Theodore Powers Williams (1853-1934) was the son of man who built the National Hotel in Frenchtown. Everyone called him “Powers.” He grew up on Kingwood Avenue when it was called Hensburg Avenue.
Around 1920 he wrote his memoirs, which were published posthumously in the Delaware Valley News in 1938. The man could tell a story. Here's one of them:
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It was a lovely night in midsummer. It would be hard to select a more perfect one if it had been left to choice. The moon was at meridian and its soft rays, as they pierced a cloudless sky, almost made it as light as day. The town clock would have struck the hour of 12 if the town had one.
Four or five of us still lingered on the board pile that covered the race above the saw mill. The evening had been very prosaic. We had just loafed around, the rest of the inhabitants had long since retired as is the custom in the country. Someone proposed that we should have a little excitement before we turned in – in fact, wake up the town by ringing the Hillside Academy bell.
(The school was on Everittstown Road, on the ridge above Fourth Street.)
The ringing of the academy or church bell at night was a sure sign that there was a fire in the town. The idea was hardly proposed before it was unanimously and promptly accepted. A consultation was had as to how best to carry out the program without being caught in the act. It was quite evident that we could not go into the academy and stay there and ring the bell. We would be discovered before we could get away, as anyone could be recognized 25 or 30 yards away.
The only solution that promised success was a ball of twine. This was easily obtained and we started for the academy.
We did not dare to go up the hill road that led directly to the academy for we could easily be observed should anyone be looking. So we went around by the mill dam where, but a short time before, myriads of swampy insects were singing their evening lullaby, but now all was silent as if their not unpleasant sound was hushed in slumber, and the only sound to be heard was loose stone or gravel that rattled down the side of the hill and dropped with a plump into the water of the creek below as we threaded our way along the path above the Deep Hole.
In a short time we were at the academy and, fortunately, one of the boys had a key which unlocked the door which led to the second floor. One of the boys climbed up into the belfry. After fastening the string to the bell, he removed one of the slats, let the ball of cord drop on the roof and roll to the ground. He then replaced the slat in the belfry, came down and locked the door. We picked up the ball of twine, unwinding it as we went across the school yard, across the road and over a narrow strip of ground that separated the road from the brow of the hill where a path led down thru the bushes to the Deep Hole. The brow of the hill was lined with trees.
One of our number took the ball of twine, or what was left of it, and climbed up into the top of a tree, while the rest of us lay along the bank so that we could not be seen but could readily observe all that was taking place on the school ground.
When everything was ready, the one up the tree began to ring the bell. The first clap was almost startling; everything was so quiet it certainly could have been heard for miles on that still night. The lad in the tree kept steadily ringing. In short order the whole town was up. Everybody was asking everybody else where the fire was and the answer came from everybody else, “Where?” They could not discover fire anywhere, yet the bell was still ringing with no letup.
Then a brilliant idea seemed to find the way into their thick heads to investigate the cause of the ringing. The only way to do that was to go up to the academy, and up the hill road they came, led by (blacksmith) George Stintsman, until there was a large number collected on the school ground, and still the bell kept ringing.
They tried the doors, but the doors were locked. They tried the windows, and they were fastened on the inside. They shouted to someone, who they thought was on the inside, to stop ringing the bell, but the bell kept ringing just the same. They never thought for a moment that it might be an agency on the outside ringing the bell. The string was 30 feet above their heads. Their gaze was directed at the academy while we boys lying over on the bank could hardly control ourselves, and were ready at any moment to make a hasty retreat.
Finally the janitor or someone who had a key arrived and they opened the door and entered the academy with the bell still ringing.
After five minutes or so had passed, the bell keeping on ringing in the meantime, the one up in the tree whispered down that they had got hold of the string. He could tell the moment they touched the string as well as you could tell that you had a bite while fishing with a hand line.
Hastily sliding down the tree, he joined the rest of us and we beat it down the bank, thru the bushes, across the creek, down the creek road, thru the cemetery to the old distillery.
After waiting a while till things had quiet down we separated, each one taking a different route for home.
The next day the town folks were very indignant at being called out of bed at that unseemly hour and dire things were threatened if the perpetrators could be identified. If such things were permitted to go on, in case of a real fire and the bell should ring and wake them, they would simply roll over and take another snooze, thinking it was another hoax, and the town might burn up before they discovered the difference.
I suppose every small town has its Hawkshaw, and Frenchtown was no exception. (Hawkshaw was a popular comic-strip detective when Powers was writing his memoirs.) George Stintsman was the “Johnnie on the spot.” He had in his possession the first link in the chain of evidence – the ball of cord. There was no gainsaying that it was a silent but indisputable witness.
The only thing to do was to find out where the ball of cord came from and you would have one of the culprits and as “birds of a feather flock together,” the rest would be easy.
He reasoned thus: There was only one place in town where like cord could be obtained, Slater's Hardware Store. Consequently, Lew Slater must have been the one who furnished the cord. If you knew who his associates were, you had the bunch. Truly his deductions were Hawkshawing, and simple as A B C, but the trouble was that his premise was not built on a solid foundation.
True, Slater's store was the only place you could purchase the twine, but they did not buy the cord to keep, they bought it to sell, and anyone could have the identical cord if they wanted it and had the money to pay for it, so the plausible and simple lines of circumstantial evidence that he had woven together fell to the ground. I am not saying Lew was not interested, but he was not guilty of furnishing the cord.
For several days it was the topic of general conversation until it finally died out and Frenchtown resumed its natural humdrum routine of a country town.
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