"Bogy" was a character whose real name was Henry Bogardus, and he was one of those itinerant operators who are never content to remain in any one place more than a week. He made annual pilgrimages to the Pacific, and in his peregrinations would become acquainted with most every railroad operator on the roads that he traversed. "Bogy" had a way of convincing these humble knights of the key that he was a most extraordinary operator which impression assisted him materially in evading the inter-state commerce bill. It was up to the writer to tell a story about "Bogy," as he had seen him later than any of the rest of the assemblage. About the year 1893, "Bogy" arrived in Portland, and straightway appealed to the telegraph manager for a loan of $1, which was speedily forthcoming, for nobody could refuse "Bogy." An hour or so later, he repaired to the operating room, where he sat down to the Walla Walla wire, proceeding to get off business on the double quick. "Who sent for you and what's your name?" queried the chief operator. "Oh, that's all right, young fellow, I'm Bogy, and I refer you to our manager," and the imperturbable artist proceeded sending to Walla Walla. The manager informed the chief that "Bogy" was all right, that if he did no good he would do no harm, and to let him continue his work. "Bogy" worked all day and evening and clear up into the night, only stopping when there was nothing left for him to do. The soft side of a bench was a tempting bed for this weary traveler, and, as he liked to sleep near the tick of the telegraph instruments, permission was granted him to take the bench into the battery room. Several days slipped by, "Bogy" working night and day. He certainly enjoyed working; it was a pastime with him. Saturday came, and with it the usual pay-day and "Bogy" received his emoluments with the rest of the men. "I want you on at 6 P. M. tonight," said the chief operator, "you will take the Associated Press news tonight." "I'll be here when the clock strikes 6 and I'm going to show you something in the line of telegraphing the like of which has never been performed here before," and "Bogy" assumed a very important air. He was on hand promptly and sat down to the San Francisco wire, where Billy Williamson was displaying his musical Morse. It was coming very fast, but beautiful as an opera to listen to. Picking up the manifold sheets, he discovered the carbons were not straight and he began to adjust them, San Francisco sending right along. "I say," began the night chief, "when are you going to start in to copy? You are now 100 words behind." "Cease from annoying me, I often copy 300 and 400 words behind. Now, just wait till I locate my stylus and I'll show you what no other man can do," and "Bogy" began a search for the missing article. Williamson had now sent two full sheets and the night chief was very nervous fearing an unlooked for denouement, but "Bogy" was impassive.