Editor:
The following story was sent to me twenty years ago by a ham living in
Maine. The exact date of publication has escaped me, as well as the
ham's call was destroyed along with the other data by FORMS
virus. I wish I could give the original author credit.
Virgil
was eight in the 1920s when he began accompanying his father to the
railway depot in Maine. By the time he was nine he could shadow
his dad's every task, including the sending and receiving Western Union
Telegrams and handling time sensitive train orders. He operated
the telegraph key so smoothly that receiving agents were unable to
distinguish his fist from that of his father's.
When he
was ten his father lay bedfast for two weeks with the Asian
Flu. But the family never missed a paycheck because Virgil
operated the train depot without arousing any suspicion.
When he
was twelve one of the agents announced his plan to retire and Virgil
applied for his job. It quickly became obvious that Mr. Peterson,
the manager, didn't want Virgil on the crew.
"My agents
must be able to send and receive letter perfect code at twenty-five
words per minute and use a mill," Peterson announced.
"I can do that," said Virgil.
"Show
me," said Peterson, who was unaware of the "underground" training that
had preceded this date. Switching a straight key off an active
wire, the manager sent the retiring telegrapher's request for
retirement. Virgil's was behind two or three words, which was normal,
and he continued for a few seconds after the sounder had stopped.
But when he was finished he tore off the page he'd typed and handed it
to Peterson.
"Well," he said after searching the copy for
errors, "that's only half the test. Send this," he demanded,
pulling a train order from a file and sliding toward Virgil. After the
order was sent Peterson was silent for a few moments. "That's fine and
dandy, but I have one additional requirement. My operators must be able
to send with two keys, sending the dots with their right hand key and
the dashes with the left hand key."
"If I can do that do I get the job?" Virgil asked.
"You betcha."
"Can I practice for awhile?"
"Sure, kid. Take all the time you want. Come see me when you can do it."
Three weeks passed.
"I'm ready for that test."
"What test?"
"The test where I send at twenty-five words with two keys."
Peterson
seemed stumped for minute. "Well, okay. Show me," he said,
pulling a pencil from his shirt pocket and circling a paragraph on the
front page of the local newspaper. "Send this," he added.
Virgil
connected his two keys and began. When the test was complete
Peterson remained silent for a full minute. He'd miscalculated
the dexterity and the mental capacity of this young boy.
Now he was boxed.
"Do I get the job?"
"Yeah, you get the job," growled Peterson. "Go wash my car."