Dunraven was a cracking
good little village and the day operator there was Miss Mary Marsh;
there was no night office. Now I was just at the age where all a young
man's susceptibility comes to the surface, and I was a pretty fair
sample. I weighed one hundred and fifty pounds and every ounce of me was
as susceptible as a barometer on a stormy day. Consequently it was not
long until I knew Mary and liked her immensely. All my spare time was
occupied in talking to her over the wire, except when the cussed
despatcher would chase me off with, "Oh! get out you big spoon, you make
every one tired." Then Mary would give me the merry, "Ha, ha, ha."
One time I took a day off and ran down to Dunraven, and my impressions
were fully confirmed. Mary was a little bit of a woman, with black hair,
red lips, white teeth, and two eyes that looked like coals of fire, so
bright were they. She was small, but when she took hold of the key, she
was jerked lightning, and I have never seen but one woman since who was
her equal in that line.
Our road was one of the direct connections of the "Overland Route," west
to San Francisco, and twice a day we had a train, that in those days was
called a flyer.
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