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We decided a drink might stave off the almost inevitable cold, so prepared to enter the saloon for a quick one. Charlie and Clark, of course, demurred and beat it for the subway. Alf said, "They don't have what I drink in there!" We got him to come in with obvious reluctance and he stood there wearily, half amused and half disgusted while Jim had a "boilermaker and his helper" (shot of rye and a beer) and Bob and I had a Scotch. Then we beat it for the subway to go to Grand Central. 

My costume consisted of an old battered hat, brown sport coat wrinkled and damp, baggy dirty tweed pants, cuffs turned up, a greasy sweat shirt over a filthy wornout blue shirt under my sport coat, shoes wet and muddy. And thus we arrived at Grand Central.

To an inquiry how the New Haven trains were running, the answer was, "Where you going?" - "New Haven" - "Train at 8:55" - "How about the 8 o'clock?" - "Cancelled; the only train to New Haven tonight is the 8:55 and that is subject to delay". So Alf and I went down to see Clem Bellairs, the engine dispatcher. There wasn't an engine down there. Clem was as busy as the one armed paperhanger; he had four phones on his desk and was using two or three simultaneously most of the time. He had no power and couldn't find out when he'd get any. West River had inundated the tracks at New Haven and they couldn't get trains in or out. There was no power for switches or signals and they were running positive block from Darien to New Haven, what there was to run, which wasn't much. Bay Ridge was now isolated by washouts; we had got out of there just in time this afternoon.

We were fast realizing we had been witnessing one of the greatest storms that has struck the northeast in all history. The dead was mounting into hundreds and the damage into hundreds of

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