"Mr. Flannery, I saw you at church yesterday." "Oh, you are the young man that sat in my pew and tried to show me some courtesies," replied the affable superintendent. Believing that he had created a good impression Tallman grew bolder, and said that he believed in going to church on Sunday and related an imaginary conversation in Omaha several years before. Flannery appeared interested and finally asked what service he could be to his visitor. "Well, I tell you, Mr. Flannery, I am an operator and I am looking for a job and I understand you have a job here at the present time." Mr. Flannery placed his spectacles on the end of his nose and giving the applicant a very severe look, which was intended as a reprimand, ejaculated in an icy tone: "Young man, I want yees to know, that my operators are all gintlemen. We don't have 'jobs' here, but we sometimes have vacancies." PHENOMENAL TELEGRAPHING. It was in the Nation's centennial year that the writer was employed by the Western Union Company, at St. Louis, and worked, what was called in those days, the "Long Horn" wire to Texas. The hours of labor were from 5 P. M. till lines were cleared up, generally before midnight, and all bent their best efforts in keeping business moving. An adjournment to Sprague & Butler's rotisserie after the evening's work was performed, where a substantial spread was in readiness, was next in order, and here it was that "shop talk" was indulged in and a good time was sure to follow. Fred B. Moxon was the pride of the office. He was still in his teens, but a master of his chosen profession. He worked the New Orleans wire, opposite the renowned Bert Ayres, the finest operator in the world, and the amount of business handled on that wire was marvelously great. Ayres and Moxon would get down to their work as if they had not a second to spare, but the effort was easy for them and neither suffered from nervous prostration. One night there happened to be unusually heavy business on the New Orleans wire, but just at 11:55 P. M., Moxon sent his last message, remarking, "I'm off now, good night." "Wait a second," said Ayres, "our N. Y. wire is down and we have about 100 messages to go there and you'll have to relay 'em." Visions of a deferred lunch and a weary walk to his room on Targee Street, all alone, flitted across Mox's mind, but he had lots of friends, who were ready to help out with their services. "I've got a scheme," cried Moxon, and the services of Sid Fairchild were secured. "I'd like to have you cut the N. O. wire in on four different local setts," which was speedily done. Moxon secured the aid of Charlie Day, Thomas P. Wheeler and the writer, who took their respective seats at the quartette table. "I say, Bert, tell me just how many you have on hand," asked the St. Louis man. "There are precisely 120, and they are all night messages, all from New Orleans and all are destined for New York."