The boss gave the orders; the boss owned the mine; the boss required lesser bosses who in turn watched the men. There were fire bosses, pit bosses, shift bosses, boss bosses. There were some good bosses and a lot of bad bosses. The most tyrannical of all boss was the boss whistle. It told a miner when to come to work and when to go home. Its strident voice howled when a doctor was needed to help an injured man and it roared continuously when an explosion took the lives of many. The boss whistle was silent when the big strike closed the mines; it bided its time and then sounded again defiantly as it called strikebreakers to work in the place of union men. When the coal markets began to die, the boss whistle assumed even greater powers. Families listened each day for its voice, their livelihood depending on its message. One whistle: work tomorrow. Two whistles: another day without work. And when a retired miner stopped on the street to check his watch with the twelve-noon whistle for the mine, he was acknowledging the lifelong influence of the Boss Whistle.