The firm of Kelly, Dunne & Co. were doing business a quarter of a century ago, and the junior member of that concern, David M. Dunne, was very popular. He made friends and treated them right and they were staunch and loyal.

The Portland Ice Company bought a great deal of oil from Mr. Dunne, and notwithstanding all kinds of inducements, no one else could sell oil to the ice company.

The foreman of the ice plant swore by the Kelly, Dunne & Co. product and would treat with much brusquesness any drummer who had the hardihood to come to him to dispose of oil. He had full charge of the works and was held strictly accountable for the welfare of the plant.

Dr. Charlie Plummer, who was manager for a competitive house, had tried in vain to introduce his wares but the erratic foreman was unswerving in his loyalty to Dunne.

A bright young man, named Tony Neppach, a crack salesman, was employed by Plummer and it was Tony’s duties to crack all the hard nuts.

“I want you to go to the Portland Ice Company and sell them some oil,” said Plummer to Neppach one day.

“You will see that I will do it,” responded Tony and off he put.

“Don’t come around here with your oil, I don’t want it and I don’t want to talk to you on the subject. I am satisfied and that’s all there is to it,” vociferously declared the foreman.

“Yes, but you are talking to an oil man now and my oil is far superior to the stuff you have been using,” replied the placid Tony.

Much talk ensued, Tony protesting that the foreman could not tell the difference between the oil he was using and the product he was endeavoring to sell and offered to set up the cigars for the crowd if he could tell the difference, but if he failed to tell, then the foreman was to give him an order for a barrel of oil. It was the noon hour and some 50 men were witnessing the sale.

When the offer was accepted, Tony turned his back to the foreman and produced a bottle of oil from his coat pocket, poured a little in each hand which he showed the foreman, ejaculating, “Now, tell me which is your oil and which is mine.”

The foreman hesitated, looking at one hand and then the other, finally touching Tony’s left hand, triumphantly remarked, “Why, that is my oil.” A laugh followed this from the men who saw how the oil had been manipulated and Tony told him that he had his oil in both hands.

Neppach received an order for a barrel which greatly pleased his employer.

Two weeks passed by and Tony, who had been up the Valley on a business trip, thought he would drop in at the Portland Ice Company before reporting to his house.

Entering the machine room with a jaunty, nonchalant air, he began singing in a high pitched voice, “How did you like my oil? How did you like my oil?” this to the tune of “Where did you get that hat?”

The ice plant was in a complete state of chaos, pipes being torn out and some 25 men were engaged in still further tearing out the piping. The foreman was up on a high ladder assisting in the demolishing when he espied Tony.

“There he is, there he is,” he yelled and he slid down the ladder, approaching the drummer with a formidable looking monkey wrench. His language was strong, full of epithets and he swung the monkey wrench menacingly.

Tony picked up a huge rock to defend himself, retreating backwards to the door, where he beat his way to the store to ascertain the cause of all this turbulent demonstration.

“Oh, that’s so, you have been away and did not hear about it,” said the undisturbed Plummer. “You see, one of the boys made a mistake and sent them the wrong oil, in fact, it was some oil which contained a good deal of lard oil, and when they turned in the cold water into the pipes it cooled off the lard and put them out of business.”

The ice company lost that summer’s output and litigation ensued, which helped to popularize Dave Dunne’s wares and Tony in disgust jumped his job.

It was not long after this that Neppach was engaged by Nicolai Bros. as manager of their planing mill and he was given full charge of the whole business.

Nicolai Bros. owned some land down around Slabtown, a piece of which they leased to a Swede, who ran a saloon on the premises.

The Swede’s lease for three years was about to expire and as he was doing a good business he became desirous to lease it for five years longer. When he applied to the firm, he was referred to Mr. Neppach as the proper person to negotiate with.

Tony saw him coming and determined to have a little fun.

Assuming a very severe air, he asked the Swede whose beer he sold, the latter explaining that he had made a reputation with San Francisco beer. “That settles it,” exclaimed Tony, “you can’t lease from us unless you use the home product.” Some important business at this juncture engaged Neppach’s attention, the Swede departed, and the incident was temporarily forgotten.

A month later, the Swede called to pay his rent and announced that he was now selling Weinhard’s beer and was ready for the lease.

Tony produced a blank form and began filling it out. He dwelt at length in the preamble over the great superiority of Weinhard’s beer over every known competitor, and in each sentence would have something to say about the “Celebrated Weinhard’s lager beer.” He incorporated in the lease a promise from the Swede that he never would drink, or allow any of his friends to drink any beverage, excepting the world famous Weinhard’s beer. Never before or since has there been such an elaborate lease made up and the funny part is that the whole matter was a huge joke.

A month elapsed and Mr. Weinhard noticed his new customer. He had been seeking, without avail, the Swede’s patronage, but here he was now, giving good orders without any solicitation.

Mr. Weinhard determined to ascertain the reason for this change of heart. The Swede informed him that he was obliged to patronize him in order to retain his lease.

“Would you mind letting me see that lease?” queried Mr. Weinhard.

There being no objections the lease was sent to him for his perusal.

No one will ever be able to tell what passed through the brewer’s mind as he read the uncommon document, but he went to the telephone and called up Nicolai Brothers.

“I want to speak to Mr. Tony Neppach.”

“That’s me,” said the merry Tony.

“This is Henry Weinhard and I am putting up a building on the corner of Fourth and Alder Streets and I want to tell you that you can have all the mill work there, without price. Goodbye,” and he hung up the phone.

Thus did Tony Neppach have his little joke, and his firm reaped an unlooked for reward for the same.