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.
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