The Rowdy Rail Workers of Westport

For the past six weeks, the hobo element of the railroad men who lay over in Ocosta on Sunday have been amusing themselves by coming to Westport and getting disgracefully drunk. Late at night when decent people are in bed, they go down the street yelling and howling, throwing clubs and stones against doors, awakening inhabitants of tents with oaths and ribald language. Last night they acted worse than ever, howling along the sidewalk across from John Renfro's house, where his wife lay nigh death's door. They went to tents and woke up the people therein, cursing and swearing fearfully, frightening women and children. Then they went back to Peterson's hotel. Their unearthly howls had awakened some of the lodgers of that place, and when they came back to renew their meanness they found a hot reception awaiting them. They wanted to fight and were accommodated. Frank Rogers smashed one of them in the jaw, and you could hear the man's teeth rattle. The man who carries the mail between Ocosta and Westport got hit with a club, and his cheek was laid open from his eye to the back of his neck. Westport is a summer resort for decent people. Our hotels are full of respectable guests from the inland cities, who have come here for health, rest and quiet. If Westport cannot assure them this, it might as well close up shop.