon the ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon and met the bruised and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my cocky little man. Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.”
Walter Cawood appeared to be the big shot of that melee. He was young, powerful, and extremely handy with his fists. Those tipsy brawlers went down before his punches as if they were babies. Walter was the big shot in one more unsavory mixup—it really stunk—before going back to his dear old England to stay. Single handed, he captured a whole family of half-grown skunks. He brought them home for pets, with the view of taking them back to England with him. - Walter said, “Aw, blemmy—the bloody little ones, they -ad been eatin’ on summick quite putrid.”
The next best skunk collector of that time also was a Britisher. Teddy Masters, a diminutive Englishman who was farming the Jim Noyes place over on the county line, with a man named Briggs, chanced to be helping with the threshing on the John Thornburrow farm, when it rained and stopped the work. Three of the threshing crew—Irve Hudson, Ice Gentry, and “Zip” Bean—with Teddy, came to town in a spring wagon. On the way in they saw a skunk by the roadside. One of the men told Teddy to jump out and catch it—that skunks made fine pets. He carried the skunk to town in his hat. Someone told Masters that Dr. John W. Graham would pay well for that skunk. “Er, rippin’,” said the diminutive Englishman. “A chawnset to grab a little lunch, rine or shine, eh? Could do myself well wiv a bob now.”
Dr. J. W. Graham owned a drugstore on the south side of the street. He also owned a fine bird-dog named York. They were nearly always together. With the skunk still in his hat, Teddy found Graham’s door locked. Someone across the street told him to throw the skunk in at an open window. He did so. A little later, on entering the store, Dr. John W. sat himself down to work out some materia medica puzzles, sniffing a little on the side, while York was nosing about a bit. When the dog found the object of his search, a rising young physician literally exploded.
Teddy did not wait to collect his bob.
Though John Stowell, the boy member of the original influx of Colonists, did command me—I was in his employ at the time—to go out on a chicken foraging expedition one bright moonlight night, neither he nor I was troubled with conscientious scruples. We were both quite sure that we would never have to answer to God or man for our actions — I hasten to say, in this particular instance.
Also, if Will Gill and Augustus Anderson were here they would tell you that they not only saw me enter a closed but unlocked chicken house and come out with six chickens, two at a time, and that they themselves helped me carry those chickens to the rendezvous where they were to be roasted — innards, feathers and all.
In explanation, John Stowell “burned” the brick for his two-story building across the street from the Worthy lumber office—the present location of the Catholic recreation hall. The brickyard was on Stowell’s land south of the creek just west of the town bridge. Old Hagen, an experienced brick-maker, was brought here to burn brick for the John Spencer building—with Masonic hall above—on the alley south of second street, facing on Kansas Avenue; and the Ed Vilott building on the alley south of the present McDaniel picture show location, also facing on Kansas Avenue. For these two buildings, Hagen burned two kilns of brick on the north side of the creek, west from the mineral spring, on the present Don Cole land.
My brother Sam and I worked on the Hagen brickyard — and learned a few tricks. John Stowell said he believed we could do the brick-making as well as Hagen, and if we were willing to tackle the job he would “chawnsit.” Sam did the moulding, and I did the off-bearing, carried the green brick to the drying yard—the same positions we held on the Hagen yard. Together we set the brick in the kiln for burning. And we plastered the kiln, top and sides, with mud before starting the fires.