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."