No true history of the Rome, Watertown & Ogdensburgh might ever be written without mention of Jefferson B. Wells. In truth he was the commodore of the old locomotive fleet. For skill and daring and precision in the handling of an engine he was never excelled. Although bearing a certain uncanny reputation for being in accidents, he was blamed for none of them. Whether at the lever of his two favorites, the _T. H. Camp_ and the _Antwerp_, or in later years as captain of the "44" he was in his element in the engine-cab. The "44" spent most of the later years of her life, and of Wells', in service upon the Cape Vincent branch. I can remember it standing at Watertown Junction, sending an occasional soft ring of grayish smoke off into the blue skies above. And distinctly can I recall Jeff Wells himself, a large-eyed, tallish man, fond of a good joke, or a good story, a man with a keen zest in life itself. He was a good poker player. It is related of him, that one night, while engaged in a pleasant game at Cape Vincent, word came from Watertown ordering him to his engine for a special run down to the county-seat and back. For a moment old Jeff hesitated. He liked poker. But then the trained soul of the railroader triumphed. He threw his hand down upon the table--it was a good hand, too--and turning toward the call-boy said: "Son, I'll be at the round house within ten minutes." * * * * * That was Wells; best at home in the engine-cab, and, I think no engine-cab was ever quite the same to him as that of the speedy _Antwerp_, with John Leasure on the fireman's side of the cab--Leasure was pretty sure to have previously bedecked the _Antwerp_ with a vast variety of cedar boughs, flags and the like--and the President's car on behind. This, in later years, was sure to be the old parlor-car, _Watertown_, gayly furbished for the occasion. This special was sure to be given the right-of-way over all other trains on the line that day; all the switch-points being ordered spiked, in order to avoid the possibility of accidents. Yet, on at least one occasion--at DeKalb Junction--this practice nearly led to a serious mishap. Mr. Massey's train had swept past the little depot there and around the curve onto the Ogdensburgh branch at seventy miles an hour. For once there had been a miscalculation. The little train veered terribly as it struck the branch-line rails; the directors were thrown from their comfortable seats in the parlor-car, and poor Billy Lanfear, of Cape Vincent, the fireman, was nearly carromed from his place in the cab. At the last fractional part of a second he succeeded in catching hold of the engineer's window as he started to shoot out.